Page 10 of Wolf.e

I look down at my casual outfit. I don’t have anything with me and I’m not exactly dressed to interview but I decide to go for it anyway. I pull off the flannel that’s tied around my waist and put it on, buttoning it up and tucking it in then pull the clip from my hair and fluff it around my shoulders. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I push the door open with a tiny ding and walk around. The space is vast and beautiful. Flooring, lighting, and tile samples adorn the walls and aisles—everything you could imagine for new home design and more.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks from behind me as I’m running my fingers over a rather pretty mosaic.

I turn to face it and smile wide as I’m met with Layla’s older brother.

“Dell?!”

“Wow, Brinley!” he says as we stand awkwardly suspended in time before he moves forward to give me a little side hug.

“I didn’t know you were in town. Are you visiting?” he asks at the same time I ask, “How are you?”

He smiles. He’s tall, fit with dark blonde hair and he wears a button down and slacks.

“I’m here to stay. I think. That’s why I came in. I’m a designer and you’re hiring. What for?” I point to the sign in the window.

“Yeah, we are. I’m not the owner, I’m the on-staff architect. Custom builds division. They’re great to work for, it’s a really easy-going environment.The position they’re hiring for isn’t a designer per se, but similar. You’d be able to help people plan their dream homes. What are your qualifications now? You were taking structural design in Seattle right? I could put in a word?”

“I was but I switched to Interior…”

We talk for a few minutes about my experience, my degree, and their build load. As luck would have it, the owner makes his way back part way through our conversation. We chat easily for another ten minutes. I leave with the promise of sending my resume and the owner telling me he’ll call me over the weekend after he reviews it.

I pop my sunglasses on and smile into the sun feeling pretty confident I may already have a new job lined up as I breeze out the door, waving goodbye to Dell as I go.

Home one day.

That’s how it’s done, I think to myself with a grin. With a new job possibly secured, maybe I will fix up my dad’s old truck to sell after all. I could use some of my savings to pay for the repair then recoup it after, if it's not too much.

I hustle into the trendy coffee shop, humming one of my mom’s favorite Reba songs and grab my latte before sitting outside in the sun. I scroll through truck ads resembling my dad’s model and happily find they are going for even more than Mr. Kennedy thought when restored. I’m only part way through my latte before I hear them.

The low rumble of Harleys. It’s like the town anthem. No one seems to look or care when the four bikes pull up to the next block of buildings. They park almost directly in front of me in a perfectly choreographed backed-in slant. I watch them from my periphery, the chrome and metal glimmering in the afternoon sun. They almost cause my wrought iron table to shake against the concrete with their final rumble before the engines are cut.

I don’t need to see the back of their leather vests to know they’re members of the Hounds of Hell but the wolf skull glaring at me as they park and pop their kicks just solidifies it.

I instantly recognize two of them from last night in Savannah. The one with the Enforcer patch and the other with the Gunnar patch. They’re big men, the Gunnar has wavy hair pulled back in a type of man bun that looks anything but dainty.

Two more get off their bikes and pull their helmets off—one is skinnier, older, and has spiky blonde hair and his patch says Road Runner.

My eyes move to… the largest man in the group. As he pulls his helmet off I’m stricken, yet I can’t look away. He’s the closest to me, and he was definitely not in Savannah last night.

My palms instantly start to sweat as he hangs his helmet from his grip with his large, sculpted hands. He faces my direction and looks around, scanning the area like he’s the arriving king, watching for any threat.

I glance up again, watching him move with a heavy grace, struggling to keep my mouth closed as I drink him in, almost in slow motion. He’s tall, maybe six-foot-four or six-foot-five and he’s wide and solid. He’s a real Jason Momoa type—part Khal Drogo, part outlaw.

Normally, I would do the proper thing and turn my eyes from a man like this. I’ve been trained since the age of twelve about the kind of man who would be right for me and the kind of man who would hurt me, but something about him transfixes me.

He isn’t just existing, it’s like the world rotates around him.

He wears a thin white t-shirt under what appears to be his leather club vest, his powerful arms strain against the fabric. Dog tags peek out from the neckline, glinting in the sunlight that suddenly feels so much warmer.

He’s military? I did not expect that.

From what I can see, his body is a vast landscape, a terrain of rippled muscle, and, apart from his face, he’s covered in ink.

The bold tattoos creep up his neck, over his hands, forearms, and fingers. A portrait of a woman done in a Day of the Dead style on his forearm is haunting and I wonder who she is before imagining all the ink I can’t see because of his clothes.

His dark brown hair is pushed back, it doesn’t seem overly long but what is there is secured at the nape of his neck, a few wisps have gone astray. His beard is a shade darker than his hair and groomed but gruff—like everything he does is on purpose.

His face turns to mine as he pulls off his sunglasses and strides up onto the sidewalk in front of me. I wish my pair was shielding my eyes instead of sitting on top of my head so I could watch him without shame. His cheekbones are high and straight, his jaw, wide and square. His eyes start at my sandals as he moves, slowly raking over me in the few seconds he glances at me. When they meet mine, I notice they’re startling, almost inhuman and the lightest shade of gray I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like time stands in a suspended still.

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