Don't Shoot...I'm a Werebear

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2016 Angelique Voisen

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-957-4

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my readers, I hope you enjoy Barry and Zack’s story.

  DON’T SHOOT…I’M A WEREBEAR

  Angelique Voisen

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  Barry

  “Smithson, stop tinkering with your story and get out here. Everyone’s stopped working,” called Stevenson, poking his head above my cubicle.

  I slumped in my seat, and mumbled an unintelligible excuse. With a shrug of his shoulders, Stevenson walked away. I stared at my opened Word document. The actual number of words I’d hammered out for my article over the last hour? Zero. Four little words, repeated over a hundred pages, stared back at me.

  I love you, Hamish.

  I glanced at the single framed photograph on my desk. I had no pictures of my family and friends––only a group shot of the Daily Grind staff, the paper I’ve worked at for five years. A by-product of the foster care system, I grew up in a normal home, raised by my were-bear aunt and uncle after my biological parents were killed by hunters. “Accidental”, the clan called it.

  None of it mattered anymore.

  I’d never been close to them, either. They’d been absent for most of my life. Same with my aunt and uncle, who’d left me to my own devices. No small wonder I left my tiny hometown and clan when I turned eighteen. Moving into the city didn’t improve my social graces: I’d been an awkward child, and soon became a disgruntled and disillusioned adult. Maintaining friendships was too much work. Same with relationships. Casual sex seemed like the best option, because the only man I wanted, I couldn’t have.

  In the picture, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my boss Hamish. Despite our physical proximity, Hamish remained out of my reach. Everyone else was looking at the photographer, including Hamish.

  And me? I stood there looking at him, my pathetic longing captured perfectly through the lens. The only way I’m ever brave enough to look Hamish directly in the eye.

  For almost half a decade, one thousand and ninety-five days to be exact, all I’ve done is hide behind my desk. Stuck at this dead-end job, directionless, all I had were my fantasies. Never mind dreams or goals. I didn’t have them in the first place.

  All my life, I’ve sought freedom. To be free from my aunt and uncle, from the clan … but once I had that, I didn’t know what else to do. True love mattered. At least that’s what they say in the gay erotic romance stories I secretly consume like drugs. I’m hooked on Hamish and those stories. I’m unrealistic. Unlike the heroes in those stories, I’ve always lacked the courage to tell my one true love how I really feel, though.

  It was Hamish’s face and body I imagined while I fucked my hand. His face shockingly close to mine, gray eyes reflecting the same hunger mine carried and his lips, velvet soft but firm, brushing against mine.

  He’d let me take control. Beg me to kiss him the way I would fuck him later on—a punishing kiss, hard and rough. To my shame, my cock woke in my trousers. No good. I couldn’t attend the office party sporting a hard-on. Clenching my jaw, I thought of other things to distract myself. Things I hated: everything about the outdoors, including camping, shifting in the woods, and hunting prey. Not that I’ve done any of that. I left my hometown for a reason. I’m a city bear, through and through.

  Since I’m not natural—according to the clan––falling in love with my hot, were-turtle boss shouldn’t be a surprise.

  “Tonight, things are about to change,” I muttered to myself.

  Deleting the document, I turned off my Mac, and checked myself for any signs of imperfections. I take pride in my grooming habits, and hate anything out of place, even a stray thread on my shirt. Dress code in the office has always been casual, but I like dressing up for work. Truth be told, I’m a little obsessive-compulsive.

  Okay. Full disclosure. More than a little. Everything in the universe needs to have a certain order. Good luck comes in sevens. I take seven steps and pause, controlling my breathing.

  On my way to the conference room where they’ve converted the table to a buffet spread, I count the office cubicles, comforted by their number. Fourteen divided by two equals seven. My therapist assumed my parents’ deaths had explained my irrational need for order and my obsession with the number seven … but that’s not true.

  I halt, seeing the last two cubicles near the receptionist’s table. The outdated desktops told anyone these stations hadn’t been occupied for a long time. They’d been empty for as long as I remembered––except now, a new Mac sat in the cubicle on the left.

  “Are the delusions coming back?” I whispered, voice too soft for anyone to hear, shifter or human or otherwise.

  Sweat beaded down my shirt. Slightly feverish, I walked to the cubicle, needing to touch, to ascertain the truth. The Mac felt real enough. So did the new plastic drawers and swivel chair. What the fuck?

  My bear stirred inside me, waking from its sleep. The animal usually didn’t take much interest in my everyday actions, but seeing the extra Mac unnerved me.

  Fifteen wasn’t a good number. It couldn’t be divided by seven.

  “Fuck, Barry. Get it together.”

  Everything I hated about myself came crashing down on what would become the most defining moment of my life. Socially inept. Born different. Obsessive- compulsive. Useless terms that mean one thing: I’m fucked up.

  I fumbled for the inhaler in my pocket and breathed in deeply, counting to ten in my head like my therapist taught me. I know. I’m one pathetic excuse for a were-bear.

  Tucking the inhaler in my pocket, I snarled when someone grabbed my arm. Seeing Leila, the receptionist, drawing back, I muttered an apology. Recovering, she drew herself up. Leila helped me get my job at the Daily Grind. I could count my friends with one hand. Hell, one finger. That one was Leila, and I don’t know why she continued putting up with me.

  Leila planted her hands on her hips. “Barry, were you brooding at your desk again? You’re going to do it tonight, aren’t you? Stop being a pussy and do it.”

  I groaned. “I wish I’d never told you my plans.”

  The cubicle and new Mac still rattled my nerves. “Leila, did Hamish hire someone new?”

  Leila frowned. “Don’t change the topic.”

  “I’m serious.” I nodded to the cubicle. “New writer?”

  “A transfer from some national paper, from what I heard. Hamish personally recommended him.” She shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot.” I ran a frustrated hand through my short, dark-brown hair. “There’s fifteen of us now.”

  Leila gripped my arm hard, eyes narrowing. “Barry, come on. Who cares? The paper’s still growing. We’ll get more people.”

  “Needs to be twenty-one,” I muttered.

  To my chagrin, Leila began dragging me towards the conference room, to the gaggle of conversation. Most men had loosened their ties, rolled up their sleeves, including Hamish, having a conversation with someone unfamiliar. Young, in his early twenties, lean and hands
ome—that guy must be the new transfer. Unwarranted jealousy rammed into me, made even worse when the guy ran a hand up Hamish’s left forearm. No way in hell that could be a casual gesture.

  The stranger leaned over to whisper something in Hamish’s ear, far too close for my liking. My spine prickled. Nothing about today made sense. The new Mac, and now the sight of this intruder … it all screamed bad omen. My stomach did a strange flop.

  Leila gave me a little push. Part of me knew no one gave a damn what I did. Nonetheless, I felt their eyes on me, watching my every movement. In five years I’d never attended a single office event. Eventually, people got the memo and stopped inviting me to go out for drinks after work.

  I couldn’t do this. Not now, or ever. Christ. Every shifter there, all six, including Hamish, could hear my erratic heartbeat. I fumbled for my inhaler again, feeling the burn of Leila’s stare. I took an uncertain step back.

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  My favorite excuse spilled from my lips, but Leila wasn’t hearing it. Another push, practically a shove and I was walking again. Someone offered me a cup of spiked soda. Refusing seemed impolite, so I accepted the drink. Every second made me feel more like an idiot. Before I could backpedal and find a nice little cave to hide in, I stood in front of Hamish and the handsome transfer.

  “And there he is, my best writer. Barry, I’d like you to meet Steve. Steve … this is Barry. I’d like you two to work together on the next story.”

  “Nice to meet you. I hear good things from Hamish about you,” Steve said.

  He’s already on a first-name basis with Hamish? It took me a year.

  Hamish shifted the glasses up the bridge of his nose. Steve touched his shoulder, in an affectionate, almost possessive touch. Leila mentioned Hamish had recommended Steve. They clearly knew each other, to be this comfortable. Bile rose to my throat.

  I began to feel foolish, still gripping the plastic cup so hard the liquid began spilling down my hand. A mess I needed to clean up, but who the fuck cared about one tiny spill, when my entire life was about to crumble right in front of my eyes? Crazy of me to make assumptions now, but I knew things would no longer be the same.

  Up close, Hamish looked perfect as ever. Like me, he kept his red hair short and neat. He always wore impeccable suits, designer and custom-made.

  His favorite color? Charcoal grey, like his eyes.

  Hamish’s preferred choice of music was Latin jazz—a pretty interesting choice, given it was one of my favorite genres as well.

  I could go on forever. I knew everything about Hamish, at least on the surface level. His dislikes and likes. While I don’t use social media, I’ve stalked Hamish on a nearly obsessive level.

  I’ve stolen a thousand secret moments with him in his office, and on company trips together … yet not saying much. Five years, and I’ve never come close to touching him. Never managed to find the courage to do what Steve could do so easily.

  “This reminds me, I need to make an announcement.” Hamish cleared his throat and pitched his voice louder. “Everyone, may I have your attention?”

  Conversations stopped and gazes turned to us. Not wanting to remain in the spotlight, I edged to the side, so everyone had a clear view of Hamish and Steve. My confession died on my lips the moment Hamish introduced Steve to the group. Part of me knew what would come next. Perhaps I always knew.

  “Everyone, I’d like to officially introduce Steve Kellerman to our tight-knit little family.”

  Hamish’s cheeks turned slightly pink—not a good sign. I’ve never seen him embarrassed in his entire life. I should have expected the hammer to fall, but part of me remained in denial.

  “Unofficially, I’d also like to add that Steve and I will be tying the knot. But rest assured this will, in no way, affect our professional—”

  I heard nothing after that. The plastic cup tumbled from my hand, sloshing liquid everywhere. The sticky soda would cling to my polished shoes, and I’d have a hell of a time washing it from my shirt. But none of that mattered now. Hamish had never been mine to begin with. He was not for me.

  Focus on the little things to avoid a massive meltdown.

  A bigger man would offer Hamish and Steve his congratulations, like the rest of the clapping and cheering fools around me. A more aggressive were-bear would shove Steve against the wall and show his canines and claws. I didn’t fall into either category.

  Cowards were experts at doing one thing right—running away.

  I met Steve’s gaze, temper fizzling. Steve regarded me coolly. Sudden realization struck me, although it seemed improbable. Steve knew about my unrequited love for Hamish, and how I’d do nothing but stay in the shadows. I’m a were-bear, capable of ripping him literally apart. Steve smelled like human. Weak, defenseless … but at that moment, our roles became reversed.

  The same feeling of helplessness suffused over me after learning about my parents’ deaths.

  Turning on my heel, I walked away, slipping out without fuss. Despite my size and bulk, my footsteps didn’t make a single sound. Perfecting the art of being a ghost had been one of the skills in my repertoire. Loosening my tie, I breathed a sigh of relief after entering the elevator.

  “Barry, wait!” Leila called, running, or at least trying to in her heels.

  “I need some air.”

  The doors hissed shut. Thank fucking God. I hurried out of the building, breathing in the night air and the familiar city smells. Too rattled to take my car, I hailed a cab and headed right back to my apartment.

  Chapter Two

  Barry

  The wall clock in my studio apartment told me it was three in the morning. Six hours passed since my cowardly getaway. Three hundred and sixty minutes of pure undiluted misery. It felt like an eternity. I sat there a huddled mess inside my closet, barely fitting inside, but somehow managing.

  Small spaces had always comforted me since I was little. Maybe that’s why the great outdoors terrified me so much, because it lacked boundaries, no firm lines. Despite the darkness, my supernatural senses allowed me to see the walls. Touch them and be reassured by their solidness.

  My foot lashed out, kicking the empty bottle of antidepressants. According to Dr. Mitchell, my therapist, he refused to prescribe me more until I started attending sessions again.

  Cognitive-behavioral therapy, according to that prick, was the best treatment.

  “Fuck this.” I needed those pills to numb away the emotions eating at me; anxiety with anger mixed in equated to one sorry mess of a bear.

  Hearing the front door unlocked, I growled. Leila had a spare key to my apartment. My emergency contact, she meant well that much I knew … but I needed to be left alone.

  “Go away.”

  Her heels made clicking noises on the hardwood floor. I cringed at her knuckles rapping on the closet door.

  “Barry, unlock the door. I know you’re in there.” She let out an impatient sigh. “Don’t make me break it down or I’ll call … someone.”

  Someone meant Dr. Mitchell. Snarling softly under my breath, I rose to my feet and unlocked the door. I’d never changed, over the years. Knew hiding inside my closet the same way I did when I was a kid, refusing to face the world, spoke volumes about me as an adult, but the world could go to hell. With Hamish lost to me, I had nothing left.

  Leila planted her hands on her hips and gave me a disapproving look. “You’re going to give up? Barry, you can take Steve. Win Hamish back.”

  I snorted, lumbering out and shutting the door before Leila could see the empty bottles.

  “Yeah, right. You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.” I was about to get myself some tea and honey, plenty of honey, to calm myself down, but the slender stick of a tiny woman blocked my way. I glowered. She stood her ground, poking a perfectly painted finger into my chest.

  “Are you talking about yourself? You’re a were-bear, for fuck’s sake. One shift and you can tear Steve apart.”

  “You know wh
at I mean,” I snapped, moody. “What will I tell Hamish? ‘Oh, sorry, boss … but I accidentally tore your beau into bite-sized pieces’?”

  Leila moved aside so I could boil some water. She watched me with narrowed eyes when I plopped down on the kitchen table, hand stuck in one jar of honey. I took handfuls of honey, not caring how I looked.

  “Jesus, Barry. I can’t remember the last time I saw you like this. Ran out of your pills?”

  I both loved and hated how my best friend knew me so well. Licking at my fingers, I continued glaring at her.

  “What do you want me to do? Don’t you get it? It’s game over. I lost.”

  Leila sat herself across the table, on the plastic chair she persuaded me to buy, as mealtime was usually dine-in for one, in my life. Inviting company over to my place had been a big no-no for me. To sate my needs, casual sex could be done elsewhere—back alleys or some shadowy corner turned away from the eyes of the world.

  Dirty deeds done –– forget about them accordingly. God, I’m pathetic.

  “That’s not acceptable.”

  “Excuse me? Why are you still here, anyway?”

  Leila walked over to the stove, turning the boiling kettle off. Who cared about the calming effects of tea, when the sweetness of honey would serve just fine? Drugs would be better, of course. Sweet things wouldn’t tide me long, but it would do for now.

  “Why don’t you go back to your hometown over the weekend? We could both drive there. You said it’s only a couple of hours.”

  “What the fuck for?” I looked down at my empty jar of honey, fuming, knowing the cabinets had none left. Time for me to coupon and stockpile again. Did nothing in life go right?

  “We can do stuff. Unwind, relax, and you can connect with your inner bear out there: the great outdoors.” Leila returned to her seat, eyeing me up and down. “You could certainly take a break. No offense, but you look like shit.”