A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

Torrid Little Life | October 13, 2014

Well this is an unexpected development in my already complicated werewolf life.

Lovers will love you, even if it means making a mess of things.

I don’t need any more complications in my life, but it appears being a werewolf pretty much ensures that is the case. At least for me. I’m not you’re average pack wolf and I seem to attract all manner of trouble. Not always my own.

And when I thought I’d come to Red Hook to resolve a personal issue of unspoken, long running attraction to another wolf, it turns out, the lycan in question, is connected to more than just me.

He’s got a connection to my pack mate, the pack leader of the Manhattan Maen werewolf pack, that has been hidden from me, for something like fifteen years.

Darkness and werewolves, they really go hand in hand as much as we try to push it down. It’s that part of our nature that makes us werewolves.

“What Torrid little lives we live.” I mutter looking at myself one last time in the mirror and brushing my hair again before putting the brush down and glancing over my shoulder at Booker Parish on the bed behind me.

It’s time to go home. Time to face my pack mate and see what will be.

I’ll see if I can’t speak to some Breukelen elders, see if they know about soul mate bindings with werewolves, or if there is such a thing, if there is a lycan equivalent . How they work, what you can do.

In the mean time I’ll stick to my regular werewolf routine.

After all, forming habits is how we keep our werewolf selves in order, and out of the spotlight.

I’ll have to keep up the semblance of what Booker and I have been doing so far, orbiting one another every few weeks. Least I should fall into the same damn problem that got me pushed out of bed and over to Brooklyn by my pack mate in the first place.

And how will I feel having to face him again anyway? Now that I know what I know about how he helped Booker? I don’t know. But I’m not meant to, am I? Torrid little life, remember, make of it what comes at you.

Pretty much the werewolf way, fall on your feet, run or stand, make a choice. It’s what you can control, the choices you make.

I run my hands down the sides of my dark blue leather skirt.
“Ready?” Booker Parish says sitting on the edge of my bed.

“Seems like I should say no.” I say back at him. “But let’s go anyway.”

Booker stands up and swings his car key chain around his fingers. “Head first all the way Baby Girl. It’s how I came into this life.”

The lycan’s right. I’ve left this as late as possible, it’s getting close to midnight. And Manhattan does not sleep at midnight.

I turn around to face Booker and come face to chest with him, putting a hand on his chest, before stepping back for a bit of space.

“Maybe I should call some one else up to drive me.”

“I’ve practically been here, all weekend, why stop now?” He replies back at me.

I sigh. “Why indeed.” I mutter picking up my overnight back and watching as Booker takes it off my hands.

“See,” He says at me. “I can play my role. Like a good little lycan.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say clearly, he’s been doing that for fifteen years. But I bite back that snide and upsetting comment. The bitch me backs down. Neither of us need hurt.

“You might be several things Booker Parish, but little isn’t one of them.” I reply as we head out again, onto the merry-go-round that are our wolf lives.

Continued in so much for the after glow

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