“Would you like to donate one dollar to…” The cashier entered her sales pitch for a fundraiser oblivious to the growing line in front of her till in the tiny store.
“Would you like to buy another one? They’re on sale. Two for two ninety nine...” This was the third item of the man’s five-item purchase she tried to upsell. I ground my teeth and squashed my mountain lion’s desire to shift and claw her face off. Down, kitty. The Shifter three people up in the line looked to be having the same struggle and the Witch behind me cracked her knuckles. This area of the Lower Mainland, dense with the paranormal demographic, meant it could get messy if this lady, oblivious to the agitated supes in the line, didn’t hurry the fuck up.
“One second.” The cashier held up one finger and answered the phone. “Hi, Mom. Uh huh. Uh huh. No. Well, maybe.” She glanced up at her customers. “Hey, it’s getting a bit busy.” Pause. “Well, no.” It took another few minutes, a promise to come over for Sunday dinner and to call her mom back in an hour to get off the phone. In that time, the acrid scent of anger in the room doubled. The witch abandoned her purchases on the nearest shelf and stalked off.
I sneezed.
Anger was one of my least favorite smells. Pulling my shirt over my nose, I read the headlines of the magazines in a rack beside me for the third time. One of my guilty pleasures was to read about young Hollywood trash and find out what debacle they managed to get into since the last time I read about them. Money may not buy happiness, but it did buy a whole lot of drama.
The cashier finished processing the now irate customer. Luckily the guy behind him only had a pack of gum and gas to buy. She rang him through in a relatively short time, having little opportunity to upsell or do fundraising pitches in between items. Getting to take two shuffles forward seemed to appease most people in the line and I risked popping my nose out of my shirt to see if it smelled better.
Citrus and sunshine swirled around and forced my spine ramrod straight. I spun around. One smirking Wereleopard stood behind me, clad in a skin-tight red dress with white polka dots. What was she doing here? Angie shifted her gaze, somehow managing to make her lips twitch into a more condescending expression while she ran her gaze over my appearance.
What’s your problem?
From the miniscule flinch in her expression and the turned heads in my direction, I realized I’d said that out loud. Oops.
She flipped a noncommittal hand in the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her words said one thing, but her actions said another. She made sure to look me up and down again and raise an eyebrow. I squashed the urge to pounce on her and have it out girl-on-girl fight style. Obviously, her problem was me. I wore sweats and a t-shirt. They were mine, but they smelled of Wick. For some reason my wash kept getting mixed up with his. I didn’t need her pointed looks to know my attire didn’t meet her standards. Good.
I returned the unimpressed appraising look and eyed her ballooning boobs almost springing out of her dress. At least, I hoped it came across as distaste, not envy. From her smug grin, I wasn’t successful.
“You positively reek of dog.” Her lip curled up.
I hitched my hip and tried to think of a retort. I couldn’t exactly say she smelled of pussy, now could I? That was derogatory to women everywhere and not my style. “I might smell of a dog, but at least I’m not a bitch.” Ha. Take that!
I was so impressed with my own witty comeback, I didn’t notice someone approaching until Angie’s attention moved from me to over my right shoulder. I glanced behind me. A Werewolf I’d never seen before strolled up to us. He had his hands in his pockets, but his body language made it appear as if he had my back. He smelled faintly of Wick. Nice!
Angie’s eyes widened. His scent must have reached her. Not being the idiot I wished she was, Angie put two and two together and realized the Werewolf was from the same pack as the one whose scent I wore.
Angie rolled her eyes and shoved her purchases on the nearest shelf and stalked out of the store. She still managed to swing her hips—boom, boom, boom—and made it look sexy. My dislike for her increased.
I turned to the Werewolf, who openly assessed me. He was medium height, medium build, brown hair, light café au lait skin. He wasn’t exceptionally attractive or repulsive, but his eyes stood out—a piercing, gem-cutting emerald. And they sparkled with amusement. He held his hand out. “Steve.”
“Andy.” I clasped his hand firmly and smiled. His scent wasn’t familiar. He must’ve missed out on the Supe-Mart parking lot take down. Probably a good thing. That had been embarrassing. Odd that he’d be here, very coincidental. Or was it? The gas station sat along one of the major commuter routes that led to Wick’s place.