Aroo! I’m writing about sexy male werewolves. Yum. Here’s a taste of the draft, just for fun…
Man in the moon, look down.
Man in the moon, hear me.
Man in the moon, help me.
The dead-end alley smelled of piss and fried fish, of damp ciggies and day-old drunk. The ocean wasn’t far off — I could hear its soft laps at the shoreline, but with my back against the bricks, I couldn’t get so much as a whiff of its salt-brine.
“What now?” That was Roger Bobby, with his mainland accent and his cigarette-voice. His butterfly blade glinted yellow in the wickering light from the street lamps. There was no moonlight over the building’s tops. Not yet. “What now, eh, McGee?”
I was McGee. Or at least they thought I was. Kirk McGee, come to seek my Scottish ancestors on this tiny isle. The truth was something close to that. A surface-skimming depth that no one bothered to look into too deeply. These men had taken me at my word — which, it was turning out, were about to have dire consequences if I couldn’t find a way out of this.
Man in the moon, take care.
Roger Bobby took a step toward me, and his crew behind him matched his steps. I wondered how it felt to run with a pack like that, men who mirrored your every move, who obeyed your every order, without you having to say a word. It wasn’t something I wanted, not something I’d ever wanted, but there was some safety in it at least. And safety was something I could have used a little of right about now. I didn’t think he and his pack meant to kill me, but I was pretty sure they meant to give me a physical talking to, at the very least.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.
PS — Werewolf image by this artist.