1
Fuck, it’s cold. Maybe not by North Dakota standards, but the dampness of a northwest December adds its own special touch. I grimace slightly as I sling the damp leather vest over my bare chest and feel the almost slimy embrace as it seals with my wet skin. Both it and my bare torso were exposed to the rain on the ride from the repair shop to the bar.
Yvonne, the owner of Mickey’s, insists on at least a nod of respect to the health code, and Cooper, who I have the bet with, conceded to the leather vest but only within the grounds of the tavern. At all other times, my upper half must remain bare. There’s only the rest of the month to go, and then The Fang will gain a perpetual lease to the five-acre parcel on the edge of town.
Garfield, our club president, is counting on my succeeding, but I could tell he was doubtful when the rain became endless in October and then the cold swept in with it in early November. But here I am, gritting my teeth as I pull open the door toMickey’s, trying to look tough so I won’t melt with relief when the sweet heat of the room hits my body.
Behind the dingy bar, Yvonne rolls her overly made-up eyes and pushes a full beer mug my way. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Love you, too.” I wink at her and take a grateful sip before meandering over to the table surrounded by club members. I wouldn’t say The Fang is the only clientele, but ever since the new bypass went in to the east, allowing truckers to avoid Seattle traffic as they head north to Canada, there have been fewer lingering drinkers at the bar. Yvonne has been like a second mother to me since I was old enough to drive over here. Hell, she gave me better advice than my real mother, so maybe she should get top billing.
Tigger and Fluffy look up from their beers but don’t say anything. I settle into one of the wooden chairs and concentrate on my beer. It was a hell day at work. The boss wasn’t happy with anybody, and to top it off, I hit my thumb with a spanner and let off a string of curse words that earned me a special lecture about customer service.
“Why are you still riding that kiddy toy, Howler? It’s an embarrassment to the rest of us,” Fluffy finally inquires.
I simply shake my head with a small smile. “Because it’s still alive and my stepfather isn’t. As long as both things remain true, Tameiko is my ride or die.” Okay, that might be a stretch, but not that much. As a teen, I saved every dime I could find or earn. I didn’t steal any of it, despite my stepfather’s accusations, but I might not have turned in the two hundred in rolled bills I found outside the strip club either. In any event, I finally amassed enough to buy an old Suzuki Savage. And since it was Japanese and my first true love, I thought it deserved a Japanese name, hence Tameiko.
“Never going to get a real woman with that set of wheels,” Tigger mutters.
“I’ll take that under advisement in January, asshole.” I toast him with my nearly empty beer glass. The other condition of the bet is I have to remain celibate for the entire year as well as go half naked. What Cooper and the others don’t know is that’s nothing new. I’m a flirt, and I admit it. Learned real early that making a woman feel appreciated will earn you a sandwich or maybe an extra slice of cheese on the sandwich you’ve already paid for. The kicker is I really do appreciate them, all shapes and sizes, but once I hit the age where women started constantly eyeing me for a permanent relationship, I took a big step back. I still talk the talk, but I’m done with crying females who claim I’ve broken their not-so-tender hearts.
I’m panicking. I admit it. And it’s not a good look for a police academy trainee. But it’s dark and raining and I can’t get anyone to help. Oh, they’re plenty sympathetic, tsking in that disapproving voice, but nobody wants to leave their warm houses to go help. Okay, maybe that’s a little unfair. My brother had to work, and Uncle Gary said he couldn’t go randomly off investigating on his own. Something about procedures or similar shit. He warned me I shouldn’t either, but it’s not like I’ve graduated yet. He did suggest I call the The Fang Cat Rescue. It’s an odd name for a rescue center, but I called anyway. It was after eight p.m., so of course it went to voicemail. I almost hung up in despair, but then I decided to listen to the message. “In case of emergency, call Mickey’s Tavern and ask for Howler.”
I was done with calling people and getting turned down, so I decided to go find this tavern and whoever Howler is and makethis happen. These kittens are not going to die on my watch. So here I am, driving too fast down a dark country road trying to peer through the windshield for any signs of life, let alone a tavern.
It’s almost in my rearview mirror when I spot it. I turn the wheel too fast, and the tires start skidding, but I land in the dirt and gravel parking lot in one piece. Thankfully, there wasn’t any other traffic on the road. I didn’t stop to change, so my flannel candy cane pajamas might make me look like a crazy person, but I don’t care. I scurry towards the door of the building on shaky legs.
Pulling it open, I survey the dim interior. It’s dingy and smells like old cigarettes, like the building itself mourns the day the smoking ban went into effect. There are about five or six guys at a table in the very back and one or two here and there nearer the bar. Everyone, to a man, stops what he’s doing and looks up at me. I scan the crowd trying to figure out who looks the most like a Howler. They all do, to be honest. I sigh with exasperation and call out, “I’m looking for Howler?”
A giant stands up from the back table. He must be about six five, with a shaved head and a massive bare chest showing through the leather vest he’s wearing.
“I’m Howler. Did Cooper send you? Darling, I’m tempted, but come back in two weeks and I’ll make it worth your while.”
A round of genial catcalling has me stomping my feet. “I don’t have two weeks. Those kittens need rescuing now!”
The group sobers up, and Howler steps forward. “What kittens? Do you have them with you?”
I shake my head, tears starting to flow again. “No! I wouldn’t need your help if I did, now would I?”
His lips twitch ever so slightly. “No, I suppose not, Candy Cane. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s going on?”
He slings his hip onto a bar stool and waits patiently. His eyes are kind, even if the rest of him implies otherwise, so I risk it. But I’m too wound up to sit, so I pace in a tight circle in front of him.
“I’m pet sitting for a friend, and I overheard these two teenage boys in the nearby apartment. They thought they were being secretive by going out on the balcony, but I had the window open because I burned the eggs again.”
One eyebrow wings up at this confession. “I can’t cook,” I admit, then hurry on with my story. “Anyway, one of them said they knew about a stray cat’s nest with five kittens in it. They’re planning to steal them and do a demonic sacrifice for the solstice. That’s tonight!” I clarify in case he’s not up on the lunar calendar.
Howler’s lips thin with anger. “Asshole idiots. Did they say where they were going to do this thing?”
I nod, hope lighting up my heart that maybe it’s not too late. “At the graveyard over on Pine by that old abandoned church.”
He nods. “Okay, why don’t you go home and let me take care of it.”
I shake my head vehemently. “Absolutely not! What if you can’t find all the kittens? You certainly couldn’t hold that many at once. And besides there were two of those boys.”
Now he outright grins at me. “And you’re going to help with that?”
I nod assertively. “I’m at the Police Academy right now.”
