I take advantage.
“You got any favorite colors? I could paint my toes special for you.” Slowly, with a slight air of menace, I slice a banana on top of my cereal. “Or is your kink that you like the feet dirty? Want me to stomp around in some mud barefoot?”
Griffith swallows—hard—then opens his mouth.
Then he snaps it shut and shakes his head slowly.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I continue to taunt, enjoying myself too much. “You want to suck on my toes.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, whirling away from me to face the sink, busying himself, washing his empty dish, his shoulders tense.
I grin as I raise my spoon to my mouth, only to knock the metal against my tooth. My coordination isn’t that bad, and I’m confused for a second until I realize the problem.
My fangs descended.
Shock hits me and sends my feet on a quick turnaround, mirroring Griffith’s. Just to be sure, I press a finger against my canine.
Yep. I’m fanged up.
A mermaid’s fangs are subtle when compared to the long, sharp vampire variety. But they’re still distinctly not human. Plus, they only show up when we’re super turned on.
Or when a potential mate is nearby.
No. No way.
Trying to act normal, I carefully eat my cereal and stroll toward the window, like I’m enjoying the woodland view. Internally though, I’m freaking out.
Griffith isnota potential mate.
My body is out of whack because of the injury. This is simply a symptom. I’ll talk it over with Madeline, and she’ll agree.
Shrimp lumbers up to my side and leans against my leg, always knowing when I need some support.
Luckily, by the time I’ve reached the bottom of my bowl, the fangs have disappeared. After I feed Shrimp his morning cups of kibble, Griffith leads me out to his truck, and the three of us pile in.
The drive is more pleasant with the sun out and me not bleeding profusely in the passenger seat. I notice that, at some point, Griffith must have wiped all trace of my blood from the seats and aired out the wet-dog smell because the cab is immaculate. I’m surprised he was willing to drive us today when chances are, I’ll mess it all up again. That’s just how my life seems to go. Plus, my panting beast of a pup is leaning against Griffith’s shoulder, which can’t make driving easy.
But the wolf doesn’t say anything.
The Local Brew parking lot is vacant when Griffith pulls in.
“You have space to brew in the bar?”
The seating area is spacious, but I thought there was only room for a small kitchen behind the wall of booze bartenders pull from. Even if they gutted the kitchen, I’d guess brewing beer requires more square footage than that, and I doubt it’s sanitary to set up an operation outside.
“No.” Griffith waves for me to follow him on a gravel path that leads to the left, around to the other side of the building.
Where I expect to find only a grassy expanse between the bar and the woods instead is a building a touch larger than a two-car garage. The structure appears new when compared to the bar, though I’d guess it’s a few years old now. Griffith pulls out a key and unlocks the door, pulling it open and ushering me inside.
As I step over the threshold, he flicks on a light, revealing six massive silver barrels, propped up on stilts, with all kinds of pipes running to them.
“This is quite the operation.”
He shrugs. “Started as a hobby. Got a little obsessed. And when Tipsy Howl went on the market, I saw an opportunity to do something I loved as a job.”
When I left Folk Haven, Griffith was working in the butcher section of the small grocery store on the edge of town. I remember the red apron he had to wear and the glare he’d send my way whenever I walked by on my way to the chips aisle. The wolf had started working there around when he was sixteen—which, now that I think about it, seems way too young to allow someone access to a meat-cutting machine. Though Griffith did always seem responsible for his age, which I suspect is why my wildness agitated him so much.
My total self-involvement becomes more evident as I try to remember what the deal was with Griffith’s parents. I can’t recall ever meeting them. Don’t even know their names or if they’re living or dead.
