Page 5 of The Fangirl and the Grump

They’re just a bunch of superfans who love what they love.

And they’re my bread and butter. As the owner of the only inn in Evening Shade as well as several rental properties, the success of those movies and the mania it resulted in have made me a wealthy man. I shouldn’t be complaining. Iknowthat.

But the “Wolf Daddy” shit needs tostop.

I start walking before anyone can follow me out and ask for a picture. Crossing the street, I head down a block until I reach home.

The Quarter Moon Inn, a retro, single-story motel that used to be called The Evening Shade Motel, has been fully renovated, the rooms now sporting high-end carpeting, comfortable beds, and flat screen televisions. The bathrooms have all been updated and each room sports a microwave, a coffee maker, and a mini-fridge. After a few successful years that brought the place back into the black, we built five tiny houses on the property out back featuring a living room-kitchen combo and king-sized loft beds. Those are fully booked every weekend, and the inn hits capacity most times, too.

As I walk into the building, I wave at my night manager before heading up the stairs to the only second-level addition to the property––my personal apartment. It’s a small loft and sparse, but it’s all I really need.

Unlocking the door and letting myself inside, I turn on the light and flip the deadbolt. Stripping out of my shirt, I walk into the bathroom to use the toilet and wash my hands and face. I showered before I went out tonight, and as I was only at the tavern for a few minutes, I decide to just go to bed and shower again in the morning.

Unfastening my jeans, I let them drop to the bathroom floor. Flicking off that light as well as the one in the main area, I climb into bed and flop onto my back. Bending an arm, I push it beneath my head while my other hand rests on my chest, my fingertips drumming out a steady beat.

This isn’t how I imagined my life would turn out. I’m almost forty, alone, and most days, grumpy as fuck. And it’s all because of those God damn movies.

I never wanted to leave Evening Shade. I wasn’t one of those teenagers that dreamed of striking out and seeing the world. I just wanted to live out my days in peace in the town where I grew up. Maybe get married and raise a family in the tightknit community we’d always been.

Then the mayor and the town council gave the producers permission to film Curse here, as well as the sequels, Phase and Wane. They’d hoped to put our little town on the map and maybe bolster our declining economy with some increased tourism.

I’m sure they had no idea the Pandora’s box they opened when they signed that deal. Werewolf mania ensued, and within weeks of the first movie’s release, Evening Shade was overrun with fans who had no concern for privacy laws or personal space. They tramped over the yards of private citizens to take pictures, littered all over our forests, and polluted our serenity with their incessant howling.

When the town council bought the bus and trolley car for guided tours, everything calmed down a bit, but things haven’t been the same and never will be again.

I could leave. I could sell the properties I own, lining my already-deep pockets, and take off for parts unknown. I could start a new life where no one would associate me with that godforsaken Joseph Lumin andneverget howled at again.

I close my eyes and sigh.

No, I can’t do that.

My sister needs me, whether she’ll admit it, or not. She’s twenty-seven and doing well on her own. I can admit that, but I’ve been taking care of her for so long, it’s become an integral part of who I am. Plus, she’s the only family I have left.

No, I won’t leave Evening Shade unless she does. Which willneverhappen. She loves this place, and all the chaos has only made her love it more.

I’m stuck.

And I’m just going to have to deal with it. Indefinitely.

ChapterThree

Keegan

My mouth tastes like an alien took a piss in it.

Wait…what?

Oh, God. I’m dying. This is it. The aneurism is real.

Goodbye, world. Nice knowing you.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing my palms to the sides of my skull to keep it from exploding.

Every beat of my heart––apparently, I’m not dead yet––sends pain ricocheting through my head, making me pray to the sleep gods, asking them to send me back under until the agony is gone.

As I lay here breathing through the pain, I slowly become cognizant of the rest of my body and my surroundings. I’m in a bed, and through one cracked-open eye, I see the room I picked at Lycan Lodge with blurred vision. Good. I’m in familiar territory, not some rando’s bedroom I met at the bar last night. I’m also on top of the covers and fully clothed, boots included.

How did I even get here?

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