Free Esher: Winter Valley Wolves #7 by V. Vaughn, Mating Season Page A

boiling water is spilling over. I ignore it as I search for my oncologist’s phone number. I’ve got much bigger problems to deal with today. A pencil scratches against a piece of scrap paper as I jot the number down. Dr. Sand calls out. “Andi! Get in here!”
    I walk into the kitchenette to discover I was right. Coffee grounds and water are sizzling on the burner and dripping off the counter onto the floor. I grab my purse and say, “Wow. Sucks to be you,” and I walk out of the room as if she’s not sputtering in anger behind me.
    The moment the lab door clicks shut, the silence of the hallway nearly suffocates me. My footsteps on the pristine floor echo off the walls as I rush to get above ground and outside. I step out into sunshine and stop to take a deep breath full of fresh air. Tiny yellow-green buds are on the tree I walk by, and I glance over at the tulips that have bloomed. Spring in Winter Valley is special. It’s a long time coming, being in a climate that is just about as far north in the continental United States as you can get.
    I need to make my phone call, but I decide a fancy coffee drink and a pastry should happen first. My days are numbered, and I plan to enjoy them. My extra fluff is the least of my concerns, especially now that I’m losing weight without trying. It would be great if I didn’t know that it’s just one more sign of my imminent death. I climb the steps of the student union.
    Fifteen minutes later I’m on a bench watching the chattering pigeons poke the ground for crumbs. Music is faint as a girl walks by with ear buds in. I take a sip of my sweet drink and gather my courage. My phone is slick in my sweaty hand as I tap out the number of Dr. Murphy’s office. After I get through their system of redirects, I get an answering machine and leave a message requesting an appointment.
    I sink my teeth into the frosted cinnamon roll I purchased. The sweet flavor should send sugar to my bloodstream and make me happy, but all I notice is that the pastry is stale and tastes like sawdust. I toss it onto the pavement and watch the birds swarm it like ants on melted ice cream. I glance down at the purple bruise on my wrist from a grocery bag that was too heavy, and I sigh. No amount of chemo can fix me now, and my only chance at survival is werewolf blood. But the only werewolf I can ask has every reason to say no.

2
    T he colorful shimmer of neon beer-signs reflect on the wet pavement, and my cowboy boots clomp as I make my way toward the bar. I haven’t been inside Pete’s in over seven years, but it feels like it was just yesterday. A group of motorcycles are parked off to the left of the entrance, and I glance over as I hope to glimpse a custom Ducati. I don’t see it, but then I’m not looking too hard, because if I find it, I’m not sure I’ll go inside.
    The door swings open before I get to it, and a man steps out. He’s got broad shoulders and a tall build like many of the guys in this town that belonged to the high school group nicknamed the Truck Club. Werewolf. He nods at me as he holds the door, and I say thank you as I walk through. I enter into dim lighting and rowdy conversation. The aroma of seared beef and fried food wafts toward me, and I salivate thinking about the burgers Pete’s is known for. It’s Saturday night, and the happy-hour crowd is drunk, while those who are here for the band have just begun to take the edge off.
    I find a seat at the bar and take it without looking around. I’ll allow myself that luxury when it’s too late to leave. Have I given up before I’ve even tried? The scratchy voice of an ex-smoker asks, “What’ll it be?” I gaze at a woman whose face is etched by time like the worn wooden bar she stands behind. She’s still attractive, and her tight top that reveals significant cleavage tells me she knows it.
    I say, “A pilsner, whatever you’ve got on tap, and a menu please.”
    The voices around me don’t sound familiar, so I