Playing Jock: Greyriver Shifters: Volume Two, #5

Chapter One

Boo

My name is Boo James, and I am not crazy. I am not seeing things. I am not nuts.

Not. Not. Not.

I think. I could be wrong. I could be completely pickled in the head and I probably wouldn’t even know it. I could be totally tripping off my own brain juice and I’d still stand here staring at two wolves, who coincidentally happened to be human just seconds ago, ripping each other to pieces.

I could be...high off the second-hand smoke from the joint my best friend Meryl was toking just hours ago before she dropped me off at the bus stop.

Oooor, I could really be standing here in the park, alone, at twelve fifty-eight on a Thursday night, watching two werewolves fight each other.

I should definitely be running though. Totally. Only I’m sort of frozen in place and my heart is beating so hard it feels like my chest is about to bust open. For the briefest second I see that happening and my heart leaping free, little legs and cartoon arms pinwheeling as it sprints in the other direction.

That would kill me, right?

It most definitely would, I think, snorting when my cartoon heart flips me the bird and squeaks a ‘see ya later moron’ before the image disappears, putting the snarling spectacle of the werewolves front and center again.

Maybe, maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I should have listened to Doctor Arnold when I went in for my eye test last week and paid for the glasses he wanted to give me. Maybe it’s just my eyes? I think, squinting them in an effort to convince myself that the two shapes I’m staring at are actually just trees swaying in the wind, the arms and legs are branches contorting and slapping against each other.

The problem with that is the plain fact that squinting makes them look like trees. If a tree was a three-hundred-pound snarling half wolf man fighting another, half wolf man.

Oh sweet Jesus, please let it be a bad joint that I inhaled against my will because Meryl’s windows don’t wind down, I beg, my legs shaking when I take a small step back and finally look around, planning my escape with an eye firmly fixed on what I really don’t wanna be seeing.

It’s not the joint though. Nope. It’s real. It’s for real, and I am so in trouble because while wolf one is fighting wolf two, and seeming to be kicking ass, he’s also spotted me and those burning blue eyes are fixed on me while he keeps swiping out with his huge paws. Claws. I dunno!

Oh my God Boo. Run.

Finally, finally my legs get the freaking message and I almost cry out with relief when they turn me around and start pumping, my clog heels clicking against the paving bricks on the path that runs through the park.

Teach you to take a shortcut! I yell at myself, my breaths wheezing strongly now that I’m in a full sprint. I haven’t gotten far yet, I can still hear snarling and howling, and oh God, was that bone breaking?

Whatever! Just run.

I do, ignoring my burning calves, blistered feet and the very real reality that I should be working out at least once a week, instead of taking an extra shift down at the hospital.

Don’t think about that now, Boo. You should concentrate. You need to get out of the park and get home. Safety. First.

I’ve never wanted to go back to my one room little apartment above Wong’s Chinese Takeout so much in my life. I’ve never wanted to smell sour cabbage and sprouts as much as I want to now. Most of all, I’ve never wanted to scream my head off as much as I want to when I hear a scream from behind me and the unmistakable sound of something soft, hit something, hard.

Oh Jesus! Please. Please. I won’t ever, ever put an IOU in the collection plate again. Ever. I won’t keep prank calling my sister Viv and telling her I’m watching her in a creepy voice that makes me lose sleep after I do it.

I won’t skip dinner at Meryl’s just because her mom has a full-on patch of hair on her chest that molts and falls into the food. I will eat it, all. Even if I want to puke.

Also, I’ll totally start paying the parking meter in front of my building instead of putting flattened soda can tabs in there to excuse my lack of payment when the meter maid makes a turn.

From here on out, totally above board, even if I can’t afford it.

Just please, let me make it I pray, my feet slamming into the asphalt when I hit the main road and dart left, toward salvation. Wong’s is situated right on the main strip, sandwiched between Lu’s Drycleaner and a little bakery that puts out the same goods that I suspect they baked in September. Nineteen forty-eight.

I want to be there though, badly, so I keep going and almost cry out when I see the faded yellow and red stickers in the window and the black-haired head of Li, Mr. Wong’s youngest nephew.

I don’t like Li. He likes to yell obscene things at me in a Chinese accent that is purely put on because he was born here and sounds more American than I do.

I won’t ever complain about him asking me if I like ‘powk’. God, if he turns around and sees me I will love his pork, love it!

Li! I pant, my knee buckling when I step off the sidewalk to cross the street, my leg doing a crazy dance from left to right before I firm my kneecap and snap it back into place.

Hell! Sweet Jesus, I think I tore something vital. Owwwwie!

I keep running though, hopping a little to avoid putting pressure on my leg and yell again, waving my arms frantically to attract Li’s attention. The little snot sees me, I know he does, but he turns his back, gets on his scooter, and takes off, flipping me the bird just to let me know how he feels.

Soooo, maybe I shouldn’t have told his uncle that he’s been smoking weed out back in the alley, and okay, I shouldn’t have told on him when he took some unfortunate girl—I think she may have been a hooker because she actually slept with Li—to the cold room.

Maybe.

Oh screw it, I think, waving a fist at Li when I make it across the road and sprint into Wong’s yelling out a war cry of success that has a bazillion black-haired people turning my way with a frown.

I ignore them and practically jump for the stairs in the back, my knee whining out a cry when I race upstairs and slam into my door. My hands are shaking so badly I struggle and fumble the key before it snaps into place and opens my door.

Oh God, thank you! I scream once I’m inside, my back plastered against my front door.

I’m sweating buckets. Buuuuckets and the heels of my clogs are worn down to nubs by the time I’ve breathed enough not to pass out. How the hell did I even run in these? I wonder, my mind going on the blink now that I’m safely inside and I no longer have the specter of a snarling creature breathing down my neck.

I just...flop to the floor where I am and blink, focusing on my breaths so that my lungs can come out of hiding and my brain can get enough oxygen.

Did I just see...?

No! Nope. Totally didn’t, I tell myself, eyeing the rolled joint Meryl left me just yesterday with a baleful eye. Must have been her weed smoke, right?

Only, only I worked a full shift at the hospital, and I was just fine. Not a high in sight. I even got through rounds with Doctor Colfax and sat with Mrs. Dubinsky for an hour while she waited for her husband to show up for night visits.

I was fine. Just fine. Until I decided not to wait for the next bus and just take a shortcut through the park. Shoulda waited, I think, my whole body going tense when something slams against my door, making my head thump into the plywood barrier.

You ‘kay? Mr. Wong yells, his typical Chinese accent making it seem like one word.

I gulp. No. I am so not okay. If I saw what I think I just saw, then that means that all those scary movies were right and that there are monsters, and now, now I feel so guilty about the prank calls I make to Viv and—

Boo! You in der! he yells again, his fist hitting the door with a lot more force than usual.

I like Mr. Wong. He’s quintessential Chinese. He’s short, and he smiles a lot, and he speaks in a way that just makes me smile. He says things like, perry fo you though’s and laughs at me when I try to tell him it’s penny.

Like what is an actual perry?

He also rents this place to me for almost nothing, which is great because I make nothing down at the hospital, and after paying off the huge pile of debt my mom ran up before keeling over, I have even less than nothing.

He does sweet things, like bring me the left over fried rice and wontons so I eat goo’, and he doesn’t yell at me about playing the radio too loudly when I have the odd Saturday off.

I like him.

So instead of freaking out, I force myself to stand and open my door, my eyes stretching wide as saucers when I see a huge man standing behind him, the blue eyes making my throat go tight.

Werewolf.

Oh goo’, goo’, you heeh! You boyfend come to see you! he says, nodding his head with every word, a smile pulling at his face when he looks at the man and turns to me, waggling his eyebrows.

Mr. Wong has been bugging me forever about being alone. He says it’s not natural for a girl like me to have no one, even if I’m what he calls chubber, his way of telling me my ass isn’t the ideal size.

My heart is now beating so hard I can hardly breathe; I choke out a sound between squirrel and screaming pig, my eyes going so wide my eyelids pop back into my skull.

Oh my God. God, Jesus. Those eyes.

Definitely the eyes of—

You two no do nuffin I wone do. Yes? Goo, goo. Have nice nigh. Be nice, Boo. Man li’e nice womah, he lectures me before turning to head down stairs.

"No! Don’t go, Mr. Wong! He’s a werewolf!" I yell, my vocal cords finally catching up when it seems like I’m about to be left alone with this...person.

Mr. Wong turns and blinks and then bursts out laughing, so hard I see the werewolf’s shoulders start shaking and amusement twinkle in his eye. Oh my. God.

You jokah! I know dis one, yes? Oh Missah Wong, I saw goose in my ‘partment. You need call Goose Bussers! he chortles, making me tear up and ask myself why.

Why do I do these things? Whyyyyyy!

I pull a prank on him—knowing his absolute fear when it comes to ghosts—and he thinks everything’s a prank. Like the time I fell off my bike and broke my ankle. I hobbled home with half my foot hanging loose, and he refused to call an ambulance for ten whole minutes because he thought I was pulling his leg.

Or the time, and now admittedly this is all on me, I hid in his office for an hour and jumped out. He screamed so loud Mr. Lu next door called the cops. How was I supposed to know that in Chinese folk lore there’s some weird white-faced bogeyman thing that looks like zombies?

It was Halloween!

Whatever the case, Mr. Wong decides that tonight is another case of Boo playing the funny and shakes his head with a chuckle.

Oh yeah! Scawy woof. Missah Wong go get silvah bulle’! he says in a creepy voice, busting a gut when the werewolf chuckles and holds up his hands innocently, his eyes burning into me.

You got me, Mr. Wong. He laughs, making me shake so hard my teeth clack. Growl.

Oooh funny man! He chuckles, doing this faux punch-and-duck thing.

No! It’s true! I saw him in the park! I yell, taking a step back when he comes closer, his massive body taking up way too much space in the tiny hallway. "He had these sharp claws and teeth and hair all over his face. And he was beating up this other wolf guy! It’s true, Mr. Wong. You gotta call the cops. Or animal control!"

Don’t goooo!

I yell the words in my head and look after the five-foot Asian man with longing when he chortles again and waves me off, still chuckling when he makes it down the stairs and walks away.

Away! As in I am now standing in front of my door, alone. With a werewolf.

Oh God. I should have run to the police station, even if it is miles and miles in the opposite direction. I should have never, ever walked through the park. Haven’t I watched American Werewolf in London?! Stupid Boo. So stupid.

Please don’t eat me, I whine, my voice coming out whole octaves higher when he turns to look at me, his lips twitching when I make the sign of the cross.

What? I have to do something.

Aww honey, most females beg me to do just that, he growls, his shoulders shaking when he sees my hands and the cross I hold up in a parody of every single scary monster movie I have ever seen.

Admittedly, my taste runs more to romance, so yeah, I am sorely lacking in monster defense.

I’m not a vampire.

"I, okay. So this is me saying, I saw nothing! Just took a late-night stroll through the park, and nothing happened! Totally nothing," I repeat, wanting to slam the door so bad my hand actually closes around the wood.

Mr. Werewolf stops peering at me and outright laughs, his frame shaking so much I feel the rickety landing give a wobble beneath my feet.

Can I come in?

What? No! Are you crazy? Did Hansel and Gretel ask the witch—okay, bad reference. Ignore that. You are not coming in! I yell, my mind zoning in on that vampire movie I watched with Meryl.

The thinking goes that vampires need to be invited in, and maybe if I just don’t invite him in and like, stay in here all night, I should be fine. Yeah fine. I can wait until it’s daylight and just—

Mr. Werewolf laughs, harder, and pushes by me, his body taking up almost all the space when he pulls me inside and shuts the door.

I can’t scream. I think my vocal cords have seized, and my bladder is trying to release.

I told you, babe, not a vampire, he mutters, his laughter dying when he takes in my apartment.

Let’s just, pause here. Explain a few things. Make my case. I’m a very busy woman. I work fifty hours a week and pull at least five to six hours overtime on top of that. I don’t have time to do laundry every day and clean, and...my apartment is a mess.

Why I’m embarrassed about my dirty underwear sticking to the bottom of Mr. Werewolf’s shoe is beyond but I am. I blush, diving for it in a completely female way before I can stop myself, my mind screaming, Don’t jump at your killer! way too late for me to stop myself.

I get the panties though and jump back victoriously, my fist pump turning into a clutch when he takes a step closer and narrows his eye on me.

My name is not Mr. Werewolf. We don’t like werewolves, or we didn’t until Jazz found out she sort of is one but—not the point! Don’t call me that. My name is Jock.

Oh God, the bad guys only tell you their names when they’re gonna kill you! You can’t know his name!

Brock? That’s a good uh, name.

I try humming the theme to Touched by an Angel in my head.

Maybe God will save me if I stop making fun of Roma. And Della, but come on, they’re just so dorky.

Jock. He wheezes, grabbing his side when I say Brock again.

Brock. Lock. Sock. Rock!

Oh please JESUS, I saw those claws. I have super-sensitive pain receptors, and my skin is thin. It’ll just peel right off.

Jock! he yells again, his eyes scanning my apartment until he sees the tiny bathroom and turns to head that way towards it.

I’m not dumb, and I definitely haven’t dyed my hair blonde recently, so I do the only normal thing, I go for the door.

Got the key, babe! he yells, making a total mockery of me when I start pawing at the lock, which is indeed keyless.

Oh my God. Why? I just—

I stand there, staring at the door for two whole minutes before it dawns on me that the bathroom is silent. I have visions of him...I have no visions. I just sort of stand like a lump, frozen, and completely creeped out before I turn to look at the bathroom.

Eventually my curiosity gets the better of me and I shuffle forward, doing a peek and duck around the door only to peek again and freeze, my mouth falling open. To my chest.

Brock is built, like sick built, and I can see that because he’s removed his shirt and is standing in front of the mirror I wrestled in here, looking at his chest.

That chest is like...insert drooling zombie here.

It’s magnificent and toned and...I gasp when I see the slashes in the skin, some so deep I swallow when I see ribs peeking out. I shouldn’t care, I mean he’s a werewolf and chances are he’s gonna eat me! But my nurse gene kicks in suddenly, and before I can blink, I find myself moving forward to inspect the damage.

The whole area is scored deeply, about six lines of deep gash that is bleeding profusely and looks painful as hell. His back isn’t unharmed either, and now I do care because he’s not just bleeding there, his skin is hanging off in ragged strips that would make a weaker woman run screaming.

Oh my God.

It’s not that bad. A few scratches. Guy was a pussy, he rumbles, reaching for the roll of toilet paper.

I slap his hand before I can stop myself and almost pee my pants when he turns, frowning down at me darkly.

Female—

Don’t use that! It’ll just break off in little pieces and infect the wound. I have gauze, I mumble, my thinking going along the lines of...

Either I’m helping this guy, and he’s going to kill me anyway, or maaaybe if I’m nice, he’ll just leave. As delusional thoughts go that one seems pretty decent, so I scoot by him and rifle in the cabinet beneath the sink, grabbing the small first aid kit I’ve got stashed down there.

When I stand and turn back, I see him sitting gingerly on the toilet seat, his torso so large I come up even with his head. Gosh this man is huge...huge. Even sitting, we’re the same size.

Don’t hurt me, I say, my hands shaking when I zip open the kit and grab gauze and salt water to clean the wounds.

Just water.

Hell. I repack the sterile solution and turn the tap on, my eyes twitching when he shifts and something ripples beneath his skin.

Alien. I keep thinking of that shitty horror movie where the alien thing skitters under skin—

I won’t shift. It’s just hard to keep in skin when I’m hurt.

Skin?

Yeah. I’d fur up to heal, but you look like you’re ready to dive head first through the window already, so I’ll keep it skin for now, he explains, smiling when I frown and move closer to touch the gauze to his wounds.

He doesn’t even hiss when I set to cleaning him, and I wonder if men, I mean, werewolves...God, I don’t know what to call this guy, but I wonder if they feel pain.

We do. This shit hurts like a motherfu—like hell, he says, chuckling when I blush and slap a hand over my mouth. Yeah, nerves must make you talk to yourself. Been doing it since you took off in the park.

I grunt and keep cleaning him up, using stitching plaster and tape to keep the edges together and close up the wounds. When I get to his back, I gasp.

Now that the blood’s gone, I see a tattoo covering the skin, and hell, it makes me feel...sad. This isn’t some man thing, where he gets some tribal tattoo to prove his manliness. This guy has a name and two dates on his back, telling me that someone he loved must have died.

Angelina.

This uh, these are worse, I say, gulping when he tenses and holds his breath, staying completely still.

Just close it up, darlin’, I’ll be fine.

I do as he says, my hands trembling the entire time, and step back only when it’s done. For some weird reason, I feel accomplishment, which is just whack because chances are he’s going to murder me anyway, but yeah, I like healing and seeing him shrug back into his shirt again makes me feel... good.

Thanks.

No uh, worries. So, it was really nice meeting you, Bro—

Cut the shit, Boo James. My name is Jock, and I am not going to kill you. Got it? Good. Now—

How do you know my name?

Dropped your purse in the park, he says, grinning when I close my eyes and take in a deep breath.

Finest moment?

Chapter Two

Jock

My shoulders are shaking so hard I don’t know how I keep myself from laughing when Boo James starts muttering to herself about sucking in too much second-hand weed smoke and needing to have her brain scanned.

I can’t help it. She’s so funny, and to make matters worse, she’s been standing there for the last three minutes with her left breast showing because her shirt finally gave up the ghost in button territory and the thing popped off. Because she keeps clutching at the shirt.

It’s a good breast, a breast that I can see myself exploring if not for the fact that my heart and body belong to another. Always.

Just thinking about Scarlet makes me want to shove my fist through something, so I shove the thoughts back and tell myself that it’s all okay. I will be okay.

If I focus on something other than my female and instead take in the disaster area known as Boo.

She’s tiny, as in Cass’s size, and she’s adorable. She reminds me of a dark-haired Reese Witherspoon, and even the accent is enough to convince me that she could be from the same stock. The only real difference is her hair and eye color. Boo has these chocolaty brown eyes that glow when she’s feeling something, apparently, and right now she’s annoyed.

I should have just waited for the fucking bus, but that’s the last one, and they always send the one that smells like pee and dead things! she mutters, moving to the little kitchen area to put on the kettle.

I don’t even think she realizes what she’s doing, so I take a minute to look at the apartment again. And get pissed. This place isn’t just a dump, it’s a fire hazard as far as I can see. The little dresser she has is shoved against the window, blocking the only other exit, the bed is right up against two of the four walls, and the small TV that looks like a seventies throw away takes up whatever walking space there would have been. If any.

The bathroom, if I can even call it that, is nothing more than a shower shoved right against the sink, and the toilet is off in the corner, which means it’s crammed beside the sink.

The place also smells like bok choy despite the million air freshener tags hanging from the ceiling—which is cute-ish—and don’t get me started on the kitchen.

It has one counter about the length of my arm, a hotplate, a mini-fridge, and a plastic tub beneath a lone faucet. It isn’t even a real kitchen. And Boo lives here, as is evident by the unholy amount of laundry piled in one corner, where I sense a tiny mouse making its home.

I should have expected this from the purse I think, recalling the absolute travesty I found when I searched her purse for her driver’s license. The thing is like a black hole, and what I mean when I say that, is it just, it defies logic!

It isn’t that big, and yet when I started removing things, it just kept coming. Makeup bag, wallet, keys to what I think is an old Datsun, bills—a pile of the things—Legos, lotion, phone, bottle opener, mace, Taser, a romance novel with some weird-looking guy on the cover. There was more, but I stopped there when it became evident that if I kept