Page 4 of Dark Panther's Desperate Beauty

Chapter Three

Rylee

I’m having sexual fantasies about a panther.

Crazy, huh?

Well, in fairness, I’ve come to the conclusion that the panther who saved me has to be a shifter. It took a while to figure that out because until I’m threatened by all those men and then rescued by the panther, I don’t believe shifters exist. I think most people don’t believe it even though they officially announced themselves to the world and there are rumors of government programs.

Like, if you need special forces for jungle warfare, doesn’t it make sense to use a group of tiger shifters? If you need rescue operations in forests, wouldn’t bear shifters work? There are rumors of bears, lions, tigers… Sorry, can’t help myself. Oh, my! Okay, now back to what I’m saying. There are rumors of different kinds of shifters in pretty much every badass “real man” kind of job like first responders, bodyguards, military special forces, and more.

But the panther who saved me is the first shifter I’ve ever actually seen.

I mean, he has to be a shifter, right? He’s a whole lot bigger than any real panther ever could be. Um… real. There has to be a better word. In any case, I guess there could be an abnormally large panther but how would it be here? And how in the world could a panther that isn’t a shifter defend me for no reason at all and then somehow take me a mile away to where I would be safe?

Safe.

I’m in a hotel now. It’s not a nice hotel but it’s not a horrible hotel. It’s the kind of hotel a family might stay in on a multiple day road trip. It isn’t your vacation but it’s clean and safe. They have coffee and a continental breakfast in the morning.

I left the band.

No. I left the group of people pretending to be a band. The good news is I got a job at my favorite bar. It’s just across the street from the hotel. It’s a blues bar. I’ll be a cocktail waitress and I’ll be learning how to be a bartender. I start being the cocktail waitress now, the bartender in a few weeks, I guess. I’m close to the music, and that’s awesome. I bit the bullet and got my guitar out of pawn and made an interest payment to reup the loan agreements on the band equipment. So, I got thirty more days and the pawn broker said he’ll let me do the interest one more time if I have to before he sells it.

All of this in twenty-four hours.

I guess it’s just a matter of making the decision, right?

Anyway, it’s my first day as a cocktail waitress, and it’s pretty fun. People who come to this bar come for the music. Oh, sure, there’s drinking. But it’s really about the blues rock. It’s mostly local bands and then bands only people deep into classic rock will know.

It’s perfect.

And yeah, I have to deal with a few guys being inappropriate but not in any kind of threatening way. Yeah, guys in their fifties who think they’re twenty make comments about me having a nice ass and stuff like that. Not a problem for me. Nothing scares me about working here. On the contrary, it’s like heaven for me. Today, a group comprised of 1980s session musicians is playing. They’re the house band, the Wildcats. They have a little following here in town but they’re not looking for fame or even success. They just want to play.

Just like me.

Yeah, sure. I feel a little bitter about things but I drive it down. I’m out of that apartment. I’m on the road to stability. It’s not time for me to complain about what I don’t have and what plans I need to rearrange. Right now, it’s time for me to stick to what’s in front of me and not give in to poor decisions for the sake of a beautiful dream.

I’ll get there with good decisions.

Or die trying.

“Beer, please.” The man who says those words when I reach his table is perfect.I don’t notice until I get there because I’m lost in thought.

Holy crap, the guy is fucking gorgeous. No guy has the right to be this good looking.

For a moment, I’m tongue-tied.

He smiles. “I’m ready to order. It’s going to be very simple. Just a beer.”

I smile back. Damn! I can feel myself blushing. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” I start off in a hurry but a few seconds after, I return. “Um, which beer exactly?”

“Why don’t you surprise me.”

“Okay, I’ll do that.”

I walk back to the bar and fight back the urge to run behind it and hide there for the rest of the night. I haven’t acted that silly around a guy since high school.

Anyway, I give him a new IPA from a local brewery. I don’t drink but a lot of the customers have said good things about it. They say it’s the IPA for people who aren’t hipster beer snobs. I can’t believe that I’m reviewing my decision as I walk it back over to him. Why do I care what a stranger thinks about my beer choice?

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