Picture Perfect Memories
Coyotes: because sometimes there's no point in trying to be better than who you really are.
Coyotes: because sometimes there's no point in trying to be better than who you really are.
Back to Cannon Shoals for a standalone story. Scout's never had a story before, so we get to go back and meet his family and see how he got the way he is. Kinda. Very many thanks to Spudz for help making this readable, and thanks to Readers Like You for... well, giving me reasons to write ;) I love ya.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"Picture Perfect Memories," by Rob Baird
"You know the kind of trouble you two are in?"
The two kids frozen in the beam of his flashlight both looked suitably terrified. One of them was a tigress, the other an otter--Hannah and Kyle, they said. Mid teens, Sergeant Ortiz thought, old enough to know what trouble was. Young and stupid enough to do it anyway. Taught a lesson, they might even learn it.
He didn't care. He wasn't in the mood to be teaching lessons. His shift had officially ended at 10, and the coyote had an early drive the following morning. Two high schoolers weren't worth his time--but there he was anyway, responding to a call from a concerned citizen that someone might be breaking into the Neatasknea Light, the automated lighthouse at the harbor mouth.
Clint Kendrick agreed to follow up, more out of boredom than genuine concern for the well-being of the lighthouse. Kendrick had dragged Carlos with him, just in case, and now he was entertaining himself, repeating the question with a bellowed growl. "Well?"
"No, sir."
"Keep your hands up." He started patting them down like the plot of a B-grade action movie depended on it. "You got anything I should know about?"
"Uh. No?"
"Yeah? Then what the fuck's this?" Clint had shoved his paw into the tiger girl's jacket and pulled it back holding a bag of pot, which he tossed to the coyote. "Well?"
"I dunno?"
Carlos slid the bag's seal open with his claw and took a whiff. Homegrown stuff, not from the dispensary. Decent enough, too, twenty or thirty bucks worth. "Not oregano," the coyote said.
"Well, looks like we got another charge. Figure they got room down in county, mutt?"
"Guess we should call."
"Guess we should, huh?" He went after the girl's other jacket pocket roughly. "Country goin' to hell in a goddamn handbasket."
The tigress flinched. Clint Kendrick weighed about two-fifty, much of it muscle and all of it angry. His jet-black fur only deepened the effect his teeth tended to have on civilians. "I-isn't it just, like... a fine?"
Ortiz decided to appoint himself 'good cop,' less because it was in character for him than because Clint could never have pulled it off. "Underage possession? Yeah, according to the state."
Clint growled to underscore the coyote's explanation. "Which'd be one thing, if you fucks ain't decided to try to break in. You know this ain't Shoals property, right? That's federal."
The otter swallowed so heavily Carlos could hear it--he was trembling, too, finally starting to see the consequences. "We didn't know that, I swear. Sir."
The wolf turned, cocking an eyebrow. The cruiser's lights flickered in his cold, sharp eyes. "I never said you did. Mutt, ain't there a saying about 'ignorance of the law' or something?"
"I--I know, sir," the otter piped up. "I wasn't trying to, uh... uh... to make excuses or..."
Carlos knew it all came down to how long Clint wanted to draw things out, which meant it came down to how bored the wolf was. They wouldn't bring the kids in--wasn't worth the paperwork. And Carlos might've been willing to put up with that, but Lieutenant Kendrick harbored a grudge with the federal government and wouldn't want anything to do with them.
Fortunately for the teens, Clint bored easily and they weren't putting up enough of a fight to occupy him. The wolf shook his big head, grunting in disgust. "What do you say, sergeant?"
"It's a Sunday night. They've got classes tomorrow--you do, right?" Kyle and Hannah nodded. "If they spent the night in jail, they might miss something important. What's your first class, young lady?"
"English, sir."
"And you?"
"A-algebra," Kyle stammered.
Clint scoffed. "Algebra? What's... 3x plus y?"
The otter raised his eyes enough to look nervously between Clint and Carlos. "I--I don't know? Wh... what are x and y?"
"That's what I just asked you," the wolf said, his voice sour. "Sounds like you need to pay more attention. Fuck, alright. I'm in a good mood--get off with a warning, this time. Next time, you go to Newport. Parents can pick you up if the feds don't."
Tension evaporated from the otter's shoulders, so much of it that Carlos briefly worried if he might've been about to make the mistake of giving Clint a hug. The coyote did his best to intervene. "Don't make him reconsider. Just say 'yes, sir.'"
"Yes, sir."
Clint grunted. "And get outta here. C'mon, mutt."
"I'll catch up with ya in a sec," Ortiz said; the wolf shrugged. It was a your funeral kind of shrug: Carlos figured Kendrick would give him maybe a full minute before he took off without his partner. But he waited until the man was back in the car, anyway. "Do me a favor?"
"Uh, yes, sir?" Hannah asked.
"The state park's almost as close as the lighthouse. We don't care about it--don't they teach you anything in school?"
"Not that, sir."
"Well, now you know." The coyote sighed, and tossed the bag of pot on the ground with a subtle jerk of his paw. Neither of the teens made a move to pick it back up--they were at least that smart. "Get out of here, though. Don't want to see you again."
Kendrick at least stuck around for the coyote to make his way back and take a seat. "Fuckin' kids, right?" He shook his head, like maybe the wolf had picked up a functioning sense of ethics.
He hadn't, of course; Carlos didn't even bother to play along. "You log it?"
"Said they didn't look like trouble. Eh, what's one more lie, right? What'd you do with the grass?"
"Tossed it."
"Where they could see?"
He shrugged. "What, you wanted some?"
Kendrick put the car in gear and backed away from the lot; the headlights swept over the two kids, frozen in place and waiting for the cops to leave. "Nah. Just curious. They're starting young."
"Not that young. Anyway, be real: you don't need to be twenty-one before you figure out you need some coping mechanism for this place."
Given the time of night there wasn't any traffic; Kendrick pulled onto 101 without stopping or signaling. "Well, ain't you being bleak as fuck? Been hanging out with Danny too long."
"He is my partner, after all."
"Cynical-ass motherfucker." Clint passed his judgment, which wasn't especially controversial. Dan Hayes had earned a capital-r Reputation.
"I guess."
"Ain't exactly a role model."
Personally, Carlos thought Dan was starting to grow out of his nihilism... but he was still one of the department's troublemakers. Then again, Clint was the other. "You're one to talk," the coyote said.
Clint shot him a hard sideways look. "What's that mean?"
"Didn't I hear you got into something down at the library?"
"Bullshit late fees," the wolf suggested.
"Rumor I heard was about you and Kris Woodward."
"Yeah? Where'd ya hear that?"
"Highly placed confidential sources."
"Yeah, sure, then. Me and her got a thing goin' on or somethin'. Bitch knows a few tricks, that's for damn sure." Whatever memory twisted the wolf's muzzle into a lewd grin was clearly a good one. "Fuck, I love a good domestic."
"And it's working out well?"
He knew there'd be some allowance for varying definitions of 'well,' and Clint didn't disappoint. "Ah, we decided to try for kids."
"Both of you?"
"Mostly her. Not really father material myself. Fuck, though, 'yote, you know how it is when they start hearing that biological clock, get all heat-slutty, beggin' real nice--I hear that, me, I'm gonna do my part. You would, too."
"Maybe. What was the fight about, then?"
"Husband wasn't so keen."
There it was. "Figures. How'd that work out?"
"Just fine." His grin went dark, and dangerous. "We talked it out."
"No, you didn't."
"Sure. He said 'what the fuck are you doing?' and I said 'what's it look like?' Didn't even call him an idiot or anything. Shoulda done--I mean, y'got her there howling like fuckin' karaoke night on a porn shoot and me balls deep in her cunt, one paw on her tits an' the other on her throat--pretty goddamn obvious, right?"
And, with a different actress, it was a scene Carlos had witnessed before. "Nice of you not to insult him."
"Didn't want him to get the wrong idea. Besides, I was like six good thrusts from knottin' the bitch satisfied. Why cause problems? Asked her what she wanted so it was clear we were all on the same page. That took the fight outta him."
There was something intriguing, even vaguely admirable about how open Clint was about his proclivities. Carlos grinned. "Glad therapy's going well for you."
They'd pulled into the station parking lot, and the wolf shrugged before killing the motor. "Hey, I offered to fuck him, too, but he wasn't up for it. I'm equal-opportunity. Feds ever ask, you tell 'em that, okay?"
"Sure, Clint. I'm gonna go home now."
"And you're off tomorrow?"
"Until Wednesday, yeah."
"With your folks?"
"Yeah. Brother's getting hitched."
Kendrick shook his head. "Marrying a coyote. Guess standards ain't for everybody. Well, have fun. Bring me back some tamales or somethin'."
Danny had had a similar reaction when Carlos told him, and Ortiz had to wonder what exactly they were picturing. Mariachi music, sombreros on the groomsmen; parole officer for best man. Cannon Shoals didn't have many coyotes, and he guessed he hadn't been carrying the flag all that well.
Whatever. He wasn't really looking forward to the trip. Mateo, his younger brother by seven years, was a good kid. He still even thought of Mat as a kid, though at 26 he was marrying later than his parents. Carlos would be there for moral support. Spend the day there, drive back at some point Tuesday after listening to his father suggest new career opportunities, and go on with his life.
The next morning he discovered his suit was not hanging in the closet; nor was it in any of the boxes he packed with him. That meant it was still at his parents' house. Guess it really has been that long since I wore it. Not many reasons to dress up nice in a town of fifteen hundred miscreants. Well, he could borrow an iron and make it presentable when he got to Stayton.
Outside, he took a moment to examine the spot on the asphalt under his car. It hadn't gotten bigger, had it? Carlos decided the answer was 'probably not,' since the alternative was to keep standing there and at six in the morning Cannon Shoals was just few degrees over freezing.
The important thing about his FJ-40 was it started reliably. His partner still called him 'Scout' after the International Harvester he'd had when he first moved to the Shoals. That was a real piece of shit, a hand-me-down from his uncle, and to the extent that the coyote felt guilt he saved some for the poor idiot who bought it off him.
He gave the car a minute to warm up, and while it was rumbling its discontented way into life he turned on the radio, too. Not much: faint voices, hidden by static. The Cobra had been properly mounted to the dashboard and grounded. The speaker next to it was a wireless job, secured with velcro--making that permanent was one of those maybe on a slow day things. He flipped a toggle switch and waited for the connection light to come on.
--qu'est ce que c'est?
"Better run run run run, run run run away," he sang along, and worked the truck onto the highway headed towards Philomath. The playlist on his phone marked whatever mood he'd been in last. This time it seemed appropriate enough.
It was just after seven-thirty when he hit Corvallis and the Monday morning traffic that was dense and slow-moving even that far from the interstate. Lots of commuters. Salem must've been getting expensive--or maybe there were still some people making their drowsy way through the American dream.
For some value of it, anyway. Pick up a house in Albany or Lebanon or fuckin' Scio, maybe. Drive in to an office job, work your ten hours, come back to a lawn of your very own you get to mow on the weekends. Minivan with carseats strapped into the rear bench.
His Toyota had been standing on empty since Philomath, and the closer he got to his destination the less he looked forward to it. The light on his phone had started flashing, too. Text message light, if he wasn't mistaken. Probably mom, wondering where I am.
It wasn't. The messaging app referred to it as an 'unknown sender,' and he realized with a jolt that he'd never added it to his contacts. He knew Samantha Rigney's number by heart. She'd been in his address book up to his last phone. When did he replace that? Two years ago? Three?
Hey C, highly placed confidential sources told me you were in town for Matty's wedding. Guess my invite got lost. A minute later: It's Sam, obviously, nerd.
Stopped at a light, he tapped out a reply. Coyotes only, apparently.
HI!!! Well if you get bored or post bail you should stop by BB ok
They hadn't broken up so much as drifted apart--Facebook still said they were in a relationship well after he moved to Cannon Shoals. She'd found a job before he did, even if it was just at the coffee shop. Neither he nor the mutt girl felt like their relationship was worth moving for.
Paradoxically his parents weren't especially fond of Sam--and what they viewed as her squandered potential--but her staying put only made the problem worse. Like they wouldn't have wanted him to marry her, but they also thought she should've gone with him to the Shoals.
Kind of a no-win scenario. The one on Gardner?
Yep working until 9 tonight so at least ill be bored. Ill. ILL. I WILL. UGH. See ya.
He left the message unanswered. Would all depend on how his parents felt. And he'd have to get there first, which meant not running out of gas on the side of the interstate.
The tabby cat at the pump in Albany looked to be about Carlos's age. He was bundled up against the cold in a thick jacket and a marked antipathy to doing anything other than shoving the nozzle into place and putting his gloved paws back in the pockets. Carlos was pretty sure he didn't have a house and a yard and a minivan.
"Yo. Have a good day," the coyote told him, and slipped him a few dollars for a tip. Not because he'd done anything--hadn't even looked at the windshield--but because the weather was shitty and Carlos sure as fuck wouldn't have wanted to either.
"Thanks, man." The little flicker of solidarity, the hinted recognition of a kindred spirit, was worth three bucks.
He came back to Stayton every few months, and had ever since school. At some point in the intervening years, the house stopped changing, though he couldn't really have said why. The sedan parked in the driveway was a newer model, and a different color, and interchangeable just the same.
His FJ-40 stood out. The man who emerged from indoors knew it--feigned disappointment crossed his age-weathered features. "What are the neighbors going to say?"
"Oh, tell them it's a project car. Midlife crisis."
Ben Ortiz had entered that stage of his life where he appeared merely old without any sort of granularity. Only Carlos knew that his father was a good decade past 'midlife.' "The neighbors think I don't know anything about cars, though."
That was a better objection. "Then there's no better time to learn, right?"
"Right." Ben finally grinned, and held the door open for his son. "What do you say we trade advice? Leave mom alone."
"You don't have to," a voice called out. Carlos turned, and his father mouthed silently: you have to. He patted the elder coyote's shoulder and made his way inside, removing his shoes and slotting them into the neat wooden rack by the door.
His mother, Zoe, was at the computer--no surprise, since she made her living there. He was surprised that the living room looked, by Ortiz standards, like a disaster area. The coffee table was strewn with papers, a half-finished glass of water sat un-becoastered next to them, a cardboard box dragged down from the attic lay open, and half its contents spilled into an untidy pile on the thick carpet.
She plainly saw none of it. Her eyes were sharp and focused behind glasses reflecting the glare of the monitor. "Welcome home, son," she said, without turning away. "How was the drive?"
"It was fine. Anything I can do to help?"
"Arrest the caterer."
Her voice was curt--Carlos suspected his father had the right idea. He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and left her to find Ben in the dining room, wearing a smirk over the rim of his morning coffee. "What did I say?"
"I guess something happened?"
"A minor miscommunication, that's all."
"They didn't read the email," his mother growled from the next room over. "That's not a miscommunication."
Ben took a sip of his coffee, waiting for any further explanation, but none was forthcoming. "We're trying to see if they can come up with another six vegetarian entrées on short notice."
"We're not doing anything, Ben," Zoe shot back. "I'm doing it."
Carlos could guess that, true though this might be, his mother had probably growled Ben away from the computer when he tried to help. "That's what I meant, sweetie. Let Carlos know if he should get out the handcuffs."
"I didn't bring them," he admitted. "I didn't bring my suit, either--I think I left that here? Maybe?"
Zoe Ortiz was not too focused on her work to keep following the conversation at the dining table. "You did. It's in the downstairs closet. I ironed it. You owe me."
"Arresting the help?"
"It might come to that."
His father smiled gently. And he closed his eyes, and in an instant Carlos could picture just how tense the last few weeks had been for them. "At least it'll be over soon," he told the man.
"At least. So! How's work treating you?"
"It's been alright. I was getting decent OT for awhile; that was nice."
Ben nodded. "You said they weren't hiring anybody new, I remember. With the one guy... well. I suppose he wasn't actually being punished, was he? Not for a thing like that."
His dad's teasing verged, at times, close to the edge of no longer being fond. For the moment he still had the same wry smile. "Unpaid leave, yeah. He's back now."
"Ah, yes, I had a similar thing happen. One of my kids brought a knife to class. I made him stay late for two weeks. He had to clean the hallways and empty the wastebins." Ben paused, arching his eyebrows. "Now, if he'd gone and killed someone, it would've been five or six weeks, at least."
"I told you the investigation cleared him."
"And I'm sure it was very thorough. Or they forgot where they hid the rubber stamp."
Most arguments with his father weren't worth having; Ben won most of them. This was no different. Beneath Clint Kendrick's coarse exterior were topics locked away from being joked or laughed or even growled about.
The wolf had never said anything to Carlos about the incident in question. The report said he'd been threatened; there was a loaded shotgun at the scene, and for all his faults Carlos didn't think Clint was the type to plant evidence. Bloodwork showed the assailant had been drunk, and probably high.
And, with her being dead and all, she had only a rap sheet to testify on her behalf. No character witnesses. His partner Dan was closer to Kendrick, and Danny confided once that it was this that bothered Kendrick--the notion that people in the Shoals thought he'd overreacted, and would've made him a pariah, except his victim was even more of an outcast.
Carlos didn't know one way or the other, and Clint Kendrick's inner demons meant nothing to Ben Ortiz. The most courtesy he'd extended his son was that he no longer openly talked about the police career as a waste of a good college education.
So Carlos simply deflected, gesturing to a photograph on the kitchen wall. "Is that new? It must be one of Mat's, right?" It seemed to have been taken in a carpentry shop; the focus was on a wooden horse, and the woman in safety glasses bending over it with a chisel.
The glasses hid her face and part of her muzzle, but not her oversized ears or her brushy tail. Carlos figured it was a safe assumption she was Mat's fiancée. "Yep," his father confirmed. "That's Emma, from last fall. Open house for the city carousel."
"Carousel?"
"The one on the river. Don't know how long it's been there--"
"2001," Zoe interjected.
"2001, apparently. You were too old when we moved here, then. Emma's got this other picture of her on a horse, though, from when she was a girl. Real cute. Mat's a lucky guy."
Deflection never lasted long. It certainly didn't help that Mat and Emma had met after Carlos moved to Cannon Shoals; the timing put a barbed edge on any question about when the Middle Ortiz might think about settling down.
But he didn't begrudge Mateo--when he agreed that Mat certainly was a lucky guy, the sentiment was genuine. He did his job out of more than just familial obligation. Maybe it was even exciting, kind of, thinking that an Ortiz could end up in a nice church, in soft focus, framed by the sound of bells. 'Cleaned up 'til it washes off,' as a friend of his used to say whenever Carlos acted the part. Something about it didn't seem quite logical, but the phrasing stuck with him.
The best man was some young guy named Dustin, a bear with an eastern drawl who said he'd known Mat 'basically his whole adult life.' Four years, it turned out. He told a story about moving to Salem from Philadelphia, not knowing anyone in the city, and how Mat had been assigned to him as a mentor.
He took me to lunch my first day and ordered the habanero pico. I thought, I'm not gonna let this little guy show me up. Carlos couldn't imagine a bigger contrast between Dustin and the coyote's short, rail-thin brother. So I puffed up and said 'I'll have the same' and I thought I was gonna die and he kept grinning at me...
But they bonded, and the place became a regular haunt, and one day another intern showed up, and she was another coyote, and she watched them trying to eat the pico de gallo, and she said "did he put you up to this or are you both crazy?"--and honestly Carlos lost the thread of the story when it acquired some metaphor about trying new things, or maybe about cooking, or coyotes...
Mat looked happy though. So did Emma, with a dress and a radiant smile that would make her the star of the wedding album. It put Carlos in a good mood by the time the day drifted over to the reception. That, and an open bar, even got him mingling--though for the most part he hung out with his older brother, who'd come up from New Mexico.
Antonio Ortiz was five years older, and perceptive enough to have drifted from their parents' sphere of influence. He was divorced, his job was just enough to pay the bills... but he was content with that. Apparently. Sometimes Carlos thought of him as a role model; sometimes he hoped Tony took the pressure off him.
He wondered if Mat ever looked at it the same way--they didn't really talk enough for it to come up. Carlos didn't even know he was dating Emma before his mom told him the two were engaged.
But there was enough to keep up the appearances of a good family. Seeing his two brothers together, Mateo pulled Dustin over, his tail wagging. "Hey guys! Dustin--I told ya about Tony, right? Tony's out in Albuquerque. He works for the... Forest Service?"
"BLM," Tony corrected.
"Neat. Like a park ranger?"
"Nah, not that exciting; it's an office job."
Mat had clearly been under a bit of stress: he was on his third glass of champagne, and they were hitting fairly hard. "Going after cattle rustlers, right? That's pretty exciting."
His older brother grinned indulgently. "There's a big project in our district to update the old survey maps and check the land use. I work on the software that processes what the field teams come back with. You want excitement, man, you should talk to Carlos."
"Carlos?"
"Me," Carlos said, and held out his hand for Dustin to shake. He chalked the bear's unfamiliarity up to inebriation--couldn't have been that Mat just never mentioned him, obviously.
"What do you do?"
"I'm a police officer out on the coast. It's a small town, so don't get the wrong idea--traffic stops and truant kids, mostly, you know?"
"You like it?"
"It pays the bills," Carlos said. He nodded in agreement as Mat rambled on about how their father wanted them to go into public service. And, when Mat led his friend off to make further introductions, he hung back with Tony. "How much of this you figure he'll remember?"
"Oh, the important parts. All the stuff they have pictures of. This is really for mom and dad--like I don't know they're still pissed about Lauren and I eloping? Not that I got a 'serves you right.' But it takes the pressure off, or something."
"Or something." He looked away from Tony, away from the crowd, and into his bottle. Too full for comfort, and sure as fuck too full to ask Tony if things had settled down after the divorce. "How's the old country, man?"
"Not too bad, not too bad. Work's okay. And I guess you know, it helps having some distance from the homestead." Tony chuckled abruptly, glancing around until catching sight of their mother. "She did a signing in Taos and drove down to see me. That's when I got the 'serves you right'--six hours of her clucking her tongue at my kitchen. She'll have fun with Mat and Emma. Now that she gets to play with dolls again."
Carlos grinned. "I did notice you didn't fly out for Christmas."
"Mat didn't come home either, right? In LA with his girl's family?"
"Yeah. Thanks for throwing me under the bus on that one."
"You want me to say I'm sorry? I dunno." Tony took a swig of his beer. "I dunno," he repeated, and shook his head.
Weird thing to say. Something was going on; his brother looked uneasy. The wedding? God, I wonder if mom and dad really have been beating him up about Lauren. Because they'd liked her--more than they liked Sam Rigney, for sure. And maybe they thought Tony had ruined it by running off with her.
Tony broke the silence, trying to keep it from becoming uncomfortable. But there was nothing to be done. "Hey. When you were back at Christmas, did dad talk to you about anything?"
The younger coyote felt his ear twitch at the loaded question. "No. What about?"
"He said he was gonna do that maybe..."
"What about?" Carlos repeated. He found himself increasingly aware that he'd never really been close to Tony. Tony had the good sense or the good fortune to get out, to break away from the sphere of their parents' influence.
But they were still siblings, after all. The way Tony looked at his beer and quickly finished the rest of it was quite familiar. "About taking the job in Stayton. When I called before Thanksgiving he was asking me if I thought maybe you would go back to school. I said 'no.' You're not, I figure?"
"Probably not."
Tony excused himself. Fetching another bottle, Carlos knew; in his absence he let himself ponder what his father might've wanted to say. The question of graduate school was an obvious one; dad had never really liked seeing his son as a cop.
But what about the rest?
Sure enough, his brother came back with two more Coronas. "He wanted out of New Mexico at the time. And with mom being from Bend, Oregon looked good. And I, uh. Well. Me, I..."
"You'd just left for school," Carlos guessed. "They didn't have to worry about you anymore."
"Yeah."
"And Mat was like six, so he was too young to care, and fuck it if that meant pulling me out of school and everything else?"
"Kind of. And I guess there was stuff with Mat's asthma, and mom was fighting with her publisher. He feels bad about how distracted--his word, not mine--he got."
Carlos scowled. "Dad was going to apologize for letting me fall through the cracks? Fuck, man, it wasn't that bad. I still got into college, right?" Tony shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Fuck. Just say it, Tony. I won't tell dad you ratted him out."
"He was talking about the science olympiad when you were in 4th grade, and how your teachers thought you were going to be a nuclear physicist or something."
"And I didn't?"
"Yeah."
He turned it over in his head. First he tried to decide how angry he was. Then he tried to decide why, but before he could the words were already coming. "Didn't you go to some national TSA competition? And didn't you wind up as a GS8 computer tech?"
"Yeah." And Tony read between the lines, through his Corona, except there wasn't really an answer. "It's different for them, somehow. I don't know."
Not 'different' in the way his high school actually had a Technology Student Association, and then the Ortiz family moved to a small town with a 'science club' and a healthy dose of apathy, Carlos knew. Different in whatever way Tony could bail on Christmas and get a divorce and settle into a tepid career that still made him some semblance of an Ortiz success story. Obviously not as shiny as Mat's wound up being--Mat would headline the family Christmas newsletter, clearly--but: "Jesus fuck."
"See why I don't come home?"
He had the presence of mind to excuse himself. His mood had gone twitchy, and there was no reason for Mat to see any of it. Not the good child, he thought, before flinching. This is why you're getting out of here.
To where, he didn't know. His parents' house was too far to walk; even if he made it back his car keys were indoors and he was locked out. The reception had been scheduled to run until 10, and it was only half past eight.
Find a bar?
No. No, he didn't need that. The coyote's next thought was 'coffee.'
Ah, fuck. Right. And as long as the phone was out of his pocket while he checked the time, he called for a ride.
The café he had in mind started out as a roadside stand. A few years later it became a hole-in-the-wall, tucked into the alley behind a hardware co-op, good enough to continue attracting business. Now it was a proper building, with professionally designed vinyl window clings.
'Bean Better' was still written as if hand-lettered, though. The logo showed an Airstream trailer in the shape of a coffee bean, homage to humble origins. It was a curious memory for the coyote: looking at the sign he couldn't say when they'd moved into the new space. It felt like five years ago. But that meant five years before Cannon Shoals, which was really ten years.
Or five years before university? Fifteen years? Jesus, it can't be--right? The jumble of half-nostalgic memory compounded itself when he saw the woman behind the counter.
When they were dating in school, it was easy for Carlos to understand why his parents didn't care for Rigney. Now, he felt, the reason was different. Like the Accord in the Ortiz driveway, she'd entered a curious form of stasis.
She looked the same as he remembered. Same rolled-up sleeves on the same sort of flannel shirt, t-shirt under it with the name of some band he'd never heard of. Same studs tracing a line up the rim of her left ear.
Same job, for that matter, apparently. She was busy helping the customer in front of him. When they finished she glanced over; then her head tilted, and her eyes widened. "Oh, hey! You never wrote back! Fuckin' prick," she added under her breath so nobody could hear.
"I was busy. Bitch." He repaid the favor, and the grin. "Sorry."
"It's okay. I'm busy, too. Guy after me called in--you notice we're open late and stuff now? Got a license. You want something?" Sam jerked her thumb at one of the open tables. "Grab a seat, I'll be over in a sec."
Carlos always figured her for a coyote mix, probably, despite her brindled coat and her oddly burgundy nose. It was his best explanation for the size of her ears, and the wicked glint her eyes could adopt at the merest provocation. He listened to the eyes, though; a minute later Sam joined him with two glasses of beer, dark in the subdued lighting. "What's this?"
"Good for you, that's what. Red ale. Told ya we got a license, right? It's kind of a gamble, that's what the boss keeps saying, because it hasn't taken off yet. But it pays for itself and our hours working it, so that's something. We want to be, like, where people come for craft shit."
"I thought you were at a Starbucks. Misremembered that?"
"Nah, the store closed. That sucked--we had benefits and everything--but, hey. Life, right? That was two years ago, too. You haven't been paying attention."
"Guess not as much as I could, no."
"Busy," she threw his own excuse back at him. "Matty's settling down, though. How was the wedding?"
"My parents liked it--my older brother eloped, so they never really got the chance to do the whole ceremony. Other than that it was fine, I guess. Food sucked."
"You left the bride alone? Get up to anything?"
"Nothing much."
The dog flashed a grin that any coyote could've appreciated. "Figured. What about you? You seeing anyone?" He shook his head, gesturing to her with a questioning wave of his glass. "Yeah, actually. You remember Cody?"
"Cody Yarbrough? Paint Store Cody?"
"God, you really haven't been paying attention. He's been at a greenhouse for a while, but--fuck, Carlos, he stopped working at the paint store in, like... 2013? Year after you ran for the coast."
And if he could see Sam settling down with anyone it was probably Cody Yarbrough, a stocky, trouble-happy lynx who sold drugs out of the paint store and, he supposed, probably the greenhouse now too. "He get the Mustang running?"
"Sorta. I don't ask as long as the grease stays outside. You don't still have that old piece of shit jeep, I'm guessing."
"Sold it and bought a slightly newer piece of shit."
"Same old 'yote."
And, as they worked through the beer, same old Samantha Rigney. Still taking pictures. She was a photographer, like his brother. But Mat took glossy, well-lit, upbeat photos for the city of Salem to put in brochures and anodyne websites where "come visit us" ended in an exclamation point--Sam did not.
She took pictures of old bridges, and broken dams, and overgrown tractors that had been dragged out to the middle of nowhere and shot. Black and white photos, haunting, and as she talked about sneaking in to an abandoned hospital he knew there were still those Sundays when her fur was thick with the smell of darkroom chemicals.
Funny how it worked that way. The second round of drinks helped, but the coyote knew better than to think it might've gone different sober. He got on too well with the mixed-breed. Alcohol just meant looking at their past splintered and rearranged--like stained glass, hazy and glowing and translucent. She was doing the same; that was the window she was looking through when she asked how he got by "in a small town like that."
"It's simple, I think. I think that's why."
"Simple?"
"First place I kinda knew where I stood? Like I know enough people I can see how the pieces fit together and I know where I fit in them. Small enough I can make my own place in it. I haven't figured everything out." More than that, he was coming to conclusions on the fly, letting the day catch up to him. "Being back here, though. Yeah. Watching my brother get hitched--I realized how nice it is to know what people want of you and to decide if it's worth it on my own terms."
"You're doing that?"
"Not yet," he admitted. "But it's not bad. A little unstuck in time, but... fuck, like I read the news and think this is a present I want to be in? At least our shitheads can't fuck up things so bad I can't fix. Mostly."
"Doesn't sound half-bad, when you put it that way."
"It isn't."
"Here I always thought of you as trouble."
She was grinning, so he grinned back. "I don't have to be."
"Nah. Find the place where you can be boring," she said.
"Maybe? I don't know that I'd go that far."
"Quoting a song." She pushed her overshirt open so he could see the artwork on her tee. Carlos guessed she was referring to the band, but he didn't know LCD Soundsystem. And briefly, tipsy on half-recollection, he was looking beyond the shirt.
Her fur was cream from beneath her muzzle to her neck. White by the time it reached her belly, like the sun hadn't touched it. The rippling caramel and chocolate of her brindling curved around her breasts--Carlos knew that because he could picture it, and he could picture the stripes under his fingers when they were both putting off studying or writing papers, and he was hugging her from behind and saying--
Well. Saying the kind of stuff Cody Yarbrough had more cause to say, all things considered. "I was thinking about heading your way this spring."
"Cannon Shoals?"
"It's pretty much the closest place to where I want to go, I think? I need to check the map, but there's a rail trestle along the river out there, PWA vintage... saw a picture of it online and I think I know how to do better. I think there's some fuck-off old waterwheel, too. Deerblood Creek, that ring a bell?"
He nodded. "Runs into the Neatasknea about fifteen miles up from us. I don't know about any wheels--it's all state land, or it's private property. Either way, not my circus."
"I'll stay out of trouble," she promised, though with Sam it had always been more a matter of luck.
"Sure you will. Well, if you do visit, give me a call."
"Of course. Stay at your place?"
The coyote couldn't hear if it had been meant as a question. It should've been, but he felt he'd been imagining the rising tone simply because it was appropriate. "If you want, yeah."
"'If I want.' Coyote," the mutt said, laughing. "Of course I do. Don't get to chill with ya enough--why d'you think I told you to come here? 'Cause I missed your face, Carlos. Don't act like you didn't miss mine."
"I didn't. No."
"Exactly." She looked at his glass, saw that he'd finished, and drank the last few sips of her own. "And I'm all clocked out and whatever, so we're not gonna let 'em rope me into closing. Let's bounce."
"To?"
Sam didn't answer, but he followed her outside. She hadn't put on a coat or anything, just started buttoning her flannel shirt; she pointed towards Shaff Road, a few blocks up. "I just walk to work. Convenient, when it's not raining."
"House?"
"Who're you kidding? Just an apartment, but my car's parked there and stuff. The more I take a look at the prices, I think I missed out on houses. It's all getting so spendy."
"Same. I guess technically I have a house, but I'm renting."
"That's what Cody does... him and his brother live over in Shaw. Buying a house seems like so much hassle. And for what?"
"Coming of age," he said. "Or something." And it was a joke, even when he said it.
Sam lived on the ground floor of a two-story apartment complex. Only a few of the lights were still on; the other residents must've been good citizens, already asleep. He became even more out of place when she stopped, at her door, and turned to look at him. "But you know what? Hell, you come off pretty respectable."
"Right," he said, grinning--knowing what was coming. "Clean up well?"
"'Til it washes off, yeah. God, 'yote."
"What? Almost fooled you?"
"Oh, almost." Her paw brushed his chest, with the claw scratching softly at his shirt just along the inside of his blazer. "It's still a nice look, even for an act. Fuck, Carlos, why do you gotta be so cute?"
"Not a problem, right?" Impulsive answer. He should've come back with something flippant. Whatever said I appreciate the compliment and also in a platonic way.
"Is it?" Sam grinned. Then, with a teasing poke, she pulled her paw away. Its partner was still on the doorknob of her apartment. It would be so easy, so damn easy, to give her a nudge.
But. Coming of age, or something. "I guess I should head home," he finally said. "I'm crashing with my folks--gonna drive back tomorrow morning."
"You're gonna walk all the way there? Really?"
"Yeah."
"Long way." She slid her key into the lock and turned the handle. It was dark inside. "You sure about it?"
The coyote searched for whatever words would add up to an excuse. "Don't want to impose." Outside, with the aggravated flicker of a fluorescent streetlamp painting her muzzle, the smile was thin and he couldn't help it. "Unless you still have that old couch?"
"Mm-hmm." The mutt slipped inside; the last thing he saw was the slight wag of her tail. "Still do. You can have the couch. And..."
He stepped in after her. "And?"
Sam clicked the door shut. The lights stayed off; he could just barely make out her silhouette. Her breathing was more telling: deep, working herself up to a question. "I can drive you to your parents' house tomorrow, if you'll do me a favor?"
"Sure."
The mixed-breed pressed herself gently against him, pinning the coyote between her and the apartment door. Her voice dropped to a whisper that he could hear it fine: her nose was a hair's breadth from his. "Don't tell anyone."
The first kiss--Carlos wasn't dumb enough to think of it as the only kiss, even to himself--was soft. Her lips brushed his, and as she reacquainted herself with the sensation Samantha let out a quiet gasp. She started to pull away, started to open her mouth to ask for his agreement, and he leaned forward to close the distance.
He felt her gasp again. But she stayed put, and used the space between the door and his back to slip her arms around his neck. And to pull him into her, when her head canted and their muzzles nudged into deeper, more heated contact.
There was no resistance when he worked his tongue between her lips--as soon as he'd done it she growled, meeting him halfway. Her claws raked through the fur of his neck, toying with it. She pushed up with her feet, shoving him hard against the door, the briefest flicker of moonlight picking out her eyes in the darkened room.
Sam was so close he could feel her tail wagging, twitching her hips right next to his. She finally pulled away, breathing shallow and quick. Carlos knew his own voice was going to be ragged. "You--you mean--about the kiss, right?"
Her panting ruffled his whiskers for a few seconds. "What else would I mean?"
Fuck. Because she wasn't going to let him off easy. She'd make him work for whatever virtue he pretended at having, and god almighty it was a struggle. She felt too goddamn good in his arms--that kind of close, perfect fit that put the lie to simple objections. She felt like it was college again, like they were in the student union, and she'd stolen a kiss, and he'd...
A gasp cut into his thoughts--instinctively he'd run both paws down her back. His fingers were on her rear, squeezing firmly through the denim. "Oh, I see." Her voice was almost too dark to be a giggle. Almost. "Maybe."
'Maybe.' It was a dare. A threat. A challenge. Her paw hooked around his leg to give her some extra leverage when she tugged herself against his hips. Carlos's answer bubbled into a growl that her lips muffled. She was kissing him again, her velvet tongue invading his maw.
Now she was proper close. If he forced himself not to think about the kiss there was the curving swell of her breasts, warm even through their clothes. If not that then the muted, eager moan he got when he groped her rump again. If not that then the heat she was grinding shamelessly against his crotch.
"More'n--more than 'maybe.'" It even sounded strangled and insincere.
"Quick learner." Sam was panting hard; she put off dealing with it in a rough, sloppy kiss. "So what?"
"What about your boyfriend?"
"Mm?"
"Cody?"
He felt her shrug. "Be honest. Do you care?"
For a heartbeat or so he thought: did I really expect that to stop her? Asking the question made it clear he hadn't expected it would stop him, either. "I'm giving you an excuse."
"Right," Sam breathed. The mutt still had him trapped, and she made damn sure he knew it, momentarily tightening her leg's grip. "We can't do this. Fuck, Carlos, you better stop." And she froze. Even in the lightless room he knew she would be staring at him. "That kind of excuse?"
"Try again."
"I'm seeing someone, Carl--os!" He cut the last syllable off with another kiss, twisting the reply into a low, guttural groan. "You have to stop... it's so wrong..."
"Be honest--do you care?"
She unwrapped her leg from around the coyote, and managed to free her arms from his neck a few seconds later. She tugged his arm and he followed her as Sam picked her way through her apartment to the bedroom. It was brighter there; he could see the sheets, and her fur glowing in the moonlight. The sheets were already a mess.
Carlos gave her a shove and with a giddy, lust-drunk giggle the mutt took the hint and went down, sprawling on the mattress before she rolled over onto her back to sit up and watch him undress. He got the blazer off and was working on the shirt when she leaned over, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him atop her.
He growled with that. Hadn't meant to--but then he was pinning her, the mattress just barely yielding under their weight, and he couldn't help it. The kiss had acquired a sort of hunger to it, like they were devouring each other--like there was something feral and predatory in the touch, and the grip of Sam's paws on his shirt.
He still managed to get all but the last button off the normal way before impatience got the better of the mixed-breed. The button popped all the way off, and there was a thrill of pleasure with her fingers pushing into his fur, but he snarled anyway. "The fuck was that for?"
"Fuck was what for?"
Carlos bit down on her nose. "That was my only good shirt."
"Yeah? When's the next time you'll need a good shirt?"
The coyote bit her again. "Just for that," he rumbled to her. "Now you have to wait." He held the dog down with one paw and pushed himself from her with the other. That task done, he thumbed open the mutt's jeans and tugged them down.
Sam helped him, kicking the pants off to reveal the soft, dark fur of her legs. In proper lighting it would be subtly striped, ochre to his sandy red, but neither of the dogs were well-lit. And neither of them were proper: he dug his claw into her panties and tugged sharply until the fabric tore. "Hey!"
He stuck out his tongue. "When's the next time you'll need them?"
Carlos heard, rather than saw, the resigned shake of her head. He didn't need to see much of anything, not to nudge her legs apart with the back of his paw or to slip between them. His nose took him the rest of the way, lapping gently up her thighs, encouraging her to spread them the rest of the way.
The scent of her arousal thickened and in the spirit of teasing he paused for a moment to let it flood his muzzle. Then--when he heard her draw breath to speak--the coyote worked his soft canine tongue along her slit. Slowly. Thoroughly.
She tensed, shuddering, and he flicked the tip of his tongue against the mutt's clit until she relaxed with a sighing moan. He went back to licking her, the tang of her dripping sex spreading over his tongue as he drew it from the gasping mutt.
He was caught between the desire to keep going--to force every whimper and twitching moan from her that he could--and the knowledge that they were going to fuck, that he needed her with an ache that bordered on physical, and that the evidence suggested neither was much for delayed gratification. So when she whispered coyote he nuzzled her slit in a lewd kiss, pressing his tongue partway in--but he also gave an inquisitive grunt.
"Stop teasing." Carlos let his tongue work deeper, and she rapped the coyote between his pointed ears. "Hnf--no. Fuck me."
He sat up, licking his muzzle as clean as it was going to get. "You're sorry about the shirt?"
"No. But I need you in me right fucking now and I'll lie if that's what it takes."
"Wouldn't make you do that, babe." Carlos leaned over, kissing her deeply, letting her own taste distract her while he got out of the rest of his clothes. Or, at least, while he started--he had to get up in order to remove his trousers.
She took the opportunity to kick her jeans off the bed, and to watch him disrobe in silhouette. What little light they had glinted off her teeth. "Nice to see ya again, 'yote."
"Glad I stopped by the coffeeshop?" He joined her again on the mattress, stealing another kiss as long as he was there.
"Mmf. Not as glad as I'm gonna be."
"Hey, uh. Do you have any condoms?" He supposed that, Cody not being a dog and all, she didn't ordinarily have an obvious need. But it was worth asking, just in case, and no point wondering what he'd do if she said no.
That was not what she said. "Why?"
"Being responsible."
"Oh. Fair." She arched her back and wriggled sideways until she could stretch out to the nightstand, pull open the drawer, and toss one of the little packets at him. "I mean. I'm probably not in heat. Maybe."
He tore the foil open and carefully worked the condom down and over his cock, all the way to the base over the still-unformed knot--also no point wondering why she had ones designed for canids. "Yeah. You act like it." Sam grunted in answer. She grunted again when he pounced her flat to the mattress, his chest a heated weight on hers. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"I just know what I want, that's all."
Carlos pushed her legs apart and worked his way between them. His tip bobbed, brushing soft fur before meeting warmth, and slick resistance. "Bet you do," the coyote said, lowering his voice. And he kissed her again as he leaned into her, and his cock slid inside. Just like that--one smooth, pumping thrust and she took him, smooth and tight around the coyote's length.
Samantha locked her arms around his neck, and as he pushed inside her the mutt pulled him down and into a kiss. He rocked against her a second time, savoring the friction as his prick slid through her clinging folds. His third thrust was already sharper, swifter--the dog's groan flooded into his muzzle as breath left her in a rush.
"You like that?" He half-whispered, half-hissed it to her, keeping to a fluid tempo that he could already feel was too quick to last for very long.
Sam's claws were her first answer, digging into his skin as her paws took tufts of his fur. Wasn't much of an answer. Carlos slammed into her with a strong, hard buck and held there, buried to the hilt in her cunt. And he repeated the question. "Christ--yes," she managed, when the quivering subsided.
Good, because he liked it too. "You always were a good fuck," he panted to the mutt as he took her, every full stroke pushing her down and into the mattress. He knew the beats of it from experience. Loved it; loved how she'd arch her back, meeting his thrusts to take him harder. Loved the way she'd lose control and start to moan, each higher-pitched than the last.
When she got her words back she'd be--"god, that's it, fuck me!"--that. Doing that. Pleading for him, her legs closing tight behind his to spur those deliberate, ramming movements as he rutted into the mongrel bitch. Keeping him deep in her until the only thing he could even feel was the slick, texture of her walls warm and snug on his pistoning shaft.
He wanted to put off the finish for a bit--god, but it had been too damn long since he'd fucked her. Taking his chances, he pinned her ear between the sheets and his nose, panting giving his voice a hard edge. "What about that boy of yours?"
Sam tensed her countermovement faltered, like he'd thought it might. "What?"
"Your boyfriend, bitch." He shifted into a series of slower strokes while she was distracted and the need to just rail her to his peak ebbed a bit. "What would he think?"
She splayed out her fingers, and her paws dragged up his fur to his shoulders. She squeezed down, at the same time pushing into him sharply. "I don't care." Carlos stayed slow, fighting the impulse to hammer her raised hips into submission the way she wanted. "I don't. Fuck. Fuck--you asshole! What do you want?"
The coyote added a nip to her ear before his voice filled it, a molasses-dark growl. "Whose are you? Say it." Samantha froze, and he did his part to remind her he'd asked a question with a full, proper thrust. "Say it."
"Make me!" He drove in hard, letting her feel every bit of him stuffing her, from the half-swollen knot to the tip nudging her so goddamn deep they both shuddered with it. She tossed her head back with a yelp like he'd just fucked her into a coyote. "Fuck. Yours! Your bitch!"
Carlos rewarded the mutt's honesty with another buck like the one before it. "Fuckin' right." He probably said something else, probably told her she loved it, because she moaned in lewd agreement to something, purring in carnal ecstasy that she needed him, that she wanted him to take her, to take his bitch--
And then, as he mated her in deep thrusts that kept coming shorter and shorter together, the urgency rising in his growls and gasps and nips, she cursed again and kicked at his foot. "Fuck--stop."
He was halfway in her, sure as anything that he was, as Clint put it, half a dozen thrusts from knottin' the bitch satisfied. The coyote grunted, his halt shaky and tense. "What?"
Sam kicked him again, pushing him out of her. "Fuck it, that's what. Off. God--goddamn it." He started to ask what she meant, but then her paw was on his cock. Tugging at him--slick as he was it took a couple tries for her fingers to get purchase. And then he felt the condom slip off, and the flick of her wrist that tossed it to the side. "There."
"Hey--"
"Shut up." Her arm hooked around his upper back again.
"Said we were gonna be responsible," he pointed out. Even as she was twisting, working back into position--even as his bare tip bumped the lips of her pussy. Even as her hips jerked, and his involuntary half-thrust sank him a few inches back inside, and the sodden warmth around him had Carlos groaning, ears pinned.
"I know."
He pushed the rest of the way, locking up momentarily at the pure unfiltered biological gratification as his knot slipped in and she squeezed around it audibly. "So how responsible should I--"
"No."
The coyote was in no mood to keep arguing. He pulled free, the dog's cunt slick and wet and begging for him. And then he pumped in again, and when his tempo grew solid and sure and deep, and she was confident of it, one of her paws slipped down to help her the rest of the way over the edge they both saw coming.
Sam's voice filled the coyote's ear, low and hoarse with the strain of trying to whisper. "Fuck. Fuck. Take me. Tie me, coyote--tie your bitch. That's--that's it!" The last two words were more of a yelp. They followed a heavy, demanding lunge and enough resistance to his knot there'd clearly only be two or three more strokes until she got what she wanted.
And she never went back to being quiet. Couldn't. Neither could he. He was no longer in any sort of control. The teasing was done. Over. He needed to claim her. That was all. The purpose behind every thrust. One last shove--rough, singleminded--and an uneven jolt of pleasure as his cock pushed in and stayed there.
The rhythm of her paw went quick and desperate like the coyote atop her. His chest pinned her and his claws grasped her shoulders to hold him close as he bucked to his peak in a frantic staccato. There was a clenching pressure building on his knot as it swelled--a sweet, intense friction on his tip as it nudged and pushed deep in her like nature had designed the reminder of how completely he was buried in the dog--her voice, good lord, her voice. "Cum in me--Carlos, cum in me! Fill me! Oh--fuck!"
Her muzzle opened wide with a groan that lasted a quarter-second before it dropped half an octave. Her hold on his knot tightened. Not that it mattered: he was already hilted, already rigid, the satisfied snarl already rising in his throat as the first spurt of his seed throbbed into her.
There were words in the snarl, not very intelligible--her name, twisted into a gratified, grunted oath. Actions spoke louder. His hips jolted, ramming into her with every beat of pleasure, forcing his cock in as far as biology would let him while he spilled his load into her spurt by warm, purposeful spurt.
Somewhere in it all she howled as he bred her, clenching on the coyote's twitching cock in a pulsing rhythm. That was up to the neighbors to hear--Carlos was deaf to anything but the slowly fading urge to pump every drop of his cum deep into the mutt's sodden, spasming cunt.
In the end he was only aware that he was panting on her heaving chest, her arms circling him and her limbs trembling. They were both gasping, and when he tried to speak his voice was unexpectedly hoarse. "So."
"Mmf?"
"About cleaning up well..."
Sam adjusted the hold of her arms around him, squeezing tight. "Later. Do that later. Fuck, Carlos, I missed you."
"Really? Because I always thought of me as trouble." He rumbled her own words into the mutt's ear--they were tied, after all, and considering how much he'd filled her with the coyote had more than made up for lost time.
"I can miss that, too, you know." She sighed her satisfaction, paws running lazily down his back, where she patted his rear firmly. "You were a good dog. You knew I needed that..."
"You worried about--"
Cody? Her being in heat? Their future? "Be honest, 'yote," Sam cut him off. "Do you care?" The third time it had been asked. The night was young enough for a dozen more dumb questions.
So he bit her ear, and growled until she stopped asking them.