Wolf Step Tango (Attn Lazara, Kelly)

Lazara slid out of her cab, and handed the driver a twenty dollar bill, though he wanted her to remain inside, and continue to this scenic route he wanted to show her. She may have been new to the city, but she had street smarts. She was a she-wolf, from the Quinault tribe, but she used to live in Puyallup.

She was wearing a vinyl mini skirt, and a pair of knee high spike heeled boots. Her white tank top nearly glowed in the streetlight, and her brown leather jacket kept her rather warm in the chilly weather. She stood in line outside the club, The Rusty Spike.

"Looks like it could be interesting. The music is louder than a deer's heartbeat during a hunt. Welcome to the Hickville part of town," she thought to herself, and shoved her hands into her pockets. There were mostly humans in line, the men looked like rugged construction workers, the women, looked like white trash hookers. Lazara raised an eyebrow.

Minutes later, a drunken human male almost fell against her back, losing his balance. He sneakily brushed his hand across her butt, and she took a deep breath and stepped forward, putting distance between them, for his sake. Though she was a Mutt, she had good self control, through pain. When she felt like her temper or emotions were inducing a Change, she dug her nails into her wrists, and the pain distracted her. She had never killed a human, nor eaten one.

Two nights ago was her last change, and she felt vivacious and lively.

When she entered the club, she smiled, looking around at the occupants. Some werewolves, and some other questionable people (who she guessed were supernaturals). She flared her nostrils, inhaling their many scents. Memorizing them. She eyed the club, making note of the exits, and the hazardous natural dangers. She wandered to the bar counter, with her ID out, and her wallet in her hand. She noticed a tall and muscular male at the counter, and breathed in his scent: werewolf. She sidled up a few seats down from him, between two bulky muscular human men. She smiled politely, and then waved down the barkeep. Sliding across a twenty dollar bill, she smiled warmly.

"Can I get a Busch beer for me, and another round for the man down there?" she gestured to the male she had taken interest in. He looked like he was military. Definitely a fighter. The barkeep nodded and disappeared.

Kelly climbed down the steps of the Greyhound and paused at the bottom, puffing up his chest and looking around.

“Hey! Get moving!”

OK, he seemed to be annoying the people on the bus behind him, but they could deal. Life was a movie starring him, and that’s what movie stars did right before the dramatic reveal. As he slid around to pick up his duffel bag, he looked the place over. It was just a bus station with what the sign said was an overblown name of the Moon Bay Transit Authority. Whatever.

He hauled his duffel to the taxi stand out front.

“Where ya’ headed?” came the universal cabbie question.

“Beer. Cold,” he answered. Why waste words on a guy who probably didn’t speak English?

The man asked him, “Ya’ want your beer good or cheap?”

Kelly did the quick mental math on what was left of the terminal leave pay he’d gotten from the Navy (what he liked to think of as his good-bye and good riddance check). “Cheap. Definitely cheap.”

“Rusty Spike it is. Hope you can defend yourself.”

Well enough. Well enough.

************

The “bar” was a dive, and that was being generous. The front door hung at an odd angle from what looked to be numerous reattachings. The floor hadn’t been mopped in…he didn’t really want to hazard a guess. The waitress looked like she was made of leather, and the bartender was not actually wearing a shirt. The clientele, so to speak, looked too trashy, or just plain trashed, to notice or care.

It was all fine with Kelly. He wasn’t looking to network with executives; he was just looking for a cold beer after a long bus ride. The beer was cold enough, although after seeing the condition of the glasses he had decided to just drink from the bottle.

As the edge loosened from the ride, he looked around. According to the homemade, as in sharpie and cardboard, sign on the stage advertised, he was soon to be in for the enjoyment of the mellow song stylings of some band called Will Werk 4 Beer. As much fun as creative misspelling could be, it didn’t speak much for the band. Kelly thought with discretion being the better part of valor, it might be time to find a shower and a cot for the night.

“You want some Busch?”

Kelly turned back around, really praying he misunderstood the question. Even more so when he found himself eye to eye with the bare-chested bartender with God’s own mullet. He just had to clarify. “Excuse me?”

“Busch. Beer. Lady down the bar is buying.”

Ah, that was much better. While not exactly a Busch man, beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Yeah, hoss, throw it down.” The bartender filled a glass. “You sure that mug’s clean?” Kelly asked.

“Nope,” the bartender answered, apparently not caring to elaborate further. Kelly was glad of this.

Oh well, it’s still free. As he took his first sip, he looked down the bar to see who had bought him. Surprisingly enough in this joint, his eyes landed on an almond skinned brunette with long legs she didn’t seem shy to show off. While she was dressed to fit in, her clothes were too clean, too new. She looked like a private school girl playing dress up. That worked for him.

He strutted over to her and slightly raised the beer mug. “Thanks. Name’s Kelly. What’s yours?”

The handsome military werewolf looked her way after receiving his drink. Lazara smiled sweetly to him. Lazara slid past the two humans, much to their disappointment. They desired to buy her a few drinks; she stood out in this club.

"Kelly. Nice name. The name's Lazara," she extended her hand for a handshake. She lowered her gaze, after sliding her tongue along her lower lip.

She flicked her gaze across the room to the dance floor, before realizing the only dancing she wanted to do was between the sheets.

I don't think I'd have to worry much about him; but to be on the safe side, if he is Pack, he won't like that I'm a mutt... Quick girl, come on, think of something, she thought to herself while taking a sip. Her stomach growled, even though she ate two steaks an hour ago.

I got it. Colorado. There's a pack there. I look like a Colorado girl; thanks to being Native American. Thank you Mama, Lazara thought and bit back the urge to grin at her plan. If this wolf, Kelly, was part of the Washington pack, he wouldn't approve of her being a mutt. If she said she was of the Colorado pack, it would buy her instant respect and some space.

"What do you say we dump this joint after drinks? We can go somewhere. I'll follow you," she leaned forward, displaying her long dark shadow of cleavage, and she lowered her eyelids, and bit her lip.

Maybe he'll be able to get me in the Washington pack; he looks like he could be a pack member, she thought to herself.