Filthy Cowboy: Junkyard Shifters, #4

1

Flipping to the next page of the picture book, Dew read aloud, The vampire princess wanted to swim with penguins. She wanted to tell jokes in new languages. Everyone in her parents’ dark castle of werewolves and zombies was older than her. ‘I’m alone,’ she realized. ‘Alone while surrounded by people.’

Three kids sat in front of Dew, cross-legged on the apple-styled floor rug in the children’s corner of the small library. The little girl squirmed while the older boy picked his nose. The younger boy, as if eager to prove he was the best behaved, sat still with his hands on his knees. Meanwhile, the dad who had brought them leaned against one of the low picture book shelves, tapping away on his phone.

The story continued, and Dew’s mind wandered even as she read. What kind of adventure would she want? Struck by the idea, she paused reading and said to her audience, How about you? What adventure would you take, if you were in the vampire princess’s shoes?

I wouldn’t be a vampire pig, one of the boys said. "I’d be a vampire tiger."

Dew’s lips twitched. And where would you go, as a vampire tiger?

Jungles, he said.

As soon as the other two children had a chance to answer her question, Dew continued reading until she reached the final page. And that was how Princess Pickle learned that adventure and friendship could be found just about anywhere.

She held up the book for an extra moment so the three sets of eyes could absorb the illustration—one of Dew’s favorites in the book, featuring the vampire piglet princess catapulting off the tip of an iceberg in the direction of a giant party of friends. Dew wondered if it was really that easy to find adventure. Just…let go of routine, change your landscape, and suddenly you’re partying in the Antarctic, surrounded by penguins and…polar bears?

Dew sighed. Polar bears didn’t live in the Southern hemisphere. But she couldn’t get too upset with the author taking creative liberties, given the main character was a six-year-old vampire piglet princess with werewolf parents, and vampires and werewolves didn’t live in the Southern hemisphere, either…or anywhere else, for that matter.

After the children had feasted their eyes on the story’s grand finish, Dew closed the book, set it down, and clapped her hands. What do you say we go to the craft table? We have some popsicle sticks, fabric, and markers for making our very own vampire puppets!

The three kids followed Dew to the table, where they proceeded to make a mess of the craft materials—and themselves. Their dad, who’d barely looked up from his phone once during the entire story and craft period, gave Dew a dirty look when he collected the kids to leave. Dew just smiled and shrugged. They were kids. Making messes was what they excelled at.

In the children’s absence, the tiny library fell quiet. The head librarian, Jillian, poked her head of violently blond hair out of the office. Her gaze darted around the empty library and she asked, Is it clear?

Yes, it’s clear. Dew laughed. You really don’t like kids, do you?

Nope, not in the slightest. Jillian left the office and started toward Dew. I do love their books, though. Like seriously, a vampire pig in Antarctica? Genius.

Jillian began to help Dew clean up the craft mess. She lifted the book Dew had read aloud and flipped through the pages. These illustrations are amazing. The message is a little heavy-handed, but it’s a good one.

Yeah, that’s why I chose it, Dew said. I’ve been craving a little adventure.

As I keep telling you, you have plenty of vacation saved up. Jillian shelved the picture book and turned to level a stare at Dew before breaking into the song I Love Paris.

Dew laughed. I don’t need to go to Paris.

City of…what is it? Light? Love? Sexytimes?

"Jillian, hush. We’re in a library!"

An empty library. It’s not a church. Jillian’s humor shifted to something more like sympathy. Come on, Dew, I can see you’re lonely.

I’m fine, Dew said. But it wasn’t the truth, and they both knew it. Dew had moved here to this tiny town to escape the tragedy of her brother’s death and her parents’ clingy mourning. Before Rashid died, she’d been well on her way to starting what she’d thought would be a new and exciting life in the city. But after his death? She’d wanted a quiet town where nobody knew her and nobody did anything interesting. She cleared her throat, shoving aside those thoughts. Moving on. Have you already ordered our new books?

There are a couple of contemporary romances I wanted your opinion on. George Sandoval requested about thirty, and our budget will only allow for fifteen or so. Maybe you could take a look, help me pick?

I’d be happy to. Although Dew was technically the children’s librarian, both she and Jillian worked together managing both sides of the library—as long as Jillian didn’t have to interact with real, live children as she called them, she was happy selecting and ordering books alongside Dew.

The library was a small place, so they were able to collaborate. They both loved romance, but Jillian leaned toward paranormal, and Dew leaned more toward historical and contemporary. George Sandoval was a historical romance fiend and he’d be disappointed they couldn’t afford everything at once, but he was one of the more understanding patrons and he’d be patient until extra funding for new books came in.

Dew wet a paper towel in the bathroom and brought it back to clear some tacky glue-stick residue from the craft table. When she was done, Jillian waved her over to the computer at the circulation desk. Dew pointed out authors whose books she’d enjoyed, even if she hadn’t yet had a chance to read the new ones George had requested.

I’m getting this one, too, Jillian said, clicking on a paranormal romance she had open in another browser tab.

Don’t tell me vampires are making a comeback, Dew said.

Vampire romance never died, Jillian said, winking. Get it? Because it’s undead?

Dew snorted out a laugh and looked at the couple clutching each other on the book’s cover. She appreciated that the female model had brown skin like her own. The heroine clutched a much paler man who had very obvious fangs dipping below his upper lip. How would kissing a face like that even work? Dew pursed her lips together and made a kissy noise at Jillian, who laughed.

I’m just a girl looking for a vampire, Dew said with a laugh of her own. If he has muscles like that, he can suck my blood any day.

I know, right? Jillian said. Tall, pale, and mysterious. Speaking of mysterious…have you heard from your pen pal lover recently?

Oh, nice segue, Dew said with a playful roll of her eyes.

Jillian waved her hand. I never pretended to be subtle.

No, Jillian would be unable to manage subtle.

Dew went ahead and answered her, I haven’t heard from him since last week.

Jillian gave her a sly look. His requested book came in. Are you going to write him back?

Dew’s stomach fluttered like the pages in a well-used hardcover. Probably?

Go for it. What can you lose?

Nothing, Dew thought. Everything. S’s messages were the one spark of passion and adventure in her life. Dew had never done anything, it sometimes felt. She’d never loved anyone. Never given herself completely to anyone. But his poems, his letters—they made her feel things deep inside. They made her skin feel too tight for her body, made her heart beat faster. They did all those things to her that happened for the heroines in romance novels, things that she’d believed impossible for real life people outside the pages of her books.

So yeah, everything could be lost. Without S’s messages, Dew would lose her very belief in the possibility of something beyond her quiet life. Something with clutching embraces, deep breathing. She imagined how her first time would be, with someone like S—all passion, candlelight. Decadent hotels in big cities, or romantic walks along a riverbank while fireflies glowed with approval. Kisses in front of a warm fireplace in a remote cabin in the mountains….

Oh, babes. You’ve got it bad, Jillian said. What did he send last time? Poem or letter?

A poem, Dew said. It was beautiful.

No changing your mind on sharing it with me? Jillian asked, a teasing note in her voice.

She knew Dew wouldn’t share it—Dew had early on proclaimed S’s notes private correspondence, not open for dissemination or analytical scrutiny from even her best friend. Jillian had pressed, at first, but eventually became resigned to the fact that Dew was sticking by her decision to keep S’s missives to herself. It helped that occasionally, Dew would share a couple of swoon-worthy lines from one of his poems.

The last poem he’d sent? Dew had already memorized it because of the way it blazed through her mind.

The peaks and valleys of the mind—

In solitude they grow synonymous

With your body—delights of skin and salt

The taste, the scent of rounded nights

The curve of thighs

That come and come again.

This is a cruel sweet separation

Inviting untoward thoughts, rigid until release.

Dew might be innocent in theory, but she knew exactly what that poem was saying. Even thinking of it now had her feeling flushed.

Jillian clucked her tongue, bringing Dew back to the present. Why don’t you just hunt this guy down? We have his address.

No way, Dew said. Breach of privacy. We’re happy with what we have, exchanging notes like we do. It’s exciting, passionate. He said this would be better as a relationship of letters.

But he did say ‘relationship,’ right? Jillian asked.

Yes. Why?

Honey, Jillian said. In my experiences with both men and women, a relationship reaches a point where it has to either blossom, or wither. Sorry for the poetic language, but it’s the best analogy I can come up with. Maybe he’s scared for some reason, and a little nudge from you could bring about the beginning of something great.

Dew shook her head, feeling her heart thud uncomfortably in her chest at the very thought of pushing S on their relationship, or whatever the heck this was. She wasn’t a pushy person and she had no desire to be.

Jillian reached over and grabbed her in a half hug, and Dew hugged her back, breathing in Jillian’s faint perfume.

You do whatever you’re comfortable with, okay, babes? Jillian said. Don’t listen to a heavy-handed old lady.

Dew snorted. Jillian was a little over fifty—not old at all.

Jillian went on, If it feels best to just write to him for now, then do that. And if you need to talk, you know I’m always willing to listen.

Thank you, Dew said, grinning at her friend.

"But please, please tell me when he writes more sexy stuff. I need to live vicariously through you, okay?"

Dew laughed. You know I’ll tell you when I hear from him. Half the time you find his envelopes before I do.

Even his handwriting on the outside of the envelopes is sexy. Gives me a thrill every time.

Same, girl.

A young woman walked into the library, so Dew and Jillian returned to different tasks, break time over. Dew worked on shelving recent returns, grateful for the way she could let her mind wander as she worked. S’s poetry played in her mind, the subtle eroticism of every line a beacon to delights Dew had never had the opportunity to experience.

His last poem had summed up their relationship perfectly: a cruel sweet separation.

And Dew could appreciate the pain and beauty of those words, as much as she could appreciate their permanence. He was telling her something. This was how it would always be.

2

Stetson stumbled forward as Jase dodged his latest strike. Recovering quickly, he lifted his arm to block Jase’s jab.

Fists flew, a dancing exchange lit by lanterns spaced around the fighting ring. The soundtrack to the fight came from Damien Buenevista’s old radio, which he’d put on a classic rock station. Stetson would’ve preferred country. Much better to throw punches to the sounds of misery coming from twanging guitars.

Jase’s right hook came fast. Stetson dodged, but not fast enough to escape the clip to his chin. His teeth snapped down and he tasted blood on his tongue. Rage pulsed through him. He reined it in, always did. Easy, cowboy.

A roar rose up from the men standing around watching the fight. Trapped, Stetson’s inner jaguar said.

No, they’re friends, Stetson said, a firm reminder. He’d spent hours training as an Enforcer to know friend from foe, even when his inner animal got confused. Even when his human side got confused.

The jaguar side of him didn’t appreciate large groups of people fighting, didn’t like the shouts of bloodlust. But as Jase’s second, it was Stetson’s job to join in on the recreational fighting on occasion. Stetson’s participation solidified Jase’s position, and Stetson’s, too. And for a pride of shifters constantly teetering on the steep edges of anarchy, position was everything. Two of the newest members to the pride, a pair of grizzlies, seemed intent on fighting their way up in the rankings. The Cruthers brothers—Weston and Dallas. A fight like this one with Jase could have them thinking twice before throwing their hats into the ring.

Stetson countered Jase’s right hook with a jab of his own, and caught his alpha in the jaw.

Jase shook his head, smiled, his mismatched green and gold eyes showing challenge and amusement.

See, Stetson said to himself. Not an enemy, a friend.

They exchanged a few more blows, none of them landing hard. More a show of a fight than anything else. When Stetson got tired of it, he let Jase knock him down and he stayed put to the sounds of alternating cheers and groans from the group of assembled shifters.

Jase held out a hand to help Stetson up, and Stetson took it. Once he was standing, the two of them shook hands.

You threw that fight in the end, Jase said, quiet enough only Stetson would be able to hear.

"If I won, I might have to be alpha," Stetson said carefully over his split lip.

Shaking his head and still wearing that look of amusement, Jase returned to the ring of tires. There, Jase’s mate, Blythe, stood waiting with a mason jar of Noah’s moonshine in her hand and sparkles in her eyes. Her love for Jase shone true.

Stetson spit blood to the frozen ground, rubbed the blood off one of his cracked knuckles. It had been a good fight, pure. No anger in it, other than the short moment where he’d needed to remind his jaguar side that they were okay.

The two brothers, Dallas and Weston, rushed into the ring. Big, blocky builds. Just like bears. They laughed at first, treating the fight as a game. Then Dallas—or maybe it was Weston—landed a good hit on the other’s face, and the laughter ended.

Stetson leaned back on his heels, caught the eye of Noah Ephraimson. A crate of mason jars sat at Noah’s feet, each one full of clear liquid.

Noah nodded and reached into the crate, pulled out a jar. "Loser’s