7:04 p.m.
[SuckerForSex]
I'm over six feet tall, dark hair and eyes, great body. Sorry, no photo available. I love to fly and hate garlic breath. I'm looking for a hot-blooded guy who's into rough sex and a bloody good time.
Will Jameson pulled his Harley onto the gravel parking lot and slipped it into the first available slot. He sat straddling the bike for a few moments, eyeing the small roadside bar from over his shoulder.
Pulling a small, folded piece of paper out from the pocket of his black leather jacket, he read it for the fiftieth time. He knew it by heart, but read it anyway, intrigued by the man who called himself Sucker For Sex on the dating service website to which Will had recently subscribed.
He sounded dangerous, a quality Will had always envied, was sadly lacking, and was trying like fuck to get. Hence the zippered motorcycle jacket, the leather pants, the shiny new Harley, and the balls to have had made a date with a stranger like Sucker sight unseen.
Pausing for a few moments outside the bar, Will dragged his feet through the gravel, hoping to scuff some of the new shine off of his spanking-new steel toed boots before entering. He debated removing his jacket, but decided to wait until after he'd met Sucker. Still, he wanted to show off his new tattoo. It wasn't doing him much good hidden under his jacket. The goddamn thing had hurt like hell, worse than his nipple piercing.
Except when said nipple piercing got knotted up in the hair on his chest when he shifted. That hurt like a sumbitch, pardon the expression.
Sometimes being a werewolf, especially a werewolf accountant, could be a drag. Will spent his days poring over other people's bank statements, and usually spent his nights with a bucket of KFC and a good book. He wasn't exactly dangerous in any sense of the word. Even as a wolf, he was a scaredy-cat. The only thing he'd ever killed was a six-pack of Bud and the occasional bottle of Jack Daniels.
But that was all going to change as of tonight.
Will was sick and tired of the rest of the shapeshifting community whispering and snickering behind their paws at him. It wasn't his fault that he was a milquetoast werewolf - he'd been raised that way.
Actually, he hadn't even been aware of what he was until he'd been nearly eighteen.
Will's biological parents had both been killed in a tragic sheep-shearing accident when he'd been an infant - or so his adoptive parents had always told him. Molly and Ben Jameson were both hardcore Fundamentalists, devout members of the Christ the Rock Church, and had adopted Will, raising him as their own.
He truly loved his parents, but "raising him as their own" had entailed a very strict upbringing - no television, no radio, and no books other than the Bible and what was necessary to achieve a home-schooled diploma.
On his sixteenth birthday, a full moon had risen in the night sky and he'd trembled under his bedcovers, going through changes that weren't listed anywhere in any of the Christian tracts his parents had strewn about the house.
Couldn't he have simply grown a hard-on like other sixteen-year old boys? No, Will had to grow hair and fangs and the urge to howl. No shower in the world was cold enough to quell that.
He'd lived in fear for three years, taking care to hide his monthly cycle from his parents, convincing himself that he was a freak of nature - an unholy monster who merited being chased down with pitchforks and torches, his soul damned. Until one day he'd been sent into town on errands and had snuck into the public library. There he'd found several books that had detailed exactly what he'd been going through.
