Hair of the Dog (5 page)

He flashed her a grin. “Just as soon as you’re done eating
my toast.”

* * * * *

Grant leaned against the wall of the kitchen of the lodge
watching Ivy wash dishes, elbow-deep in hot, soapy water. Sweat from the steam
and heat glistened on her skin. Hot air and unpleasant smells always found the
way to the back of the kitchen where the odors remained trapped. If he wasn’t
mistaken, a piece of food had lodged itself in her hair, which was held up in
an unflattering hairnet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’m falling behind the
demand for clean dishes. Dishwasher called in sick.”

And pigs can fly
. More likely, Tom the dishwasher was
hung over or playing hooky. Some folks in town lacked the focus to fight their
inner impulses and lead productive lives. Although Grant guessed it was like
that everywhere. He wouldn’t know, having lived in Mystic all his days except
for a short stint at a nearby college.

“Washing dishes is not the manager’s job, Ivy.” He rolled up
his sleeves one at a time as he slowly came closer.

“Everything is the manager’s job. I even did some bussing
and stood in for the hostess while she went on break. For the health and safety
of everyone within eating range, I draw the line at cooking.”

He began scraping the dirty plates into the garbage, a job
he’d held when he was fifteen. Grant had worked his way through the kitchen
stations and more. Busboy, dishwasher, waiter, lifeguard, he did it all,
including the front desk. “The manager’s job is to find someone else to wash
the dishes.”

She shrugged. “I like to know how to do all the jobs. I
can’t very well ask someone else to do a job I wouldn’t do myself, can I?”

Handing her a stack of plates, he asked, “What about the
management tasks I left for you to complete?”

“Done,” she said.

He picked some wilted lettuce off her shoulder. “Done?”

“By noon.” She grinned proudly at him across a stack of
dirty dishes. “I mean, some of the interviews and service appointments are
scheduled for later in the week, but done. I perused the employee files. I took
a look at the financial statements, created some spreadsheets. I even popped
over to the gift shop and sold a couple of those bumper stickers.”

Grant couldn’t help but laugh. “What about the postcards?”

She loaded some plates in the sanitizer. “I’m not a
magician, Mr. Mayor.”

Brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face, he asked,
“What’s gotten into you?”

“I feel…” She tensed up, balling her hands into fists.
“Energized. I’m so jazzed about the job. When can we get together and
brainstorm?”

His plan had been to avoid her, not brainstorm with her.
Brainstorming could lead to boning in record time. Grant had found he couldn’t
stay away from her. First he’d tried her cottage. When he hadn’t found her
there, he’d checked her office. The last place he expected to find her was up
to her elbows in dirty dishwater.

“How about a swim later?” He couldn’t believe the words
coming out of his mouth. “The rush should be over soon.”

Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I can’t.”

“No?”

“Some guy named Bobby Joe invited me to The Magic Room with
him and his beer buddies—or dear buddies—to, and I quote, ‘drink our quota of
barley pops and get all kinds of drunk and stupid.’ I got the impression he
didn’t have far to go to get stupid drunk. Am I right? Do you know him? Please
tell me The Magic Room is a pub and not his garage converted into some sort of
man cave.” She was going a mile a minute.

The Magic Room was a deer hangout, also catering to deer
lovers and wannabes. Young adults often suffered species confusion and
curiosity, sometimes wanting to be something they’re not. Grant’d had a little
crush on his junior high English teacher back in the day, a fox.

“Yeah. Of course. I know B.J.” He didn’t mean for his voice
to sound so hollow.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…you know, I’ve been imposing on you,
using you as a social crutch. I need to put myself out there, meet people, do
things, become part of the community. Even if it requires me getting drunk and
stupid with B.J. and his dear friends.”

“No.” He waved his hand. “You’re right. Of course.”

Maybe he’d been using her a little too. Losing Molly had
taken its toll. It was hard to admit being lonely. Harder to
remedy
being lonely. His friends had been
her
friends, so being with them often
reminded him of
her
. Painful. Along comes a stranger who’s
safe
.
No history or preconceived notions about him. They had clicked right away.
Everything about Ivy was non-threatening, from her personality to her looks.
Although today she appeared beguiling, even with no makeup, her hair swept up
in a ponytail under a hairnet and a layer of sweat and kitchen grease on her
face.
Someone needs a cold shower.

“Come with us,” she said. “It’s not like a date or anything.
Far from it.”

Grant knew it was very much like a date, the first of many
dates with a variety of suitors. Someone in Mystic Springs was meant for her
and she for him. Their union would save the springs, or so many thought. An odd
mixture of sadness and jealousy churned within his gut. His soul mate was gone,
a victim of a reckless driver. With Molly had died the baby she carried, as
well as his hopes and dreams for a complete and happy life. His life was the
town. Everyone in town, not just wolves.

Ivy could still have all that—family and happiness. Not with
Bobby Joe Dumfries—God forbid—but she needed to find that out for herself.

“We’ll get together tomorrow to brainstorm. How about that?”
How pathetic am I?
He didn’t want to let her out of his sight for a
second. Bobby Joe driving while intoxicated came to mind. Bobby Joe putting his
moves on her caused an inner cringe. He doubted that B.J. understood the
meaning of the word no.

She smiled radiantly at him. “Great.”

He tucked a rogue lock of hair behind her ear. Any excuse to
touch her. “Just do me a favor and be careful.”

Smiling brightly, she said, “Careful is my middle name.”

He knew Ellen was her middle name.

Bobby Joe Dumfries was three sheets to the wind. He crooned
a bawdy country-western tune to a stuffed deer head above the bar of his
favorite watering hole. With his dear friends, as he’d called them, around him,
he’d drunk not only his quota of beer, but also Ivy’s.

“Let’s go up to the hot springs,” he suggested with a
pronounced slur to his words and a wink that caused bile to rise in her throat.

“The pool is closed this time of night,” she pointed out.
Buzzed or not, she was the manager. And she didn’t want to get caught
there—again—after hours only to be ejected by Jack, the maintenance guy. Very
embarrassing and not to be repeated.

“Not the pool.” B.J., as he liked to be called for reasons
she couldn’t understand, waved his hand. “The natural hot springs. The real
springs.”

Intrigued, Ivy agreed. Although she didn’t care to spend
five more minutes with Bobby Joe, she did have a burning desire to experience
everything Mystic. She knew there was a Mystic River that flowed into a pond
via a waterfall. She’d read about it and seen it in her dreams. From everything
she knew, it wasn’t a hot spring. And it wasn’t on the map. The water had been
cool when she’d dived into it in her dreams. Cool. Warm. Cool. Not hot, unless
they used that term loosely. She trusted her dreams. Trusted Bobby Joe…not so
much.

The resort had been built on and around the hot springs,
according to the printed literature at the resort. If Bobby Joe, the extreme
knucklehead, could be believed, the water was pumped over to the pool. The
actual hot spring, being a bit sacred to the residents, was not to be shared by
random tourists.

Not wanting to leave her life in the hands of B.J., Ivy
drove. She parked his pickup truck, complete with naked girl mud flaps and a
gun rack, where he directed. He led her up, down and around a trail with a wimpy,
flickering flashlight he’d found in his glove box. The hair on her body began
to prickle as they walked, intensifying as they got closer to the spring. She
could feel the warmth in the air around her like a soothing, comforting bubble.
Bobby Joe must have felt it too. He passed her the light like a relay baton and
took off down the trail, flinging his clothes, much the way she’d done in her
dreams.

Well, this was no dream, but when Ivy heard him shout
“yippee”, followed closely by a splash of water, she stopped collecting his
discarded clothes and broke into a jog.

“Oh my.” She stopped short of the spring. A layer of fog
hovered above the surface. B.J. floated on his back, a fountain of water shot
up between his lips.

“Come on in. The water is fine.” He disappeared beneath the
surface of the spring.

Ivy kicked off her shoes and dipped her toe in.
Warm
.
Just like the pool, but with more ambiance. Fewer posted rules. No fence
whatsoever. No pesky maintenance Nazi to scold her.

B.J. resurfaced, shaking water from his hair. “Woo hee! Come
on in.”

“I don’t have a suit,” she objected, not that she figured
he’d conveniently worn a bathing suit beneath his Wranglers. She’d clearly
spotted his bikini briefs dangling from a shrub like a Christmas ornament.
What
kind of guy wears bikini briefs?

“What happens at the hot springs stays at the hot springs.”
He slapped his hand over his eyes. “I won’t even peek much.”

Ivy knew better. News of her butterfly tattoo, lilywhite ass
and long-neglected bikini wax would be public knowledge before the sun went
down on another day. She hardly cared. The temptation of the swimming hole,
rich in warmth and minerals, called to her. Bobby Joe Dumfries—again, not so
much.

She quickly stripped down to her panties and bra, which
didn’t match and would also be public knowledge soon. She doubted if Bobby Joe
kept many secrets. She waded out thighs-deep. B.J. was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly her feet were pulled out from under her. Ivy splashed over her head
into the spring, gulping warm water. She opened her eyes under the surface and
Bobby Joe smiled at her mischievously before darting away. She’d expected once
he’d talked her out of her clothes, he’d be trying to talk her into some sweet
lovin’, but no. On the contrary, she reached out to grasp him in the murky
darkness, but he was gone.

Either the memories of her nocturnal dreams came flooding
back, jump-starting her libido, or the waters of the spring contained a
powerful aphrodisiac. She doubted any chemistry flowed between her and Bobby Joe,
but something definitely flowed within her.

Feeling lightheaded and disoriented, Ivy shot through the
surface. She wiped the water from her eyes, trying to orientate herself in the
darkness. Her head whipped back and forth for any sign of him. A buck stood
motionless by the bank. He blinked. Silence fused them in a stare-a-thon.
Why
is he wet?
The sound of a breaking twig caused the buck to dart off into
the night.

Her head snapped right and left again. “B.J.,” she
whispered, mopping the water from her face. “Bobby Joe.”

She frog-kicked her way to the steep overhang of rock and
moss to feel the splash of cold water spilling from the falls into the hot
spring, thereby making the water warm and quite swimmable.

The familiar dizziness and erratic heartbeat consumed her.
She dog-paddled towards the bank, unable to muster more. Ivy sank beneath the
water before she could reach the shore. Warmth filled her lungs. Darkness
seeped into her mind.
Peace
. She struggled for a moment, familiarizing
herself. Up and down were foreign concepts to her.

As if in one of her dreams, she took a breath.
Maybe I am
dreaming
. In her lungs, the water or air felt like extreme humidity. Thick.
Warm. Not altogether unpleasant, but labored. No sunlight cut through the
water, since the sun was long gone from the sky. And yet Ivy could see rock
walls and tiny floating particles in the water. Being a bit of a lightweight,
she’d obviously had too much beer.

Grant had warned her to be careful. Her dead and bloated
body found floating nearly naked in the hot springs by a bird-watching tourist
or wandering local would be the direct opposite of being careful.

* * * * *

Ivy woke to a warm, wet tongue lapping at her face. “No.
Bobby Joe,” she muttered. “I’m just not that in to you.”
And not that drunk
.
The tongue treatment continued.
On my face?
Really?
If he wanted
to be of service, she could put him to work down south of her panty border. No
man’s land. B.J. wasn’t a bad looking guy. It was just that her tolerance for
him dropped every time he opened his trap to utter a word. If she closed her
eyes and plugged her ears and if he restricted his activities to wordlessly
licking her pussy, Ivy could tolerate him for short spurts of time.

Maybe she was too drunk, after all, if she was thinking like
that—about him. Ivy wanted Grant. By his own admission, he wasn’t ready to
date. But her body pulsed in need for someone now. Her pussy ached for relief.

With her eyes still closed, she reached out to gently nudge
him away. Soft, fluffy fur between her fingers prompted her heavy lids to open.
“Oh. Mr. Wolf.”
Yup. Way too drunk.
“You’re so soft.” With no regard for
her own safety, her fingers burrowed into his fluff.

He skittered away, maybe expecting her to freak out. By all
logic, she should. Looking around, she lay on the bank of the spring. Darkness
still blanketed the area. Unlike in her dream, the moon and stars hung above
her in the night sky. Ivy held her hand out to the wolf. He inched closer.
Close enough to lick her hand. She let him, but petted his fur with her other
hand.

“Are you lulling me into a false sense of security, Mr.
Wolf?”

His tongue found her face and neck, deluging her in ticklish
licks.

Ivy giggled, pushing him away. “Stop it.” She slipped into
the warmth and security of the water, away from him.

Watching the wolf, she floated on her back. He panted, his
tongue hanging out of his mouth between rather large, probably sharp teeth. She
guessed he could and would venture into the water if he wanted to rip her to
shreds. You know—should he get a hankering for human innards as a midnight
snack.
Hope not.

He whined his objection to the distance that grew between
them.

“I need to get home.”
I need to stop talking to woodland
creatures. Bucks. Wolves. What’s next?

She spun around in the water when something…a fish perhaps,
brushed against her ankle. A shiver ran through her body. Her toes tingled. Ivy
paddled away from the tingling she feared was a result of fish nibbling at her
flesh. Seemed everyone wanted to sample her, except her date, who appeared to
have abandoned her. A good thing, she decided.

The wolf dashed off a few feet and stopped. Ivy paddled to
shore and collected her clothes. The wolf darted farther away. She felt certain
he headed toward the resort, if her bearings were accurate. Ivy followed
slowly, stopping every so often to dress herself. He never let her fall too far
behind, but otherwise kept a polite distance.

Maybe he was a dog after all. He acted intelligent and quite
domesticated. Ivy chatted with him along the way. “Did you happen to see my
escort frolicking through the forest? Naked.” She laughed. “No? How ’bout a
deer?” Ivy tripped in the dark. The wolf doubled back. He licked her. “This is
like the best date I’ve had in years.”

The wolf forged on along a narrow deer trail.

“I think they make a powerful microbrew up at the
distillery. It’s more like moonshine.” She couldn’t be certain if she still
dreamed. Most likely not. The air around her chilled her skin. Brush and
branches scratched her ankles. When she spotted the lights of the resort, the
wolf stopped, looked at her and darted off in the opposite direction.

* * * * *

Bobby Joe sank down onto the bar stool next to Grant just as
Werewolves of London
burst from the jukebox, masking the sound of
chatter from the nearby tables. The bartender set a beer on a coaster in front
of him without asking. No one in town served Bobby Joe hard liquor after the
streaking-through-town-in-broad-daylight incident during the height of tourist
season last year. Talk about a PR nightmare.

Bobby Joe swiveled his head in Grant’s direction, taunting
him with a shit-eating grin.

“The lodge isn’t your typical hangout, Bobby.” With a name
like
Hair of the Dog
, it was obviously a wolf hangout with their Den
conveniently upstairs. Grant’s ancestors had built the lodge and much of the
town. In an act of lunacy or a strategic political move to buy votes during the
Great Depression, his great-grandfather had turned the lodge over to the town.
All except for the small parcel of land that Grant called home. He appeared to
live on the resort grounds, but in reality it was all his. “Something on your
mind, Dumfries?”

“Lil’ Miss Ivy got a whole lot better looking.” He said his
piece slowly, as if he were reciting Shakespeare only minus the English accent,
plus a nasally drawl and a stupid expression.

That she had
. A natural loveliness reflected in her
face last time he saw her, which was too long ago as far as Grant was
concerned. She’d stood a little taller, shoulders squared, and walked with
confidence. Good to know it wasn’t a case of beauty being in the eye of the
beholder. What Grant felt for her was little more than infatuation shared by
every man in town, he reminded himself. His and everyone else’s attraction to
her was caused by magic in the air and in the water and in her blood. It pulsed
through her veins, permeating her skin. The sweet scent of her drove him a
little wild whenever she was near.

He wasn’t alone in that.

“What do you care?” Grant slung back the rest of his beer.
“Did your plans involve looking at her?” Knowing Bobby Joe, his plans involved
rutting her from behind as he beckoned her to shut the fuck up because her
constant chatter made him loose his concentration. His reputation preceded him.

“I don’t mind looking at her,” he said, like he’d be doing
Ivy a favor by casting his eyes upon her.

“Imagining what your children will look like?” The idea of
B.J. Dumfries reproducing might be cause for the town council to call a
special-order-of-business meeting.

Grant had nothing against deer as a rule, just Bobby
Dumfries and the entire Dumfries herd. They gave deer a bad name. A
once-majestic animal knocked down a peg by a bunch of inbred hillbillies who’d
refused to mix with the Indians who’d been guardians of the spring as far back
as they could recall. Nor would the Dumfries co-mingle with anyone they
considered an outsider. Grant suspected their gene pool was a bit murky.

Grant had a fair amount of Native American blood pumping
through his heart, and darn proud of it. His great-great grandmother had been
one-hundred-percent Indian from a long line of wolf shifters. The natural
history museum had been dedicated in her name and displayed many of her
treasured belongings and creations. It was as if the Native Americans were a
missing piece of
his
people,
his
pack. Like twins separated at
birth, reunited in a little town called Mystic Springs.

Bobby leaned in close, his stale breath invading and ruining
Grant’s musing and memories. “You know just like I know that whoever lands this
filly is set for life. No more septic tank pumping for me. She’s got no idea
her power. Ivy’s just another gal strutting around with low self-esteem,
waiting to be dominated by the right buck.” He went so far as to thump his
chest with his fist.

Grant’s blood boiled. His stomach churned. “And you thought
it would be wise to get wasted, skinny-dip in the hot springs, and then
transform into a buck while her back’s turned? Followed closely by abandoning
her in the woods late at night. Is that a typical date night for you?” Shaking
his head, he said, “I can’t believe you’re still single.”