Indecent Werewolf Exposure Read online

  The roughness of his fingers grated pleasantly along my skin as he shook my hand. Tingles shot through me and let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I’d gone too long without taking care of my needs. Way too long, apparently, if I gauged it by the dampness of my crotch. I’d better stock up on batteries before going home because I don’t think a cold shower is going to cut it.

  I only hoped the rumors of werewolves’ super ability to smell were exaggerated. I’d hate to think he could tell with a sniff how attractive I found him. Judging by the sensual grin and stroke of his thumb across my palm, though, I feared I might have just discovered the answer.

  Slowly, he released my hand, a sensual glide that brought a vivid image to mind of how that same hand would feel stroking across my body. I tucked my over-imaginative appendage behind my back before it decided to place Mr. Cavanaugh’s hand in a more interesting spot to test my hypothesis.

  “Now that you’ve solved my case, I don’t suppose we could meet for dinner?”

  Having fielded this question numerous times, my answer emerged by rote. “I don’t date clients.”

  “Are you sure? What if I promise to behave from now on?”

  The noticeable bulge in his pants and the naughty gleam in his eyes stated in pretty vivid detail the unlikelihood of that happening. At least the attraction went two ways. What a shame about his mental state. Not only did I not date clients, I also tried to stay away from whack jobs.

  What grown man actually thought he lived beside a sorceress? Scientists had disproved many times over the existence of magic. The only witches around were posers, women who mixed up herbs and vile concoctions claiming they were magical. There weren’t any real laws against it, unless they accidentally poisoned someone.

  Not that Mr. Cavanaugh seemed to care that his neighbor practiced witchcraft; his issue centered more on her roaming cat. Why did it not surprise me that wolves didn’t like cute little kitties?

  I terminated the meeting. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  “Liar. I can see it wasn’t, but I’m sure glad I met you,” he drawled, adding in a naughty wink. “We’ll be seeing each other again real soon, Ms. Bailey.”

  “Why? Are you intending to get in more trouble?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact I am.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think he meant the legal kind. And, horny as I currently found myself, I kind of looked forward to it.

  2

  The rest of my day involved more mundane cases—petty theft, shoplifting, a spousal altercation between a pair of husbands over whose turn it was for marital rights with the wife, a new legal problem since the introduction of polygamous marriage.

  The world had changed vastly since I first came into it just over twenty-six years ago. Now, no longer was marriage defined as a union between one man and woman. As the world’s population dwindled and the realization emerged that men outnumbered women five to one, laws changed, as did society. Women were now encouraged to take on more than one lover at a time. Threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes flourished. Or crashed. Jealousy kept the courts hopping, and business boomed for lawyers.

  Love triangles, squares, and pentagons weren’t the only thing that had emerged since my birth, though. The realization that humans came in more flavors than we realized was still something everyone worked at adjusting to.

  I still remembered the cheap thrill of my first werewolf movie. Of course, the sexy on-screen version of a werewolf didn’t come anything close to the reality. Truth was, werewolves, or Lycans as they kept reminding us, didn’t actually turn into overgrown dogs. Don’t get me wrong, they sprouted fur, growled, howled and sported great big claws and teeth, but they did so while retaining their human shape. Less werewolf and more wolfman, in other words. Disconcerting didn’t come close to describing it when the first one was discovered.

  One had to wonder, though, if the conspiracy theorists had a valid point when they argued that the little girl in foster care—featured on The View, who at the age of five with her blonde pigtails, big blue eyes, and adorable smile—wasn’t a setup. Who would have ever expected the cute little darling of being anything other than she appeared, a poor abandoned waif in need of a loving family?

  The television crew of The View and its hosts certainly didn’t, but when that little girl transformed on live TV into a growling blonde hairball, frightened by the bright lights and loud noises, no one could deny her existence.

  She became an instant media sensation. Scientists and doctors from all over the world wanted a piece of her. The government itched to get its hands on her. Everyone demanded an ounce of blood and a chance to examine the anomaly. Some true freaks even put in grotesque requests to dissect her.

  Things could have turned out badly for the little girl with no one to advocate for her rights. The Lycans, hidden amongst us for centuries, could have left her to the mercy of those who wanted to treat her like an alien. To their credit, they didn’t.

  Werewolves came out of the closet, so to speak, and into the light. The media spotlight. One man, John Benedict, came forward on behalf of the Lycan packs. A well-spoken, handsome man in his late fifties, he met with the media and admitted that, yes, werewolves did exist, and had, for as long as they could remember, lived amongst us and none of us ever knew. Well, the rag magazines claimed to have known all along, but then again, they still screamed Elvis lived, so no one paid them much mind.

  But it wasn’t just werewolves. Dryads stepped forth from the redwoods and the Amazon wilds, begging we stop cutting their trees. Merpeople also rose from the sea, tired of getting caught in oil spills and fishing nets. Fairies flitted to the halls of justice and filed injunctions against the use of bug zappers.

  Ever heard the sound of millions of jaws hitting the floor at once? Yeah, realizing a whole mystical subculture existed rocked the planet on its axis.

  From that moment on, everything changed. Laws changed. The world shifted. And humans, or at least those without the twisted DNA gene that made them go fuzzy or fish-tailed, had to learn to live with it. So humans did what we did best. We started committees.

  Groups formed for the ethical treatment of Lycans, dryads, and merpeople. Others formed to exterminate them. Religions were born, some for, some against. Fairies tied up the courts as they sued the makers of the bug zappers and sticky fly strips. And life went on.

  As for poor Mary Sue, the little girl who started it all? She got adopted by a nice werewolf family and the doctors got their hands on some grown adults instead, who under the watchful media eye, let the population at large know that, hey, we’re just like you, only hairier.

  As if anyone totally believed that. Oh, and those who invested in Gillette and Nair? They made a bloody killing when the stocks soared.

  As for me, I’d dealt with a fair number of “special folk” since my ascension to the lofty position of public defender and resident of government cubicle number five. For some reason, the newly emerging species always seemed to end up in the chair across from my desk.

  I found them to be just like anyone else, if more demanding. Lycans, by far, got into more trouble than the other new races discovered. It seemed they couldn’t help causing havoc. Indecent exposure being their most common crime.

  They kept me busy even if I secretly mourned the fact none of them was as hot as the romances I surreptitiously read on my tablet. Or, at least I’d never met a truly hunky werewolf until today.

  Mr. Cavanaugh was the first Lycan I’d met who fit exactly my perfect image of a werewolf. He was totally how I’d pictured them when I went through my paranormal romance phase where I devoured books about them like crack candy.

  But lusting after a wolfman didn’t mean I would break my no-screwing-clients-or-crazy-people rule. Mr. Cavanaugh would have to eat dinner with—or from between the legs of—someone else. Some other lucky woman would have to enjoy his boyish grin. His callused, yet electric touch. His big, muscled body…

  The tip of my pen sn
apped and ink leaked all over my desk. Lovely.

  At exactly five o’clock, I called it a day. The government didn’t pay me by the hour, so they never got a minute more of my time. Altruism was for those with trust funds. I’d long ago lost my innocence when it came to my job.

  When I’d taken the job of public defender, I’d had big dreams of coming to the rescue of battered women, falsely accused victims, and getting mired in environmental cases a la Erin Brockovich, that would get my name in the news as I argued to victory.

  Reality sucked, as did my paycheck.

  Exiting my closet of an office, without even a window to let me know the weather outside, I ran into Brenda, or more like she bowled me over as she sprang out of nowhere to verbally assault me.

  “Chloe! You lucky fucking bitch. Me and the rest of the girls are so jealous.”

  “Why?” Had I won the lottery and not noticed? Was that hottie Channing Tatum here looking for me?

  “Why, she asks?” Brenda rolled her eyes. “Because you got to spend time with Mr. Hotness.”

  She could only be referring to one person. “You mean the werewolf?”

  “As if you had any other clients today who could even come close to that title. Yes, I mean the werewolf. You are the envy of the office.”

  “I don’t see why. His case was pretty freaking dumb. Not to mention, I think he’s not all there.” I twirled my finger alongside my head in the universal sign of craziness.

  “But the man is so fucking hot. Please tell me he asked you out.”

  Yes, he had, but if Brenda found out I’d turned him down, I’d never hear the end of it. I lied. “No.”

  “Did he at least act inappropriately?”

  “Not really.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “With a face and body like that, I’ll be he growled at you.” Brenda shivered.

  I threw her a bone. “A bit, but only because he was talking about his neighbor’s cat.”

  “Oh.” She seemed so downcast I strove to find something to please her perverted, one-track mind.

  “He did promise to not behave, though, and see me again soon.”

  Her mouth rounded and her eyes opened wide. “Oh. I wonder what that means.”

  My dirty mind hoped it meant him, me, and five minutes alone—all I’d need considering the state he’d left me in. But, more than likely, he’d do something to piss his witchy neighbor off even worse and he’d end up back in my cubicle on more charges, meaning no nookie for me with the hairy hunk.

  How depressing. Finally, I’d met a guy who got my motor running and he ended up not even a contender for a one-night stand. Was it too much to ask that I meet a nice, normal man who made my pulse race just a little? Not for anything permanent. A boyfriend wasn’t on my list of things I needed or wanted, but a fuck buddy? That would totally work and save me on batteries.

  “Are you done for the day? I think it’s time for a liquid dinner.” I mimed tipping one back.

  Brenda’s nod was so energetic I feared she might have whiplash.

  Best friends since elementary school and now coworkers, Brenda and I had a weekly tradition of hitting a martini bar located only a few blocks away every Friday after work. Getting tipsy on brightly-colored drinks served in fancy glasses didn’t make our jobs any better, but I personally enjoyed the ritual.

  Given that the male population outnumbered the women—scientists theorizing the reason had to do with a lack of a great world war in the last half century to properly decimate male numbers—we usually drank for free.

  We also got offers to get laid, eaten, screwed, and even proposals of marriage from perfect strangers. One time, an eager fellow had even produced a ring. I politely declined. Despite his healthy bottom line—which he showed me on his IRS return over drinks—I just couldn’t imagine staring down at the bald head on his five-foot-five body for the rest of my life.

  But back to TGIF. Brenda and I, along with some other girls in the office, tended to head over to the hopping joint with its muted, flattering lights, retro eighties interior and spinning strobe disco ball—known to cause seizures in the unwary.

  Guys in suits tripped over themselves in their attempts to get noticed. Flattering, but at the same time, overwhelming. The number of offers we received to have our every need satisfied—said with a salacious wink or leer—proved too many to count, but flattering to the ego.

  You’d think with all the male attention we received, the problem I was suffering with my girl parts—AKA an urgent need for erotic attention—wouldn’t even exist or would be easy to resolve. However, while I enjoyed a healthy round of sweaty hardcore sex, once I got past the whole orgasm and itch scratched part, I couldn’t stand the hopeful “Call me.” Or how they expected repeat performances.

  See, the thing was, once they gave me what I needed—their cocks—I lost interest in the men. Not on purpose. I mean, I tried to connect with them outside the bedroom. Engage them in conversation, see if we had hobbies or even television shows in common. It didn’t work. None of them stirred anything in me other than a general sense of relief when we parted ways and traded the oft used, “I’ll call you.” It didn’t help, I guess, that I didn’t want a permanent man in my life. I’d come to the conclusion a while back that boyfriends just required too much maintenance.

  As Brenda had told me, on more than one occasion when I tried to explain my lack of interest in a relationship, I was comparable to a black widow. Using and discarding men with no care for their feelings.

  Cry me a river. What about my feelings? Why did I have to settle down with someone who didn’t inspire that can’t-live-without-you spark? Why couldn’t I hold out for Mr. Right? I was still young. Still having fun. I had a career—of sorts. A decent life—with free drinks. A nice condo—which I’d own in twenty-nine years and three months. Why did I need to rush? Why did I need a steady boyfriend? Well, other than for the obvious.

  Which led me to ask, whatever happened to no-strings sex? Why couldn’t I just enjoy a hot and sweaty, wall-banging fuck? The kind where I could say thank you as I tucked my skirt down and went back for another drink with my bestie.

  For some reason, a certain werewolf I’d just met came to mind. I’ll bet he could pin me like a bug to a wall and pound me until I found religion and screamed, oh my God.

  Sure, his eyes promised decadence. His lips promised pleasure. But would he be like all the rest and think he owned me if I gave in to his allure?

  And even more important, would he shed all over my three-hundred-thread-count, Egyptian cotton sheets?

  So what if I got them on sale? I’d never slept better and the thought of having to keep a lint brush on my nightstand just to have great sex really didn’t appeal.

  Sometimes even I wondered where I got my warped ideas from.

  Entering the bar, with Brenda chattering a mile a minute—the only speed my BFF knew when it came to speech—the noise of the TGIF crowd hit and rocked me as if battered by a wave.

  Packed with bodies, my favorite bar was hopping tonight. People looking to escape the mind-dulling, yawn-inducing doldrums of a week spent cooped in offices. With the weekend here, many felt a need to throw off the shackles of boredom and remember what it felt to be alive.

  I was one of those people. Bring on the booze and the booty shaking.

  Wading through the throng, I endured a good number of pinches and gropes to my full bottom. I had a weakness for cream-filled donuts in the morning, which I ate as a dessert to my pair of toasted cream cheese bagels. Sue me for having a healthy appetite. I knew a good lawyer who’d argue my case to enjoy copious amounts of food and screw the health nuts who said otherwise.

  Some women might take offense at the touching of their person without express permission. I saw it as a compliment. Worship me for I was awesome.

  And thirsty.

  In dire need of an alcoholic beverage, we inched our way to the bar. Despite her petite stature—five-foot-five when wearing her highest tottering he
els—Brenda could always find a spot. She also knew how to make one if needed.

  Cute as a button with curly blonde hair, a pert nose, and a sassy smile, her sweet “Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” and, “Hello handsome” never failed to garner attention, and just like that Moses guy, she parted the testosterone sea. The few times when that didn’t work, a jab to the ribs, a subtle hit to the groin, or a stomp on the toes did the job.

  Brenda might appear adorable and benign on the outside, but piss her off and she turned into a vicious wolverine—a verbal one, not a real one—who could tear into a person and leave them sobbing for their mommy.

  Gawd, I loved her. Best friends forever. We’d even sworn on it with blood and ice cream.

  Reaching our objective, a barstool magically vacated—probably because my BFF shoved the guy off when he least expected it—and Brenda popped her butt onto it while I leaned my hip against the polished granite countertop.

  While Brenda thanked the fellow who’d given up his seat, whether he liked it or not, I ignored the ardent gazes checking me out to order an Ocean Breeze martini. Not too sweet, a shocking bright turquoise, and oh so yummy, it was my drink of choice when we came here. I also wasn’t averse to blowjobs, the alcoholic shot variety, not the kind with hairy balls and a creamy finish.

  With a promise to dance with him later, Brenda turned from the stool donator and ordered something bigger than my puny girly drink. A monstrous-sized beverage with high alcohol content, an umbrella, and a trio of cherries.

  Brenda might lack height, but the girl could drink and do things with a cherry stem that made more than one man fall at her feet fervently promising everlasting love. She usually settled for jewelry.

  The bartender slid us our concoctions and said, “Courtesy of the gentlemen.”

  “Which one?” I asked idly as I took a sip.

  “All of them,” replied Liam.

  And, no, it wasn’t strange I knew our bartender’s first name. When you visited a place often enough, even your local bar, after a while, you got to know someone, not to mention Liam and his life partner, Dave, had come to our rescue more than once when a gentleman needed a little extra persuasion in understanding the word “No.”