Lane and Sinclair
A Short Story
by
R. Mac Wheeler
I coulda made it into Hattiesburg, on more than fumes, but the small truck stop just outside tiny McLain, Mississippi challenged me not to push it. Been a long eight hours in the saddle already, without even a lunch break—so needed a leg stretch in a big way. First day on a trip, I’m known for pushing it. Not that anyone really knows that about me. I’m a serious introvert. My closest employee prolly doesn’t even know the color of my eyes. Maybe I’m a bit aloof. Maybe.
When I sensed the dry tingle travel up my spine as I pulled into the station, I almost swerved to get back on US 98. McLain, Mississippi, and I’m crossing the path of another shifter. We aren’t that spread around, trust me. We live in tight little communities. My eyes searched. Nearest to me, was what looked like a family in a sedan. On the left, a pickup pulling a working-man’s trailer. And another bagger at the pumps straight ahead of me.
No, no, no. Reason I travel like I do, is to stay away from people in general, shifters in particular. And I cross one in rural Mississippi? Couldn’t be the family in the sedan. The tingle wasn’t plural. Had to be the dude standing beside his Harley. Shiny thing. The bike, not the dude. I pulled up wide at the first pump, to give me some space.
Settling in to fill up, I tried to act like I watched the gallons tick up on the pump, when I was actually radar focused on the other biker. Black, lace-up boots halfway to his knees. Tight-stinking jeans. What. No leather vest, or bare arms? Actually wore long sleeves. Compression shirt. Stink. Could see the billowing of his pecs and six pack, without even looking hard. Those shoulders. Oh my goodness.
Stink. He was walking toward me now. What. He was working on a tall beer? A beer. Standing at gas pumps. Hydrating with alcohol, riding two wheels?
“Pretty,” he said.
I must have jerked like a bee got me in the caboose, because he quickly explained he meant my wheels. Sarcastic, much? “Nice ride,” he continued, “but I like the attitude and torque of a twin.” I considered suggesting he likes the pumping action in his pants. Don’t know where that thought came from. I wisely held my tongue. I avoid crass language. Wouldn’t even consider myself cheeky. But he should really try a horizontally opposed straight six. Never go back, as the saying goes.
He stood behind my bike now. “Florida,” he said. “Jacksonville?”
I did not want to engage. The pump clicked off, and I jerked. Maybe my every sense was directed his way. What kind of shifter was he? Not my variety. I’d feel it. Still a tingle, but with a comfortable warmth. Stink. Prolly a stinking wolf. A Harley rider. Of course a stinking werewolf. Fit every expectation. Or would that be, prejudice? But. The sense was much less—tingly tart—than I’ve ever gotten from a wolf.
“Jacksonville conclave?” he sorta repeated. How’d he guess I’m a dragon? Wolves can sense us? I mean, as dragons, not not-human. I’d never heard that. I met his eyes. How couldn’t—why shouldn’t I. He was just sharing a casual word with a fellow rider, right. No reason for conflict here, in rural Mississippi. Deep, stinking-dark eyes. Noticeably long eyelashes. Thin, dramatic brows. Face colored from a day in the saddle with an open-face helmet, over a tan any lifeguard would be proud of.
“Uh huh,” I answered. Like hell I was gonna tell him Tampa. Have no business knowing where I’m from, bud.
“When you see Tony, tell him Sinclair sends his regards.”
Tony? Is that the name of the conclave’s leader in Jacksonville? Not much of a dragon name. I’m a green dragon, not into conclave politics, certainly not Jacksonville’s. I barely know Tampa’s queen’s name. Valery? Right? No. Velere. Was Tony a real person, or was this jerk testing me? Tony sounds like a guy that runs a pizza place. Certainly not the enforcer of a dragon conclave.
He crushed his empty one-handed and flipped it into the bin ten feet away, through a four inch wide opening. Nice hand-eye coordination. Guess that’s fitting, for a wolf—or whatever. I managed to get the pump-thingie back into its slot. Don’t know why my hand threatened to shake a little. I’m a green, don’t like conflict. He’s just being friendly, right?
Not bad looking, for a wolf. About as overly-masculine as I’d expect. Short-cropped hair. Could call it severe. Almost as much gray as black. Mixed evenly with his week-old beard. Actually a nice look. Not as though that’s my thing. I’m a CPA. I’m not around the rough-looking much.
“I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said. “I apologize. Wouldn’t have even approached a single woman, like this. But—considering. Didn’t think you’d be intimidated.”
“Intimidated.” Maybe that came out a bit in a half-shriek. No more than one-third. Quarter, maybe. I’m a green, doesn’t mean a stinking werewolf would bother me.
His face blended into a killer smile. Like he’s used to being right. The smartest in the room. Best looking. “You’re not from Jacksonville, are you?”
I might have stood there glaring at him.
“Of course, none of my business,” he said. Well look. Something we could agree on.
Should I just mount up and get out of here? No. I wasn’t going to act as though I’m intimidated by a lowly wolf. Stinking wolf. I loosened my helmet and pulled it off, removed my Klim gloves and jacket, gave him a smile, and headed inside—for the restroom. Let him leave first, so I don’t have to engage. Not that I’ve engaged. I don’t engage with strange wolves in the middle of rural Mississippi.
Stepping back out, after, I groaned a little, maybe more than a little, to see him still standing by my Goldwing. Was he working on another beer? Well, it’s five o’clock somewhere. I couldn’t not look. My watch read five-thirteen.
As I neared, he gave me a nod and a weasely grin, crushed his beer can, and headed for his own bike, casually flipping the new empty right through the bin’s narrow opening without seeming to glance that way.
Out of my space now. Good. That’s done. It took me a few moments to readjust my earplugs, get my other accoutrements settled, yet he hadn’t pulled away. So I saddled up, pulled past him. Don’t know why I assessed him a Brownie point for wearing gloves—looked like the creamiest lambs leather. Soft on the hands, worthless for sliding along the asphalt. Why not gloves with knuckle protection and wrist sliders? I’m a CPA. Maybe conservative with such things.
My music reconnected, nav system was redrawing to my destination in Hattiesburg, settling in for the last short leg, when my sound clicked, and an eerily-familiar deep voice said, “So you know my name, what’s yours.”
“You synced up to my Sena while I was in the toilet?” I screamed. “What kind of jerk are you?”
His chuckle answered me. Barely could hear his annoying twin engine, despite the half-shell helmet he wore. Stupid Harley rider with a death wish.
“Really, dude! Are you serious!” I’m a green, but I’m still a dragon. I can get riled.
Sure, I could have turned off my com. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Wasn’t because I was committed to the music I was streaming. I just didn’t. Stubbornness maybe. We dragons are known for the trait. Not like I needed anyone to talk to. I didn’t. I’m an introvert. But, maybe five minutes later, I told him, “Lane.”
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Lane. Short for Galaine.” My brother calls me Single Lane. Thinks it’s witty because I’m motorcycle-obsessed, he says, and not mated up. Like all female dragons of a certain age should be mated up.
By the time we hit the Hattiesburg city limits, he knew I’m a CPA and on my fifth Goldwing. He laughed about a dragon being an accountant. Don’t know what he thinks dragons should do for a living. I didn’t ask. But the conclave has to pay taxes, too. And keep a balance sheet. Not that the conclave is my only client. Learned he’s a stinking architect, not a mechanic. And I thought all male wolves were gearheads, or prison guards, or inmates. Owns four other bikes. Not as though that impressed me. But if he’d been on his Ducati I might have said hello to him at the truck stop. I mean, after all, it’s Italian. If you can deal with the high maintenance, a sexier-than-heck motorcycle. Those Italians know style.
When he followed me off the highway, and then into the Tru parking lot, I might have started to get riled again, but he laughed. “You’re really staying here? I’ve got my own reservation. Probably get you a better rate. I’ve built about fifty of these for Hilton.”
Okay. I might go for a reduced rate. I have a frugal, and practical side. Built fifty of ’em? How old is Sinclair? Not a spring chick. But. Maybe he’s got a dozen going at a time.
As much gray hair as he has—what kind a changling is he? The average shifter lives about three human lifetimes. Gargoyles can live seven. Not that he comes across, gargoylie. But then, I’ve never met one. Not many of ’em as far as I know.
He pulled up next to me, and oddly, even under the hotel’s porte-cochere, that Harley rumble didn’t sound as annoying as I expected. Thank the gods for stock pipes. He looked across at me, and his teenager smirk forced me to mirror his smile. He’s still a jerk for messing with my helmet while I was in the restroom.
~ Sinclair ~
She’d given me a maybe, for joining me at the Texas Roadhouse across the parking lot. I of course saw what room she was in, my kind have sharp vision and observation skills, but didn’t push it with a knock on her door. If she was interested, maybe she’d show up. I’d brought plenty to work on to stay occupied, if she didn’t. Odd that I hoped she would. Most of my life, I’ve spent time trying to avoid the female variety.
She’s at least six-two. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s a black dragon, the enforcers of her kind. Great hips. Not a gal who’d pass on a beer and nachos. Do you call that hair color tawny? I quickly typed the word into my DDG search bar. Light-brown or yellowish-brown. Who knew I know my color wheel? Pale green eyes. A bit of a Roman nose, but matched those concrete-hard cheek bones. Like I should be surprised a dragon can be hot.
Strange I paid so much attention. As hard as I’ve worked to avoid complications in my life. Females tend to interfere with two hours at the gym every night. Curling up with a book on a Saturday night. Every night. So needy. Ick.
With that thought, she strode in the front door like she owned the place, ignoring the hostesses. Her eyes flicked across the restaurant predator-like, and I could almost sense them connecting with mine. So, she wasn’t going to avoid me. Good, or bad? Hard to tell at this point.
She was walking toward me with intention now. Maybe my throat tightened a bit. Not that I’m afraid of a black dragon. Maybe black. Could even be a gold, with the way she carries herself.
I stood to greet her as she strode up my aisle. Wasn’t wearing a smile. Good, or bad? Held a tablet, swinging at her hip—so in case I’d chickened out, she had something to do.
She extended her hand, and I took it. Warm, almost hot. Firm as a stone. Dang. I maybe looked up at her, just a tiny bit, now that I’m out of my bike boots. That’s never good. I’m six-two. Was she six-three, maybe even four?
“You order yet?” she asked.
“Just a beer,” I said, as we settled across from each other. Well, two beers. No three. Okay, I’d been waiting for her for a while. “Glad you opted to join me.”
I turned off my two tablets I was using to expand my workflow, clicked shut my laptop, and stacked them to the side.
“Have enough computing power?” she asked, as she scanned her menu. As though she wouldn’t order the t-bone. What dragon wouldn’t order the t-bone?
A server stepped up, and Lane ordered a Modelo Negra. I’m gonna like this girl. Uh, dragon female. Why’s it bother me so much she’s a dragon? Her species is probably the only reason I approached her at that truck stop. She glanced at the table, added a cactus blossom to her order. Would she share? I ordered another pint.
The server scurried away, and maybe we both listened to the country music blaring loud enough to annoy a deaf troll, for a couple minutes. The fingers of her right hand caressed the sharp, shiny aluminum edge of her tablet—a nervous thing? Maybe not a black dragon.
I scent the hotel soap on her. Not so girly she carries her own brand when she tours. Noted the moisture that still lingered in her hair, which she had to have used a drier on, for a while. But still a richer red, than before.
“You don’t have to be so obvious,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Maybe my throat tightened a bit.
“I’m a thirty-eight C. You wanna know the color of my panties?”
“Uh—uh.”
“I’m teasing. Not like I didn’t check you out. I noticed you lost a bit of height, in those vintage Converse you’re wearing now. But I’m hoping I wasn’t as obvious. Jeesh. Men.”
Whoa. If there was a chance for a friendship—then a broad smile crossed her face, and a blush about three shades deep.
“Can’t believe I said that. Any of that.”
“I guess I owe you an apology,” I said.
“Meh. Don’t think so. I estimated your age, waist, inseam, and boot size. As well as the triple-X you wear in a compression shirt. Still can’t believe I called you on studying my hair like a cosmologist prepping a cut.”
“You mean, cosmetologist?”
She laughed hard. Sounded like she’d spent a few summers as a lumber jack. She covered her mouth quickly. That blush darkened a couple more shades. “Too funny,” she hissed, when she’d recovered a bit. “You hate me yet? I prefer to set males off early, it’s simpler that way.”
“’Cause you’re fatally annoying?” I asked.
“Terminally,” she said, as her Modelo slid in front of her. She picked it up quickly and took a long hit. After taking a hard breath, she said, “Why my brother knows I’ll die a virgin.”
“Virgin?” The word escaped in a gush without my brain being prepared. Might have been really loud too. Even a human two tables away could have heard. Waitress who had just set down my fresh pint definitely did. But. Virgin? No way. A knockout. No way she’s a virgin.
She took another hit of her Modelo. “Clearly, you know what I am. We aren’t—”
I waited a long bit, then some more. Not promiscuous? Sure, I’ve met a dragon or five in my lifetime, but not like I’m an expert. I’ve been more career oriented, and haven’t spent much time thinking about—well, the other varieties. There aren’t many of my kind, and well, we don’t go out of our way to associate with the other magical races.
“We’re monogamous,” she said finally. Kinda the not-promiscuous kind. “If I have to spell it out. Take a breath now. You’re turning purple.”
Which meant there had never been a Mr. Lane?
“Jeesh,” she gushed. “Is your laptop plugged into your face? It’s like a printer. You ever have a thought that doesn’t spread across your face?”
Oh. Oh. Turn for my face to turn a shade of purple she suggested. I hit my pint. Hit it again. Set it down maybe too hard. “You’re stinking empathic?”
She pressed back in her seat a bit. Smile on her face smoothed out a bit. “What. You didn’t know many of us are?”
“Are you teasing me?”
She hit her Modelo again. Had to be close to dead. “Yeah,” she admitted when she placed the bottle down. “Loved the expression that painted your face, though. To die for.”
She ended up ordering the New York, not the t-bone. And of all things, was heading for Colorado too. But to ride the twisties and enjoy the vistas. My mind spun. Had been a dumb idea to head to my Boulder conference on two wheels to begin with. Would she consider letting me join her? I’ve attended too many boring conferences in my life.
~
The End
~
Thank you for reading my stories. Would love if you'd leave me a comment, tell me what you thought, let me know you stopped in.
If you're interested in my writing, visit my webpage:
rmacwheeler.blogspot.com
I've posted the entire Black Lake series, including volume 6 and 7 which have never been published, if you'd like to give them a read:
Book 1: Expiring Covenant
Book 2: Hamlet Thrivin’
Book 3: Ogre Warlock Healer
Book 4: Warlock Apprentice
Book 5: Ogreness
Book 6: The Thing About Kriz
Book 7: Siblings Bele and Hale
~
