To Kiss a Werewolf Page 2

  Tina’s hands were around his neck the next second. Her fake fingernails lightly pressed into his skin as she pulled him back down. Not wanting to totally ruin the moment, he surrendered, and told himself to get a grip. He moved away from her neck and back to her mouth. Soap. He could still taste her perfume. Nostrils flared and he pulled back again, cringing.

  “Come here,” Tina breathed. “Don’t play hard to get now.”

  He opened his mouth and panted, hoping to release the flavor. Looking up to the half-moon that peeked through a cluster of dark clouds, he suddenly felt like gagging. In the next moment, he leapt off the girl and ran to the center of some fir trees that bordered the beach.

  “What’s the matter?!” Her voice trailed after him.

  Damien hunched over and grabbed his knees. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. He was sure he was going to vomit whatever stomach flu suddenly overtook him, but instead he felt possessed to howl hoarsely into the night: “Owoooo!”

  TWO

  There was a strange sound outside Stella’s window. A scratching, which could have been from a tree, or could have been something else, or rather someone else, like… her ex. When the face appeared, smiling at her through the glass, Stella jumped back against her dresser. She was certain she saw his gray eyes and light curly hair.

  The window slid open. “It’s just me!” said Kit. “Holy cow, don’t have a heart attack.” She pulled herself inside.

  “It didn’t look like you. Don’t ever do that again.” Stella shook her hands, hoping to rid her body of the fear that still laced her spine. That feeling was all too familiar. She didn’t want to have any reminders.

  “Sorry.” Kit tilted her head. “Anyway, I told you I was coming.”

  “Yeah, but I expected you to enter through the front door, like a normal person.”

  Kit came over and wrapped her arms around Stella’s neck. “Okay, pooky, but you should know by now I am not normal.”

  That was definitely true. Stella squeezed her friend tighter. “Yes, I know. And that’s why I can tolerate you.”

  “You more than just tolerate me.”

  “Okay, you had me at hello.”

  “I know, right? Plus, the most normal people are abnormal. That’s why I prefer to be abnormally normal instead of normally abnormal.”

  “Okay, I think I got that….”

  Kit stepped back and eyed the room. Stella knew everything was the same as ever. Same monster posters on the walls, same bookcase filled with the latest paranormal fiction. The only difference was a suitcase sitting open on the bed next to a camo duffel bag. “I’ll miss you.” Kit sighed.

  “It’s only going to be three days.” Stella gave a wry smile and grabbed some socks from a dresser drawer. “And I’m not leaving until Friday.”

  “Four! You’ll be gone four days. Friday through Monday.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, you’ll have Caleb. I’m sure you two will have lots of fun.” She shoved the socks into the duffel bag.

  Kit plopped onto the bed and folded a lumped up pair of jeans. “Caleb’s a cool cat, but I think I want a boyfriend.”

  “Then maybe you should change your status on Facebook from Married to Single. Oh, and take Caleb’s name off as your spouse. That could help.”

  “You think?” Kit sighed. “Too bad you aren’t a guy. We’d be perfect together.”

  “Maybe…, but I could never date someone with your color hair.”

  “Oh, so you gotta problem with the color purple? Hair’s not everything, you know. What if I was tall with rippling muscles that you couldn’t resist? Then would my hair be such an issue?”

  “Okay, this conversation is getting really weird.” Stella eyed her, but went on out of amusement. “Hair is practically everything. A guy has got to have nice hair.”

  “You wouldn’t go for me with a shaved head then?”

  “Okay, well, let me remind you we are still talking about guys, not you. And, no, I couldn’t go for a guy with a shaved head.”

  “That’s pretty discriminatory.”

  “Huh? What do you mean by that?” Stella grabbed some shirts out of the closet.

  “Well, there are a lot of guys who shave their heads. You’re basically leaving, what, twenty-five percent of the population out? And what if the man you marry one day starts losing his hair? What if,” she stood up, talking faster, “he lost most of it by thirty? Would you just leave him, then? This poor, balding man, who gave you his heart and soul—you would just file for divorce after popping out four kids with him, over him losing his hair? Or maybe worse, you force him to purchase hair plugs. For the love of Pete, Stella, don’t be so shallow!”

  Stella’s green eyes went wide and she froze in position, a shirt half-folded in her hands. “I think it’s my turn to say ‘Holy cow.’ Holy freaking cow, Kit. It’s just a preference. I won’t divorce my husband over hair. And four babies by thirty? Whoa.”

  “Okay.” Kit’s eyebrows went up as she excitedly continued the conversation. “You have to tell me, then, does this obsession with hair make you ‘prefer’ guys like Fabio?”

  “Obsession? Okay, I like nice hair, but it isn’t an obsession. You are now making it sound like I would keep locks of boys’ hair at my bedside, and pleasurably sniff them all night long. Besides, Fabio is like my mom’s age. Maybe you should ask her.”

  Kit dropped back onto the bedspread, putting her hands above her head. “Alright, enough about hair. Did I tell you lately that I am super duper proud of you?”

  “Heh. Only like five billion times. You’re still so proud of me for making a fool of myself last weekend?” Stella grabbed a pair of what looked like army boots from off her closet’s top shelf. She couldn’t forget to bring those.

  “You did it. You went through with it. It took guts.” Kit smiled, still lying down, but now her hands were under her head as she stared at the ceiling plastered with horror movie posters. “And Damien’s probably forgotten all about it. You can resume your title as Number One Wallflower at Shoreline High next semester without a blip. I’m sure of it.”

  Stella had to laugh at that. She agreed, but still had to ask, “Is that what I am, really?”

  “You know it.” Kit whapped her playfully with a yellow vintage tee.

  Stella didn’t mean to be such a wallflower. Deep down, she really did crave more of a social life, though her only real friends were Kit and Caleb. It’s not like she never had a boyfriend, or had never been kissed either. From time to time, guys would hit on her… like the attendant at the gas station, then there was the kid with the bug collection, and what about the one who always stared at her in the quad? She wouldn’t even let herself think of the latest weirdo. So she knew she wasn’t repulsive. She could even be desirable, given the right guy with the right amount of social problems got a whiff of her.

  Ultimately, she knew the real answer to her dateless existence was she had been purposefully guarded against others, for the same reason she was freaked out by Kit scratching at her window just minutes ago. It was time to move on, though. Time to put the past where it deserved to be… in the past. That’s what she hoped for anyway.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Stella slowly confessed, kind of hating the fact that her friend was always right about these things. “I’m proud of myself, too. I should probably try and spread my figurative wings a little more.”

  “For real?”

  “For real. I was traumatized over the dare you had me do for like three whole days, but then I realized something—it actually made me feel powerful, if that makes sense. Even though it was extremely embarrassing, it makes me wonder what else I am capable of.”

  *

  Beyoncé was singing over the store’s speakers. Kit was sitting between racks of trendy clothes. Stella was inside the fitting room, shaking her head at the options before her. Swimsuits.

  “These look like they came off life-size Barbie dolls,” came the deflated voice through the fitting room’s door.


  “No,” Kit retorted. “More like Sports Illustrated. Hurry your butt up and try one on for me.”

  The yellow string bikini was worst of all. Stella rolled her eyes, passing it by for the white one-piece. She wiggled it over her hips and strapped it over her shoulders after adjusting the seamlessly attached bra.

  It was so tight; but then, what else did she expect? It had just been so long since she last tried on a swimsuit. Like she was maybe ten-years old, splashing around the water park, the last time. She snapped the stretchy material around her thighs and armpit area and eyed herself with a cocked eyebrow. It wasn’t altogether terrible.

  “Hurry, Stella. It’s been like ten minutes already, and you haven’t shown me a thing.”

  Stella creaked open the door a couple inches and spied the premises before exiting. She stood in front of Kit awkwardly, continually going back and forth between rubbing at her long hair to clutching her stomach.

  “Ooo la la. Reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. Not bad. Now try on the yellow one.”

  “I am not going to buy that thing. This one is the furthest that I will go.”

  Kit rolled her head. “Just humor me. You can hate me later. Just try it on really quick.”

  The white suit was placed back on its hanger, the yellow bikini now clutched in Stella’s grasp. Quickly, she maneuvered her legs through the strings she assumed went around the thighs and over the hips as part of the bikini bottom. Why she was actually going to follow through with humoring Kit, she wasn’t sure. The upcoming field trip would be by a beach, and so maybe her curiosity was heightened to the point that she, too, had to see for herself how she’d look in the contraption.

  There were even more strings to the bikini top. This couldn’t really be swimwear, Stella thought, guessing as to which slit she was to place her right arm into. No, this had to be some erotic negligee or something; something the girls at the gentleman’s club across the street would wear. Kit couldn’t have really pulled it off a swimsuit rack.

  Getting too tangled up, Stella finally called out, “I can’t get the top on. Where did you find this thing?”

  Kit could be heard huffing before knocking on the door. “Open up. I’ll help.”

  The dressing room was pretty small. It couldn’t even technically be called a room, given that it was more like two standing shades, touching corners. The clothing boutique was independently owned, so its set-up was by no means by department store standards. Curiosity still compelling her more than anything else, Stella guarded herself with the door as she let her friend in.

  “Oh, wow, you really are stuck. Put this arm up higher.” Kit pushed Stella’s elbow closer to her ear, so she could pull an arm out of the wrong opening.

  “Oh, ow! Be careful. You got some of my hair in there.”

  “I got it. I got it.” Kit strategically moved the dark strands out of the way. “It’s like you got in a fight with a gumball.”

  It was true. She looked like she got in a fight with gum… and it won. “Why I ever listen to you, I have no clue.”

  “I’m the yin to your yang.”

  A string snapped over Stella’s head, slapping her skin, stinging her. “Ouch!” Stella yelped and started laughing. Kit followed suit. They laughed the kind where you hunch over, mouth wide open, while nothing comes out. Seeing Stella’s reflection in the long, hanging mirror, patched and stringed in weird places, dying of hilarity, made them laugh even harder.

  Then Stella heard something that instantly cured her of the giggles. An all-too-familiar voice, speaking to a sales lady. “Yes,” he said, “some wax.”

  Damien’s nostrils flared at the smell of the store’s burning incense. Trying to ignore its pungent, spicy scent, he kept focused on his objective: getting in and out with some wax in hand ASAP.

  He had an especially hard evening last night. He couldn’t sleep until dawn. Muscles ached, his skin itched, even his gums throbbed. Then there was the inconvenient desire for flesh between razor-sharp teeth, and KFC was closed. His recent condition still confused him to no end, and he had to find ways to at least live through it inconspicuously, until he could find answers, and maybe then a cure. Preventing his daytime changes from being too apparent was top priority. Transforming full-blown into a hairy beast happened at night-time, and when the moon was its fullest; still the daily side-effects were getting scary enough. Fitting in with the rest of his smooth-skinned beach buddies may soon be a thing of the past, he feared. If that meant he had to resort to women’s products in order to stay under the radar, then he was game.

  The sales lady escorted him to the back of the room, near the portable fitting rooms. “Against this wall, down here,” she said, moving her hand across the options like Vanna White on cat nip, “we have all our depilatory creams as well as various waxing products.”

  Damien nodded, rubbing his chin. Even his stubble felt rougher than usual.

  “May I ask, will this be for someone else? Such as a girlfriend? Or for yourself? Because some of our products are specially made for self-service versus assistance.”

  Karen Wilson, per the name on her nametag, seemed a little too curious, as an eyebrow arched over her glasses. Damien imagined her with her hair let loose out of the ponytail, glasses off, lying in a sensual pose with an arm up, awaiting him to assist with waxing an armpit. He shook his head, repulsed at what his imagination could think up. “It’s self-service,” he said, and coughed nervously.

  “Oh, then I suggest this one.” She handed him a box of wax strips. “Will this be for your chest?” she pried further.

  Damien clutched at the chest of his white t-shirt. “Sure. Yeah.”

  “Well,” she slid her glasses down her nose, “chest hair is coming back in style. Lots of ladies like it.”

  Ahem. He could hardly believe his ears, but it definitely seemed the forty-something-year-old woman was hinting at something.

  “Come again,” he said.

  “It’s true.” She played with the top button of her shirt. “Maybe you should keep it. I know I like it.”

  Okay, now he was certain she was flirting. “Ma’am, lady, I-uh,” he stumbled over his words. “Karen. Mrs. Wilson, I mean. I’m only seventeen.”

  A smile played on her lips and she placed a hand to the side of her mouth, as if she were about to whisper. “Eighteen is legal,” she said, then pulled a business card out of a pocket. “The second number is my cell. Call me in a few months.” She winked before traipsing off.

  He stood there a bit in shock. Girls from high school threw themselves at him all the time. That was no big deal. It was routine, even. But he wasn’t willing to put himself out there for someone who could be his teacher. Or worse, his mother.

  Cougars, he muttered to himself, shaking his head. They actually exist… just like werewolves. And that thought brought with it bitterness. Were all girls the same? Despite even their age? Worse than his bitterness about girls lately, and his natural bitterness over being part-beast, was his bitterness over being bitter. It was a vicious cycle lately.

  Just then came a loud clatter. He turned in time to see one of the fitting room shades fall over, revealing two mortified girls, one desperately trying to poke her head through a shirt’s armhole, while the other helped push it down. Something resembling a ball of neon yellow yarn wrapped around her bare stomach. What the…? The words, “You okay?” came out faster than he could think. He would have been better off offering them shovels, since certainly they would rather bury themselves alive right there.

  He meant to snap his sights away for their privacy, but he just could not. The one with long dark hair was the girl he saw at the pizzeria; he was certain. Suddenly his heart thudded hard against his chest. It was the girl who had asked him out on a date, then went all bi-polar on him, storming out before he could really respond. The girl who both intrigued him and angered him at the same time.

  She finished pulling the shirt over her head. Surprise, surprise—another zombie t-shirt. “You can stop sta
ring,” she said to him, fixing flyaway hairs caused by the whole episode.

  “Hey, I wasn’t staring,” he said, pointing to her with his box of wax strips. Suddenly embarrassed, he forced his hand down to his side and turned the box around, hoping she didn’t see what he was buying.

  “What do you call gluing your eyes to my body then?” She swung her hair over a shoulder, and looked at her shorter, purple-haired friend for approval of her remark.

  “Fine, I was staring. But not because you were half-naked or whatever. It was because I-I recognized you. And that’s all,” he said gruffly, now nervously jiggling the box in his hand.

  Thankfully, the boutique wasn’t busy. And thankfully, that meant no one else was watching their encounter, except for maybe Karen… er, Mrs. Wilson.

  Purple-gumdrop-head suddenly spoke up. “Okay, it’s my fault. I bumbled, knocking over the fitting room. It’s also my fault you body slammed Stella to the ground outside Dough-licious, and that she asked you on a date.”

  Damien caught the fact that Stella (he finally knew her name) turned red and rigid in response to that confession. “What are you talking about?” he asked, utterly confused.

  “Kit,” Stella said through clenched teeth, but her friend went on…

  “I dared her to ask you out. She never would have even stepped foot into Dough-licious that night, if it weren’t for me.”

  “You mean”—he pointed again with the box of wax strips by accident—“you dared her to ask me out because she was too shy otherwise, right?”

  “Gosh no!” The girl shook her head like that was completely ridiculous. “She doesn’t like you. She never has. So now that the air has been cleared between you two…”

  “Kit, shut up,” Stella said.

  Damien’s eyebrows raised and he stood there even more stunned than he was after Mrs. Wilson hit on him. More stunned than after the fitting room tipped over. He couldn’t help but say, “Y-you don’t like me?” Self control was pretty much out the window at this point. Pride, too. It was like his entire body was numb, like he was there but not really, and that fact scared him. He never felt that way before.