Somehow, I didn’t find that possible. I stepped farther into the woods and found the spot where the attack had taken place.
“Holy murder scene.” Leah pulled out her phone and started to take pictures of the blood-soaked earth and claw-marked ground. The blood had congealed and looked extra gnarly, but I didn’t look away from it. I couldn’t.
It was real.
This was proof that my dream wasn’t a dream and this bite mark on my arm went down exactly as I remembered it. My head snapped to where the wolf I’d shot had lain, only to find flattened grass and my sleek black gun still there. I picked it up and tucked it in the waistband of my jeans.
“Tell me you shot the rabid wolf?” Leah said, eyeing my gun.
I nodded. “It wasn’t rabid.” I was mostly saying that because I really didn’t want the series of five rabies shots they gave humans when bitten by a wild animal. Sure, the wolf had been hostile, but he didn’t look sick. He wasn’t foaming at the mouth or skinny or… I shook my head to clear my thoughts.
Leah did a slow circle. “Where is its body?”
“It was crazy. Maybe the rest of his pack dragged it off.” But there were no drag marks.It was like we all got up and walked out of here. I burst into laughter at the thought and Leah looked at me weirdly.
She pointed at me. “Abnormal behavior! A sign of rabies.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine. Come on, we have class.”
* * *
I hadto take two ibuprofen in order to get through the day, and I also may or may not have stolen some canine antibiotics from my pharmacy class. Mom and I didn’t have insurance and I wasn’t about to waste two hundred dollars on urgent care so some twenty-year-old physician’s assistant could scribble on a script pad. Besides, the canine antibiotics would work the same so long as I got the dosing right.
After classes, I was hit with a mild fever and fatigue, so I popped two of the antibiotics—to account for my weight being double that of a medium-sized dog—and took a nap at home before my shift at the Rusty Spoon tonight.
* * *
Almost four hours later,I woke up with a ravenous hunger. My mom had made lasagna and was already in bed. She had the five a.m. grocery store shift three days a week, so we were often ships passing in the night.
After eating nearly half the pan of lasagna, I threw on some skinny jeans and a crop top and ran a brush through my long hair. My arm barely hurt anymore but I was too scared to peek under the gauze. If there was pus or a rash, I would definitely need to be seen, and they would totally rabies shot me.
I preferred to ride theeverything is finetrain… until it crashed.
My bike ride to the Rusty Spoon was uneventful, as was the first hour of my shift with my co-bartender, Clara. That was until the after-dinner rush came in. One second I was chatting with old drunk Joe and the next we were slammed: bar full, tables full, line out the door.
“Bud Light!” Clara called to me, and I slid one down to her. I loved tending bar with Clara. She stuck to her half of the bar; she cleaned well and she made work fun. I poured drink after drink until my wrists were sore and the crowd had thinned to a manageable amount. When I was just wiping down a sticky spot on the counter, a large tan hand gently reached out and stroked the top of my gauze wrap.
“You okay?” a husky male voice said, and chills ran down my spine. I looked up and into two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. They were attached to the hottest face I’d ever looked at as well.
“Hello, can I help you?” Clara tried to butt in on my customer, and I aimed the soda water sprayer at her.
“Back off, he’s mine,” I growled.
I had meant it playfully, but for some reason my tone was way more possessive than intended.
Clara grinned and spit her tongue out at me.
“For the tips, obviously,” I felt the need to say and now felt stupid.
I glanced back at the guy to see him barely concealing a grin. “Just for the tips?” he asked with a flirty tone.
Lord help me, he was way out of my league. Don’t get me wrong, I had a good sense of self-esteem and I knew I was pretty, but this guy… yum. He was my ideal guy—tall as a basketball player, built like a football player, and tattooed like a felon.
“What can I get you?” I asked, clearing my throat.
His eyes searched the bottles, then finally he looked back at me intently. “Bartender’s choice.”
Okay. Cool. No pressure.
