Bored Gay Werewolf E-Book

Tony Santorella

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 332

Beschreibung

'Like a hairier Buffy The Vampire Slayer, a big-hearted novel about finding your "pack" in unexpected places' Marie Claire, Best Books of the Year Brian, an aimless slacker in his twenties, works double shifts at his waiter job, never cleans his apartment and gets black-out drunk with his restaurant comrades, Nik and Darby. He's been struggling to manage his transition to adulthood almost as much as his monthly transitions to a werewolf. Really, he is not great at the whole werewolf thing, and his recent murderous slip-ups have caught the attention of Tyler, a Millennial were-entrepreneur determined to explore exponential growth strategies in the mythological wellness market. Tyler has got a plan and he wants Brian to be part of it, and weirdly his brand of self-help punditry actually encourages Brian to shape up and to stop accidently marking out bad tippers at the restaurant as potential monthly victims. But as Brian gets closer to Tyler's pack and drifts further away from Nik and Darby, he realises that Tyler's expansion plans are much more nefarious than a little lupine enlightenment... Big-hearted, goofy, anarchic and funny, Bored Gay Werewolf is a smart take on the doomsday logic of late capitalism and the complicated meeting point of masculinity and sexuality. More than that, though, and like Scooby Doo with Grindr or Stranger Things with sex and ennui, it's a buddy novel about finding your pack, the power of friendship, and learning how to be comfortable in your own, shaggy werewolf pelt

Leseprobe

First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2023 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

This paperback edition published in 2024 by Atlantic Books.

Copyright © Tony Santorella, 2023

The moral right of Tony Santorella to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 9781838957025

E-book ISBN: 9781838957186

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For anyone who has ever cried in a walk-in refrigerator

ONE

The light floods into an austere studio apartment, the industrial windows magnifying the stark midday sun so that it bakes the cinderblock walls and all its contents. Like most revitalized buildings in the neighborhood, the unit is blank and impersonal like a Nordic prison cell, the kind designed for rehabilitation rather than punishment. The particleboard cabinets in the kitchenette hold a menagerie of mismatched glassware, stolen pint glasses and Icelandic yogurt jars repurposed as whiskey tumblers, still tacky to the touch where the labels have been scratched away. Pots and pans overflow from the sink, stacked atop the steel counters amid receipts and flyers from nightclub promoters and street fundraisers. The polished concrete floor is a graveyard of unopened packing boxes, dirty thrift-store T-shirts and stacks of never-read books, through which winds a footpath toward a mattress in the center of the room. The pile under the pilled flannel duvet begins to stir with kicks and elbows, until an outstretched hand shoots from under the blanket. It fumbles across the books, laptop, phone charger, briefly holding and contemplating each until it finds a half-empty Red Bull. The hand snatches it quickly under the covers like a fresh kill. Brian heaves himself up to sitting, swigs down the flat cotton candy battery acid, crushes the can and throws it across the room. Pushing his messy hair from his eyes, he growls as last night’s drinks begin to pound in his head. He squints on either side of him; he didn’t bring anyone home with him. That’s good. He looks at his hands and pulls up the covers for his feet to peek out at the bottom. He takes a deep breath and lifts the blanket, then slowly exhales upon seeing the outline of his morning erection in his boxer briefs. He’s alive and ended the night with the same number of appendages he started out with. Maybe last night wasn’t so bad?

For a good thirty seconds longer Brian is in a blissful state of ignorance before his memory kicks in, a stream-of-consciousness slideshow of … wait … ouzo shots? And did he really commandeer the dive bar jukebox to dance alone under the disco lights to Björk’s ‘Hyperballad’, hoping that the bulky tattooed doorman he had been directing weapons-grade flirting at all night would finally look his way?

The pounding quickens and Brian hides under his blanket to begin his well-rehearsed morning recitation of self-loathing. Starting, of course, with the most immediate: you should have known this would happen. A couple of drinks is never just a couple of drinks with Brian. He has two speeds for alcohol, on and off. But despite this knowledge, he hasn’t been able to rein himself in. Next time will be different, he promises his pillow.

But will it? He tells himself that next time will be different most weeks, and most weeks … it’s not. He didn’t think his self-destructive phase would last this long. It would be a blip in the grand scheme of his twenties. But it’s been nearly a year now of every night starting as okay, but just a couple. He had moved here to get on with his life, but he’s barely even unpacked. He still hasn’t bought curtains. He holds his hand over his eyes to block the sunlight. At least he got out the bar in time. He managed that much.

He rolls out of bed onto all fours, a wounded animal in boxer briefs and a ratty T-shirt. He follows the trail of clothing leading from his bed to the door. He can smell his jeans before he sees them, the familiar scent of a hundred collective meals from last night’s shift combined with about a thousand after-hours cigarettes. He lifts them from a packing box and holds them at arm’s length, their blunt odor making his stomach lurch. He pats them down and pulls out a wad of cash and his cracked cell phone. Thirteen missed messages from his group chat with Nik and Darby. He scrolls to the top.

Nik: WHERE DID YOU GO?!

Yep. He made it to the park in time. He skims the rest of the exchange of text bubbles, ending with both of them confirming they are safely at home. They don’t seem unduly pissed at him – Brian’s friends know he has a penchant for the Irish goodbye. He shoots off a quick apology text, anyway.

Brian: Sorry guys. Had one too many and had to leave IMMEDIATELY. See you tonight tho!

Brian waits and watches for a response. Nik is typing. He wonders vaguely if they suspect anything.

Nik: Just let us know next time! I was worried. BTW you left your bike at the bar. But in the state you were in, it’s probably for the best.

Darby: And bitch, you better hydrate. I can’t pick up your slack tonight. Have to put on my own face mask before assisting others.

Brian rolls his eyes at Darby and clicks his phone into the charging cable on the floor. One would think with five years of experience and the cyclical nature of the moon, the twenty-five-year-old werewolf wouldn’t be caught off guard each month. But plans rarely work out for Brian and take more energy than they’re worth. He thinks of his transitions in the same way he does his piles of laundry on the floor – he has never separated lights and colors and, so far, nothing that bad has happened. Okay, sure, there was that one person in the park last month. But, if you average that with all the nights he hasn’t killed someone, he definitely has a passing grade.

As penance for his bad decision-making, Brian begins to organize the chaos of his apartment. Starting from the front door, a trash bag in one hand, he works outwards, widening the footpath carved through the detritus that links the bed, bathroom and kitchen. He picks up takeout flyers, balled-up tissues and empty packs of cigarettes. He tosses away a pile of unopened mail (everything is online anyways) and uncovers a long-forgotten plate and fork with the remnants of some hardened spaghetti and marinara sauce. Holding it in one hand, he slowly turns it upside down, but the fork is fused to the plate. He shrugs and throws them both away. He picks up a greasy pizza box and is delighted to hear the rattle of leftovers. He gnaws at a four-day-old pepperoni slice for breakfast while absentmindedly kicking sweaters, socks, T-shirts and jeans across the floor into their respective piles, triaging them from dirty to less dirty. He clears off the steel countertop, surgically unfurling a couple of rolled-up bills that he found next to the microwave. He squints to see if any flecks of coke have dusted the countertop. It’s not much, but he dips his index finger in what’s left and rubs his gums anyways.

With some space now freed up in the room, he resolves to tackle the packing boxes. He has been avoiding them for months. When he moved in, he only unpacked the essentials – laptop, kitchenware, clothes and lube, unsure if his stint in the city would take. He’s spent the last twelve months sliding, stacking and unstacking the neat cardboard boxes into a range of Tetris formations. They’ve been dinner tables, nightstands and chairs; and during one mushroom-induced trip they were both the walls and the distinguished guests of a tea party in his blanket fort. Their alternate uses protect him from both their contents and the arduous task of having to pack things up quickly if he’s ever found out. But he can’t live among boxes forever. Brian takes a deep breath and puts himself to work.

Kneeling before the box labeled ‘School’, he removes the unused textbooks and stacks them against the wall with the others. The hardcover copies of Moral Philosophy, Historical Sociology, Cultural Anthropology, serve as a strong foundation. He stacks the paperbacks on top, each a variation on the same theme but with the word ‘Perspectives’ clunkily added to the title. All of which were tools to prepare him for a career in … being hard to talk to. He was two years into his degree when he was turned. It’s hard for him to remember the version of himself that got him into university in the first place. The years of studying, volunteer work and struggling to pull his weight on the Mathletics team were all done in the service of a future that now seemed entirely out of reach. He had tried in the beginning to keep going, keep up his studies, to not let his condition hold him back, but he had struggled too much with the hypocrisy of preparing himself for a vocation that would put some good in the world with the murderous tendencies of being something that goes bump in the night. He had left school about a week after he’d eaten the campus cat and hadn’t looked at his textbooks since. He thinks to himself that if they’re out in the open at least, he may one day have the inclination to pick them back up and jumpstart his motivation to finish his degree. And if that doesn’t happen? Well, if he’s ever short on cash, they’re a sort of millennial nest egg. Textbooks can be sold for a fortune on Amazon.

Once he’s emptied out all the books, he crawls over to another box, pausing at the flap, where his mother has written in marker pen ‘beach towels and rugs’. Brian runs a finger over his mother’s familiar cursive, a flourishing penmanship beaten into her through years of Catholic school. He didn’t even know he owned any rugs. He remembers the day his parents picked him up from college. He was scant on details, only telling them that he was done. The paperwork was submitted, he was leaving. They had never really had a particularly effusive relationship. When they pulled up to meet him outside the student housing, they must have been thinking the worst. Their young, whip-smart son who had quietly exceeded their expectations was a stark contrast to the sallow-cheeked twenty-something stood before them. They must have thought it was drugs. That their gay son was out gaying it up at the first chance he got to get out of the suburbs. That or crushing amphetamines to keep up with the breakneck academic pace he had set for himself.

He stood outside the dormitory as the gray sky misted over, flaring the lights from inside the academic buildings. His mother by his side, with his father diligently packing his things in the hatchback, the other students flowing between classes, giving the family a wide berth.

‘Maybe you’ll feel ready to go back next term?’ his mother said, trying to sound optimistic.

‘Uh-huh,’ he said from his 10,000-yard stare.

‘You know, I never told you this, but your old man was no stranger to parties in my college days. I’m sure if you just buckle down …’

‘It’s not that.’

His dad closed the hatchback with a thud. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No. No thank you.’ The two of them both seemed relieved at that.

They all piled into the car and wordlessly began the two-hour drive back home. Brian slept most of the way. On the occasion he was awoken by passing traffic, he would catch concerned looks from his mother’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

His parents let him sleep for days. They washed his clothes. Left him plates of food and folded laundry at the door of his childhood bedroom. After a week, he worked up the courage to join his mother in the living room during the day. He would lie down on the loveseat, his feet now hanging off the armrest, and watch daytime talk shows and soap operas. She would sit in the armchair beside him, vibrating with unspent energy, using the commercial breaks to take care of housework and bring him apple slices and fruit snacks. It was a second adolescence as he fell into the rhythm of a string of yet-tobe-determined number of sick days home from school. Whenever his mother ran errands, he’d stay home, lest they run into any of his friends from school and alert the cabal of judgmental overachievers. But he did reach out to his old weed dealer, who now managed the liquor store at the end of their street. When he became attuned to the cadence of his mother’s errands, he would fire off a quick text and slide his sneakers half on, shuffling up the street on the mashed-up heels of his shoes to the loading area in the back. After a clandestine handoff, he’d hurry back to get high in the garage and tiptoe back to his bedroom to play Super Nintendo till the early morning. Brian gradually felt more like himself and would get more and more courageous with his solo excursions. After a month he had re-downloaded Grindr to peruse the faceless torso pics. When everyone was asleep, he would tiptoe out the door and jump into an idling car a couple houses down for late-night rendezvous with discreet married men within a 5-mile radius. Two steps forward, three steps back.

Brian was used to keeping secrets from his family, forged in the fires of suburban politeness and being in the closet all those years, so being a werewolf fit neatly in the cavity in his mind where things were kept that could never be spoken. They hadn’t noticed his late-night hook-ups, so he didn’t think much about sneaking out each month for the full moon. He had perfected the craft from meeting his out-of-town boyfriends in high school for romantic midnight drives followed by awkward, passenger-seat hand stuff. This would just be a trial period to get his proverbial shit together before getting back on with his life – he imagined that, when he’d figured out how to have a handle on the whole mythical-beast condition, he’d re-enroll at college, reframe it as a gap year, and continue on the path set before him. And, in truth, the suburbs were a perfect place for Brian to learn to manage his transitions without causing too much collateral damage. He’d go into the huge, sprawling forest, strip down and leave his clothes next to an old beech tree, then spend his night terrorizing the local fauna. But he hadn’t accounted for the increased attention paid by middle-class suburbanites to the comings and goings of their only child after suffering an ambiguous breakdown.

Walking back in from the forest one dawn, he had felt particularly relaxed, knowing he was at the furthest point from the next full moon. The soles of his feet had been wet with dew, the sun cresting over the pine trees. For the first time he had thought that perhaps things were going to be all right. With his shoes in his hands, he tiptoed through the kitchen back toward his room. Then the lights turned on behind him in the living room. It was his mother, her robe pulled tightly around her, her hand shaking as she took a drag of her cigarette.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I was just taking a walk through the woods.’ Brian congratulated himself for saying something that was true. She always knew when he was lying.

‘I heard you leave around midnight. What were you doing?’ Her voice shook. ‘Just tell me. Is it drugs? Is that what this is? I know what it smells like, you know. Your poor father thought a skunk was trapped in the garage.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s not that.’

‘Then what is it? Something’s up. You’ve been sneaking out at night doing God knows what. You drop out of college without so much as a word. Do you know how much that cost us to send you to school? No, you don’t. You just do whatever you want. I just can’t believe—’

‘Mom! It’s fine. I swear!’

‘No, it’s not fine. You’re in our house and you live by our rules. We’re trying, Brian, but you’re not. You need to straighten up and apply yourself. I just—’

‘I’m a werewolf, okay!’ Brian yelled, before hushing his voice. ‘So now you know.’ His mother laughed but stopped when she saw her son’s face and knew he wasn’t lying. She looked about the room to find her armchair and sat down in silence, her trademark pent-up energy gone. She was completely still. Brian sat across from her on the loveseat and watched as the red ember crept toward the butt of her cigarette. He told her everything he could. But she said nothing in response. He tried to read her face for any emotions – shame, disappointment, fear for herself or even the safety of her only child – anything to confirm that she was listening, that this conversation was actually happening. But as the sunrise began to fill the living room with the morning light, she merely stood up and tightened her robe, and told him to go to bed.

He wasn’t sure if she believed him. If she told his father or not. But there were signs. There was the care and attention she took to washing his silverware after he used it. (She must have feared he was contagious, that they could ‘catch it’ from him.) They stopped having red meat for dinner. They bought a plug-in pet deodorizer. They walked on eggshells around him, careful not to raise his temper. They had just been getting comfortable with Brian after he came out, and they were acclimating to him dropping out of school, but now it turns out he’s a werewolf? It all proved too much to handle for them. The effort of avoiding talking about his sexuality, and school, and being a werewolf turned into avoiding talking entirely. There were strings of repetitive lonely days filled with silence, the only virtue of this being that it allowed Brian to concentrate on completing Super Mario Bros. After that, with nothing else to do, Brian decided it was best for everyone if he left and moved to the city.

‘You sure? You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,’ his mom said with zero conviction.

‘Yes, we love having you here,’ his dad lied.

Within a week, Brian had found a dirt-cheap studio apartment in the city. His parents had driven him over, paid the first month of rent and then left him with the boxes of dishware and old beach towels and rugs, the consolation prize he received for them to wash their hands of his complications.

Brian shakes his head free of the memory, grabs one of the towels and heads to his bathroom. He shucks off his underwear in the cool of the windowless tiled room and turns on the shower to its hottest setting. As the room begins to steam up, he examines himself in the mirror, and the self-loathing picks up right where it left off. You look exhausted. Do you call that a beard? Make a decision: either grow it out or shave. He grabs a fold of his belly with both hands. Look at that gut, you’ve got to lose weight—

Suddenly he catches a glimpse of something that wasn’t there before. He wipes the mist from the mirror and leans in closer to see four parallel scratch marks starting just under his rib cage. He traces the trail of blood-red lines with his fingers, following them over his love handles to their end point, just above his kidney. That was close, he thinks. Brian’s no stranger to the occasional wear and tear that comes with his monthly transitions. The muscle aches, the sounds of his bones creaking back into place, and the joys of passing his werewolf snacks through his very human digestive tract come morning. The scratches and bites typically heal on their own by midday. But these ones are wider and the heat on his hand suggests they went deep. Whatever animal did this could not have survived. House cat? Too small. A big house cat? Forget it, he thinks, there’s no time to linger on this now – he’s wasted too much time cleaning the apartment and if he’s late for his shift, Nik will kill him. He throws himself under the shower head.

Half an hour later, Brian slams the door of his apartment behind him and tries to smuggle his hair under a beanie as he rushes down the fluorescent lit corridor of his old apartment building. He knew it, he’s going to be late. Pulling open the door to the outside, he walks out into the cool winter air and cuts across the street, making his way to the nearest bus stop. He pulls on his headphones and cues up New Order on his ‘You’re running late AGAIN’ playlist.

When he moved to the city a year ago, this was the only part of town he could afford. But even in a few short months, the aunties pushing their grocery carts past bodegas and check-cashing shops are being pushed out by thirty-something hipsters on their way to the new farm-to-table ‘concept’, replete with Edison bulbs and sans serif menus. Brian dodges a group of girls heading into a cocktail bar, walking through a cloud of Santal 33 that stings his nostrils. He inadvertently growls and bares his teeth at the folks ruining his neighborhood. ‘Assholes,’ he mutters under his breath, before diving into his favorite boutique cafe for a triple-shot oat milk latte, turning up his music so he doesn’t have to hear his own hypocrisy.

Brian tries everything he can to avoid public transit. It’s top of his list of werewolf nuisances, followed closely by dog walkers, close talkers and, presumably, silver bullets. The combination of his super-lupine sense of smell and a hangover makes the bus unbearable, but with his bike chained up round the back of the bar and his shift starting – he checks his watch – in twenty minutes, he has no choice. He grabs the closest seat to the door and opens the window, trying his best to ignore the sticky-sweet smell of collective humanity. A child whining and screeching in its pram smells of milk burps. A man hanging from one of the hand stirrups forgot to put on deodorant. A woman eating a tuna melt on the backseat should be exiled for her lack of common decency. Brian thinks about how his childhood dog used to stick his head out the window on car rides and how he wishes he could do that now. Instead, he pulls his hoodie up over his nose and stares out into the early evening, the sun lowering in the sky, the cityscape changing from bustling bars and nightlife to rowhomes and tree-lined streets.

The Romanesco is nestled in a quiet, suburban part of town. Look at it long enough and you can see the owner’s painstaking effort to reach the nexus of bohemian cafe and utilitarian diner. The large, paneled windows overlook a patio of chattering two-top tables that inch closer into the sidewalk as each guest leaves. Inside, the stained-glass pendant lamps and early 90s peach-colored walls warm groups of diners at the walnut tables and the marble-topped wraparound bar. With its proximity to Thousand Acre Park and a handful of hotels, they cater to a mix of older locals and rotating hordes of tourists and conference-goers. Once it was built and profitable, the owner quickly moved on, allowing his managers to run the shop. The food is a mix of serviceable classics designed to neither offend nor wow any palate. Notably absent is any actual Romanesco, but anyone can find something in their five-page laminated menu. Brian likes the place. It’s easy work in a quiet part of town and he figures himself lucky to have got it. He was trawling a local Facebook page for jobs and saw an ad for a new waiter. He turned up the next day, was quizzed on whether he had a police record, and when he said no, they gave him an apron. While the food is cheap and so the individual tips low, he can always rely on volume, and turning over tables quickly means he can guarantee at least $150 a night. Plus, they close early to prevent conflicts with the homeowners, which affords Brian time to transition after hours, chase down nature in the nearby park, and then sleep all day whenever he wants, or as his hangover requires.

By the time Brian’s bus pulls up, the dinner rush has already started. He weaves through the customers crowding around the host stand, and angles to the end of the bar to grab his server apron. Behind the bar, a mid-thirties, heavy-set Filipina prima ballerina in Crocs and a messy bun dances from customer to customer, whipping up cocktails as she moves down the line. She glides down the length of the bar toward him. ‘Here,’ Nik orders, handing Brian a pink fizzing drink with a straw.

‘What is this?’ Brian asks, but Nik is already at the other end of the bar, cocktail shaker in hand, having dropped a pair of maraschino cherries in two Manhattans as she passed.

‘Soda water and angostura bitters,’ she shouts back, pouring the drink into a martini glass, garnishing it with a deft curl of lemon rind and placing it on an order ticket. ‘It was always my go to. With the state you were in last night, I thought it could help.’

Brian takes a sip. ‘Tastes medicinal,’ he says with suspicion.

Nik pops the fridge and retrieves a bottle of white wine. With her back to him she begins to pour it out into glasses, reciting the body’s internal processes for breaking down alcohol at the same time. ‘Once alcohol is ingested, a small amount is absorbed directly by the tongue and the mucosal lining of the mouth. On its way down to the stomach, the tissue lining …’ Brian tunes out at the mention of ‘pyloric valve’ and catches the open physiology textbook by the cash register as she drones on about enzymes and metabolism. Bartending at night and nursing school during the day means Nik is always finding creative ways to apply her coursework.

‘And this,’ she says, coming back over and slapping a newspaper down on the bar in front of him, ‘is why you need to always let us know you’ve made it home.’ She’s already gone again, picking up a bottle of gin from the row of liquors. ‘And hurry up,’ she yells back at him. ‘You’re late.’

Brian glances down at the newspaper, then freezes. It’s folded open to the Metro section, Jogger Killed in Apparent Animal Attack. Time slows down and the noise and light from the restaurant recede; all he can see are phrases jumping out of the report. Park officials are stunned … Second attack in two months … He reaches under his hoodie and touches the scratches on his side. His eyes widen. ‘Oops,’ he says to himself. He scolds himself to be more careful, but another part of him thinks it’s fine – the idea of a werewolf running rampant through the city would be so preposterous that whoever reported it would sooner be visited by a social worker than a detective. Still, the last thing he needs is anyone hunting him, or worse, capturing him. Imagine all the questions he’d get when the caged hell-beast became a chubby naked hipster come morning. What would they even do after they caught him? Execute him, experiment on him or draft him into the military? Seems like the first option is best – same outcome, but with a lot fewer steps in between.

‘So, who was he?’

‘Huh?’ Time speeds up again and the clatter and conversation of the restaurant comes back to full volume. Darby’s leaning over Brian’s shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere. ‘Who? I mean, what? Nobody,’ he says, flipping the paper over. How this blond/e, white, Neon Demon femby can sneak up on an actual werewolf is beyond him. It’s like they were designed in a lab expressly for eavesdropping.

Darby wanders around to the other side of the bar to face Brian. ‘The guy you left us for last night,’ they say, looking down and tying their apron. ‘The doorman.’ Darby cinches their apron strings quickly around their waist and peers up at him. ‘I’m assuming …?’

‘It’s nobody.’

Darby cocks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

‘I mean, there wasn’t anybody,’ Brian corrects himself.

‘Sure,’ says Darby, unconvinced. ‘Well, whatever he or it was, I hope it was worth it. You missed a good time. The manager had to reset the jukebox after you turned into a Nordic yodeling torture device. Surprised they didn’t call in the bomb squad to sort that one out.’

Darby peers down at Brian’s newspaper. ‘Oof, gruesome. You know, I heard it was one of our customers.’

‘How would you know that?’

‘I have my sources. Couldn’t be anyone too well liked or I’d notice them missing. But I’ll get to the bottom of this. I got a nose for the news and the heels to go get it.’

The shift is the same as it always is. Working consistently together, they have fallen into a natural rhythm, and thanks to Nik making the schedule, she gets to keep it this way. Darby makes small talk with the patrons, aiming for quality of interactions rather than quantity – they take care to recognize the regulars, remember their orders, their kids’ names, and other personal details Brian finds extraneous. But this care and attention is always reflected in their tips. Brian opts for efficiency and volume to get folks fed and on their way with limited back and forth, showing no interest, and sometimes even hostility, when parents slow him down so their children can practice ordering for themselves. Nik lands somewhere in the middle, knowing when to turn on the charm at her bar, which is equal parts confessional booth and therapist’s couch. At the end of the night, they all take home about the same amount of money. But who worked harder for it depends on your definition of labor.

After the dinner rush, the restaurant empties out but for a few scattered customers. Nik reads a physiology textbook in between putting away glassware, while Brian sits at the end of the bar, waiting for his final customers to leave and trying not to go so heavy on himself for last night’s homicide. Is it even murder, he thinks to himself, if he’s technically not a human when he commits it? Murder’s a moral category, and animals don’t have moral agency. So surely it could be argued that what he did last night was simply … nature?

His last table is a straight couple on their third date. They linger over their shared slice of flourless chocolate cake and playfully flirt with one another in hushed conversation. Brian, listening in from across the restaurant, ruefully stares at the happy couple, hoping they’ll wrap it up and go fuck already. He always found the werewolf hearing as more of a bug than a feature, especially when you consider how mundane the average conversation is. ‘He’s left you on read for three days after your second date. I’m sure he’s just super busy.’ ‘Yes, you are the smartest person at your job, and no one recognizes that.’ Unsubscribe.

Brian pricks up his super-hearing ears when he hears the gentleman suggest a nightcap at his place. Fiiiiiinally. The man holds up a finger to get his attention, but Brian is already printing out their check. He drops it on their table with a hollow smile and his signature here-thanks-have-agood-night, which has all the warmth and sincerity of an airport security agent. As he walks back toward Nik, only yards from his first drink of the night, Darby intercepts.

‘It brings me no pleasure to tell you this,’ they say, taking a lot of pleasure in saying it, ‘but you have a new table.’

‘No … really? Why don’t you take them? I’ve just closed these guys out.’

‘I would, but he requested your section specifically,’ Darby says, nodding in the direction of the blond guy taking a seat at a table in the back of the restaurant. The clean-cut, thirty-something stranger is dressed in the management-consulting uniform: gingham shirt, performance fleece vest, khakis and a messenger bag. ‘And you said there wasn’t a guy last night,’ Darby lowers their voice, leaning against the bar. ‘Got to say though, he’s a bit strait-laced to be your type.’

‘There wasn’t a guy! And what would you know about my type? What’s your type?’

Nik, who previously wasn’t paying attention, closes her textbook. ‘This should be fun.’

Darby purses their lips and scans the remaining customers. ‘Hmm … Oh, I don’t know … I guess, oh yes, that would do quite nicely.’

Brian turns to see a tall older man with a neatly trimmed handlebar mustache and horn-rimmed glasses decked out in an all-black three-piece suit walking toward them. A modern dandy in a bow tie and trench coat. He grabs a stool, fishes out a pocket-sized journal and opens it on the bar.

‘Him?!’

‘Shh!’ says Nik, glowering at Brian and then heading to the far end of the bar to take the man’s order.

Brian looks back and forth between Darby and the man. The difference between them couldn’t be more apparent: Darby dresses like a woodland nymph at a rave. They were a performance artist and gender was another one of their mediums – even hungover, they showed up to their shift today with a shimmery lavender eye and a nude lip.

‘He looks like the oldest school shooter in the world,’ says Brian. Nik stifles a laugh, already back over to fetch a particularly expensive bottle of Bordeaux.

‘Pssh, he’s tall, dark and handsome.’ Darby grabs the wine out of Nik’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, I can take this one. And don’t you have somewhere to be?’ they say, nodding at Brian’s new table.

Brian rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath. People should have the decency not to come in within a half-hour of closing. He trudges the length of the restaurant over to the blond stranger. He’s sitting at their largest table, his knees spread far apart. Brian sniffs the air surreptitiously. He can smell a mix of leather and pine. He looks down and fiddles around with his apron pockets as he approaches the table – after all, the moment you make eye contact is when the customer service begins.

‘Hi, I’m Tyler,’ chirps the customer. ‘What about you?’

It’s ancient hospitality lore that customers who ask for your name are the first ones to complain. Brian knows he’s in for it when he looks up to see an outstretched hand. ‘Brian,’ he monotones, grabbing his pen and notepad to avoid the handshake. Even at a strip club you can’t touch the girls. ‘What can I get you?’

Tyler leans back in his chair and casually looks around the emptied-out restaurant. ‘It’s a cute little spot you all have,’ he says. ‘I grew up around here but never really made the time to go east of the park. But every time I do, I always find these hidden treasures. I keep telling myself I have to do it more, but you know how it is. You just get stuck in these routines and getting across town is such a pain.’

Brian stares blankly and clicks his pen. ‘So … something to drink?’

‘Straight to business with you, huh!’ Tyler says with a chuckle. ‘All right, all right, I know how it is. I’ll have a coffee. Now I bet you’re thinking, “Who drinks coffee this late?”, am I right?’

Wrong. Brian is actually thinking how long it will take to brew a new pot versus risking Nik’s wrath if she catches him reheating stale coffee from the day shift again.

‘But really, it’s true what they say: “You’re always working when you’re working for yourself.” Burning that midnight oil.’ He reaches into his messenger bag. Brian’s eyes widen as he gulps in anticipation – if it’s a laptop, he’s here for another hour, minimum. ‘Hard to get the recommended eight hours of sleep every night. Some nights more than others. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Brian sees, to his relief, that Tyler has only pulled out an iPad, but then he registers the vague insinuation.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Come on … it’s just us,’ he chuckles. ‘I thought for sure you would’ve remembered me,’ he says with a wink.

Brian is confused. He has no idea who this guy is. He looks intently at the architecture of Tyler’s face. Darby is right, he’s not Brian’s type. Too classically attractive, with Disney Prince undertones. Surely, he’d remember if he had fucked a cartoon?

‘Listen, I’m sorry. You know, I work in the service industry, and I drink a ton … so, if we’ve ever …’ Brian exhales before crudely miming sex by tapping his index fingers together.

‘What?! No, I’m not … I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Also, is that even how you … never mind.’ Tyler’s face is pink. He spins the iPad to Brian; it’s open to the article on the jogger, and he taps it and points to Brian’s side in what may go down as the first game of mystical gay-panic charades.

Brian’s heart stops. He puts a hand over the still-unhealed claw marks, feeling their familiar heat through his shirt. He stows the pen and notepad and scans the restaurant. There’s no one nearby. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘Hey now, no need to fear. I come in peace!’ Tyler says, putting his hands up. ‘You moved to the city what … a year ago? I’ve been looking for you for a while and I’m so happy we finally got to connect. Though I wish it were under better circumstances.’

Brian leans in. ‘Listen, I don’t know what you’re implying, but—’

Tyler cuts him off. The charades continue. He slowly rolls up his gingham sleeve to show a faint pink bite mark the length of his forearm. He taps his finger to his nose and then holds it to his closed lips.

‘You’re a … You’re like me?’

Tyler parries. ‘Anyways, I’m sure it’s hard to start fresh in a new place and find your pack, so to speak. After our little scuffle last night, I wanted to come by and introduce myself to make sure we don’t get off on the wrong foot. I’m putting together a group of like-minded individuals, and thought you might be interested. It’d be great to grab a coffee sometime and I can tell you all about it.’