Free Season's Bleeding by Cal Matthews Page A

I turned back to Leo, intending to ask him whether he wanted to detour around the aisle with all the smelly candles when a couple of giggly teenagers turned the corner and wandered past us. They bumped into each other as they walked, smiling, soft-eyed. I scowled, annoyed when they crowded right up against me to squeeze past my cart, but Leo shot me a wolfish grin.
    “They just fucked,” he told me.
    I wrinkled my nose. “Gross. How do you know?”
    He gave an exaggerated sniff. “It’s, like, a thousand times better than a human’s.”
    “A thousand?” I scoffed. “Have there been studies?”
    He just shook his head, still smiling. “You wouldn’t believe what I can tell just from scent alone.”
    “Yeah?” I said and started pushing the cart towards the electronics section. “Prove it.”
     
    “She had fish for lunch,” Leo whispered in my ear, pressing along my back. My heart gave a thud at his closeness. I didn’t have the nose of a bloodhound – or a vampire – but I could still smell the leathery, musky scent coming off of him and certain areas of my body perked to attention. “She has a dog at home. She’s on her period-”
    “Dude!” I elbowed him in the chest. “That’s a fucking invasion of privacy.”
    “You asked!” he replied, chuckling. “Anyway, she pumped gas recently too, and she lives with a close female relative. Sister, I would guess. And…” he slid around to face me. “She’s not a natural blonde.”
    I threw a quick glance at the girl in question, eyeing her head as she dropped about half a dozen picture frames into her basket. “You can tell that?”
    “Can’t you?”
    “Well…” I squinted. “Okay. Fair point.”
    He grinned at me, his dark eyes lit up. Behind him, two different girls elbowed each other and nodded towards us, talking behind their hands. Leo didn’t notice them, but I ran my hand down his arm, over the rough creases of his leather jacket, and flashed them a smug smile over his shoulder. Their eyes went huge and they scampered off, whispering furiously to each other.
    “What was that?” Leo asked, looking down at where my fingers curled around his wrist. I quickly let my arm drop.
    “Nothing,” I said. “This is fun. Do another one.”
    “Okay. Pick someone.”
    I scanned the electronics section, dismissing a few harried-looking hetero couples and an elderly man peering at the iPods in bewilderment. Finally I jerked my chin towards a skinny, bearded, guy perusing the video games. He wore a black hoodie and cargo shorts. And socks with sandals. In December. In Montana.
    “That guy,” I said, fixated on his pale, bare ankles.
    We approached the guy casually. Leo stepped slowly around him to pick up a DVD of 1987’s The Lost Boys , digitally re-mastered and everything. I made a noise and Leo shot me an amused look. He turned the case over, appearing to read the back but I saw his nostrils flare. He set the DVD back down and joined me by the row of flickering TVs.
    “He just got out of the shower,” Leo said promptly. “He used Suave shampoo and body wash. He brushed his teeth, flossed, all that. He has dogs, too, more than one. Three, I think. He smells a little like blood, so maybe he cut himself shaving or has a paper cut or something. He hasn’t eaten yet recently, but he had a Red Bull and I smell medication on him. Cough drops, or cough syrup. I’m pretty sure he lives alone, but he’s been in close contact with other people. Friends, not family; the smells are too different. He smells like books, too. And he’s cried within the last hour.”
    “Oh,” I said softly. I looked back at the guy and accidently caught his eye. He gave me a tiny, nervous nod and went back to his browsing. I wondered for whom he was shopping. If he had someone out there shopping for him.
    “Are you bullshitting me?” I asked, turning back to Leo.
    “I’m not,” he said. “But it’s not always fun.”
    I nodded, chastised. “I see that. Uh,