Page 15 of Unlearning

“I guess I don't need to askyouwhich species performs better,” I teased and immediately regretted it. This wasn’t me. Where the hell did that come from?

He seemed to be seriously considering his answer. “If it's all emotionless and only one night hook-ups, in the end it doesn't matter that females can physically handle me better, it all gets old pretty fast.”

I just nodded, desperate to get away from this conversation with my boss.

Later that night, we said goodnight and went to our respective bedrooms in the apartment that the Parks Department provided for our occasional stays in the city. James had plaid pajama pants and a gray shirt on, and his hair was wet from the shower. The flannel of the pajamas looked so soft. In bed, my mind went over the events of the evening – how James' eyes darkened when he asked me about sex, how his gaze darted to my lips so quickly that I might as well have imagined it, the lonely drop of lemonade on his lip after he took a swig from the bottle, the way his throat bobbed while he swallowed, how his fingers curled around the bottleneck – before I could make a conscious decision my hand was in my panties and my legs were spread. I frantically rubbed my clit and arched my back. I was already sopping wet just from remembering how close to each other we were at the bar, I imagined leaning over to lick the lemonade off his lips and, a moment later, and I felt my orgasm shaking me while I pressed my lips firmly together to remain quiet.

A knock on the door woke me up, and I realized I'd fallen asleep with my hand between my legs. I'd overslept; with no time left for a shower, I cleaned up as best as I could (and as fast as I could), hoping he wouldn't be able to smell my late night adventures on me. The ride home passed mostly in silence, with James deep in thought, his jaw clenched almost angrily, as I read my book in the passenger seat.

CHAPTER 12

January 2017

James, age 35

It was the most depressing Monday of the year and I was camping alone on the Northern edge of the Park, near Klamath beach. Samantha was still at my brother's pack, spending the holidays with her aunt and her family. She'd told me all about how she used to spend her summers with them but then completely detached herself from them after “you know, everything,” as she put it. Now she was making a conscious effort to reconnect with them and appreciate them, even if it meant that me and my wolf were the most miserable bastards in existence while she was gone. I even went as far as to get a small pot of sage for my office, but all it did was confuse us. The faint smell made it feel like she'd just left the room, like we’d just missed her, so it did quite the opposite of calming me down. It went without saying that I got exactly no work done.

I’d liked Samantha ever since she’d started working for me, but it was that infernal drive home after that damned sports bar evening that pushed my crush into full-blown-obsession territory. All I’d wanted to do was lick her fingertips and dive into her folds, chasing the faint scent of her mouthwatering arousal to its source. Of course, I did no such thing. Whenever we were in Crescent City after that, I'd leave my bed at all hours of the night and sneak to her bedroom door, straining my ears to detect even the faintest moan or slippery sound, desperate for a hit of that old high. However, Samantha's self-control seemed to mirror mine after that single time.

I had no idea what to do. I was a 35-year-old male who'd never been in a relationship – all I knew how to do was pick up a willing woman from a bar, and Samantha had made it clear that she wasn't interested in casual sex, and honestly, neither was I. I wantedmorewith her. No, I actually wanted morewith her.So I googled things like “how to make someone fall in love with you” and “how to make a female fall in love in your 30s” and got a bunch of the same – shared hobbies, communication, attention, dialogue, eye contact, etc. So I’d made a conscious effort to plan my days with Samantha like they were dates. When we were assigned to overnight patrol and had to stay in one of the cabins, I'd bring fresh vegetables from the pack garden and we'd catch ourselves some rabbit (or elk if they needed culling) and we'd cook together while talking or listening to one of the playlists I'd made for the occasion. While driving to Crescent City, I'd propose car games that inevitably revolved around us answering questions about ourselves and our thoughts on things. I madeher download Scrabble on her phone so we could play against each other during boring meetings. We’d even made jam in the pack kitchen with berries we'd collected on a hike. It had been a lot of work for only two measly jars of jam, but it was priceless to inhale Samantha's sweet scent mixed with warm sugar and berries, to stand so close to her that our arms kept brushing against each other, to watch her wipe her damp forehead after stirring the bubbling concoction, and finally, to witness the joy in her eyes when we managed to fill a jar for each of us. Every time I'd put it on my toast, I’d be transported into that late afternoon in the kitchen and I could almost see her how blue her tongue was from sneaking berries instead of cleaning them.

One night in October, we were sitting by the fire in one of the log cabins, enjoying a cup of tea after dinner and planning our trail for the next day, and I decided it was time to tell her about my mate. It had been a fear of mine, especially knowing Samantha's rigid self-imposed rules about widowed males.

“Are you never gonna ask?”

“Ask what?” she frowned slightly.

“About my mate.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she had been scared of this talk too, and then said:

“I don't like to be asked so I don't ask others.”

“Well, can I tell you anyway?”

She shrugged, all fake casual, as if to say, “suit yourself”.

Now it was time for me to look away from Samantha like she'd done so many times when the subject came up for her. I focused on the flames, the oranges and blues, their seductive trance pulling me away from my pain.

“When I turned 18, I realized my mate was a female from my high school, her name was Lucy,” from the corner of my eye I saw Samantha leaning in to listen carefully.

“Lucy was only 16 - I don't know the rules in your old pack, but we weren't allowed to tell a wolf who was not of age that we were mated to them. I guess some years back a male took advantage of several underage females by lying to them about it, and my grandfather instituted this rule. It's a good rule, since there is no way for an underage wolf to verify the information until they shift. So Lucy, my mate, she was a very outgoing and popular high school student, she cheered and did all kinds of extracurriculars; she was kind of dating the human quarterback on the team and it was hard for me to watch but her family assured mine that they had the mate talk with her, and that she knew better than to mess around with humans too seriously. Besides, I figured I'd be leaving for college soon and in two years she'd join me there.”

“Well, I thought wrong. She and her friends, including the boyfriend, all got into a horrific car accident on prom night. No survivors. She hadn't shifted yet so she had no wolf healing and she probably died on impact. Or that's what I hope. I hadn't felt her die since we weren't marked or mated, but my father immediately knew since he was her Alpha, and he took me with him because of who she was to me.”

Samantha grabbed my hand and I held on for dear life.

“I will never forget seeing her like that. Lifeless, mangled, reeking of liquor and her boyfriend's semen. By now you've probably noticed I don't drink alcohol. The smell immediately takes me back to that scene.”

“I was sad and angry for the longest time. I also felt guilty. Guilty for hating her in that moment, guilty for not protecting her somehow, guilty for obeying the stupid rules and not making a move. I had waited for her, you know? And now she was dead, reeking of the fact that she hadn't waited for me, hadn't considered my existence at all – that's what it felt like to teenage me. Then I started sleeping around with unmated she-wolves and that made me feel even worse about myself afterward, disrespecting someone's mating bond like that. I knew first hand how it felt, so what was I trying to do? So I switched to women. I was lashing out. I was young and angry and hurt, because at 18 years old I knew that I'd never have the future I'd always envisioned with my mate and pups. So you see, Samantha, wehave much more in common than you'd think,” I looked at her then and the sight of her pain broke my heart.

She finally spoke and I could hear that she was trying really hard not to cry.

“I’m not happy that we have this shitty situation in common. You deserve so much better. I am so sorry that you had to go through that.”

“You do too, I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn't make it any easier now, does it?” she asked quietly and I shook my head no. “That's why I can't eat potato chips,” she said and I just looked at her, confused. She smiled weakly and explained:

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