was dangerous. For everyone around me. And I had the sneaking suspicion that there really wasn’t that much time. That if I didn’t figure things out, and soon, we’d all be in the toilet. Or dead in the water.
Or dead in the woods. The picture from the broadcast filled my brain again. Something there, beside Bark’s possessions on the scene, was not right. What was it?
Beyond the obvious frustrations, something gnawed at the back of my psyche--something I couldn’t put a finger on--that would clear everything up. The mess I was in just felt too organized, too wrapped up and cut and dried. Too obvious.
And that rankled. Flat out pissed me off. Somebody was treating me like a monkey. A lab rat. Pull the strings and he’ll ring the bell for cheese.
Or call for help. Admit weakness.
But who would I call? Lobos International? The big dog? Calling family couldn’t be construed as weakness, could it?
Rubbing the back of my neck, I asked myself, could I handle this? Or did I need to get back-up? Would my own posse be enough to untangle the threads of deceit? I glanced over Frank’s head to the boardroom of cowering number crunchers. Somebody in there was a chickenshit. I could smell the coward.
I felt the hair on my neck rising. It prickled over the backs of my hands, too, and I knew, sure as shit, that Frank could smell my hormones raging. Hell, every garou in the building could probably smell it. His nostrils flared, and he backed up a step, dropped his eyes, and shrank visibly. Minimizing my target?
The thought helped me a little. I did intimidate him. But to his credit, he didn’t exactly cringe.
Very quietly, he said, “You need to get a grip, or I’m gone.”
Feeling my shoulders straining against fabric, and wanting to break out of the confines of the suit I was in, it was all I could do not to flip into crinos. I was so furiously, frustratedly angry.
I didn’t like Frank reminding me that he’d only come aboard with my assurance that his physical person would not be threatened, that I would keep my attitude in check. I’m a little famous for going wild, tearing things up a bit. I could see, already, that having Frank working for me would be a fight--strictly my inner turmoil. Especially under the circumstances.
He went on. “I know you like lashing out at things. It’s how you get things done, and it may have worked for you for a long time, but things have changed. You gotta do it Bark’s way--and mine--or we’re screwed.”
I couldn’t see changing. Not any time soon, anyway. I grunted, “Bark’s way didn’t work, obviously, and I’m in charge now.”
Frank looked me over, considering his words before he said, “Right. You’re in charge now, Mark. Think about it.”
Forgive me for regressing from the subject. While writing in my journal, my mind wandered off to something Amber said to me once. We were, of course, getting ready to have sex. I know, I know, my mind is wrapped up in that. So sue me.
Anyhow, I tied her up. No, wait. Rolled her fishnet thigh highs down and teasingly climbed up over her, lifting her arms above her head, kissing her, glad to have one less article of clothing off of her skin, out from between us.
While tasting her lips, I asked, “What would you do if I tied your wrists?”
She countered with, “What would you do?”
“Oh, I dunno,” I lazily drawled, kissing her again, nuzzling down to her ear, licking a little.
Surprising me, she said, almost warmly, “Go ahead.”
I didn’t waste any time. Stupidly, didn’t think twice. I slipped the stretchy mesh around her wrists. Flashed her my delight in a big grin and a “How’s that?”
I didn’t tug, just held it. That was good enough for me. Didn’t even tie it. Flattened my hand over hers and enjoyed the small power. The
Or dead in the woods. The picture from the broadcast filled my brain again. Something there, beside Bark’s possessions on the scene, was not right. What was it?
Beyond the obvious frustrations, something gnawed at the back of my psyche--something I couldn’t put a finger on--that would clear everything up. The mess I was in just felt too organized, too wrapped up and cut and dried. Too obvious.
And that rankled. Flat out pissed me off. Somebody was treating me like a monkey. A lab rat. Pull the strings and he’ll ring the bell for cheese.
Or call for help. Admit weakness.
But who would I call? Lobos International? The big dog? Calling family couldn’t be construed as weakness, could it?
Rubbing the back of my neck, I asked myself, could I handle this? Or did I need to get back-up? Would my own posse be enough to untangle the threads of deceit? I glanced over Frank’s head to the boardroom of cowering number crunchers. Somebody in there was a chickenshit. I could smell the coward.
I felt the hair on my neck rising. It prickled over the backs of my hands, too, and I knew, sure as shit, that Frank could smell my hormones raging. Hell, every garou in the building could probably smell it. His nostrils flared, and he backed up a step, dropped his eyes, and shrank visibly. Minimizing my target?
The thought helped me a little. I did intimidate him. But to his credit, he didn’t exactly cringe.
Very quietly, he said, “You need to get a grip, or I’m gone.”
Feeling my shoulders straining against fabric, and wanting to break out of the confines of the suit I was in, it was all I could do not to flip into crinos. I was so furiously, frustratedly angry.
I didn’t like Frank reminding me that he’d only come aboard with my assurance that his physical person would not be threatened, that I would keep my attitude in check. I’m a little famous for going wild, tearing things up a bit. I could see, already, that having Frank working for me would be a fight--strictly my inner turmoil. Especially under the circumstances.
He went on. “I know you like lashing out at things. It’s how you get things done, and it may have worked for you for a long time, but things have changed. You gotta do it Bark’s way--and mine--or we’re screwed.”
I couldn’t see changing. Not any time soon, anyway. I grunted, “Bark’s way didn’t work, obviously, and I’m in charge now.”
Frank looked me over, considering his words before he said, “Right. You’re in charge now, Mark. Think about it.”
Forgive me for regressing from the subject. While writing in my journal, my mind wandered off to something Amber said to me once. We were, of course, getting ready to have sex. I know, I know, my mind is wrapped up in that. So sue me.
Anyhow, I tied her up. No, wait. Rolled her fishnet thigh highs down and teasingly climbed up over her, lifting her arms above her head, kissing her, glad to have one less article of clothing off of her skin, out from between us.
While tasting her lips, I asked, “What would you do if I tied your wrists?”
She countered with, “What would you do?”
“Oh, I dunno,” I lazily drawled, kissing her again, nuzzling down to her ear, licking a little.
Surprising me, she said, almost warmly, “Go ahead.”
I didn’t waste any time. Stupidly, didn’t think twice. I slipped the stretchy mesh around her wrists. Flashed her my delight in a big grin and a “How’s that?”
I didn’t tug, just held it. That was good enough for me. Didn’t even tie it. Flattened my hand over hers and enjoyed the small power. The
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