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Chapter Twenty-two

Wednesday August 13, 2008

6:22pm

He knew a little.

Roger knew that she had been meeting with Sandy pharmacist and all-state arrogant prick Grady Hicks in secret. That intel had come courtesy of Grady's second wife, an unsightly, envious, mixed breed of a cunt who had snooped through her idiot-husband's phone and discovered a year-long chain of incriminating text messages from Patricia.

What Roger didn't know was that Grady was no more than the iceberg's tip, and whilst Roger had given himself to a faithful marriage, Patricia had reveled in a revolving door of affairs--one-night stands, year-long stints, coworkers, acquaintances and strangers, stallions and toms and plenty of sires--if asked to name every encounter of the last decade, Patricia could only have laughed.

_"That_cocksucker, Patty? Why!" Roger roared after leveling his initial accusation. He stood in the bedroom with arms crossed at his chest.

_"He_wasn't the cocksucker, Roger."

"Get the hell out of here, Patty, before I do something I regret."

"I_am_ leaving!" barked Patricia, ears pinned back and eyes lit as she tore a change of clothes from the bedroom's walk-in closet, stuffed what she had grabbed into a small trunk which she swung to her hip and charged forward with. "So get the fuck out of my way!"

Roger stomped aside, his face alive and mean, how a more idealistic Patricia had perceived him to be when they had first met--how disappointing to learn that what the gruff mug really disguised was just a shy, honest man. But not on this night. Not after what he had learned that day. "Where are you going?" Roger demanded.

"You don't need to worry."

Through the door of her own bedroom, Anessa lent muted sobs to the din--the usual score for such scenes at the Spriggs household. Patricia ignored her daughter's cries and stormed through the house.

Her Lexus roared through Sandy and into the parking lot of The Hibernation, a sleazy downtown place where an old, wrinkly bloodhound took her reservation with no questions asked. Patricia kicked the door to a dingy single open, drawing her phone and a cigarette, and as she hit the cheap bedding a deep voice rumbled in her ear.

"What?" it asked.

"I'm at The Hibernation. My car's right outside my room. Get here."

She tossed the phone away and, pleased with herself, took a great drag on her smoke. All this excitement--she was having far too much fun.

* * *

6:35pm

"I've gotta go," said Tyson, pushing his cellphone into a jean pocket.

"Already? Damn, dog."

Calvin grinned.

"Was that your lady?"

"My mom."

Tyson's 944 and Calvin's CR-X idled along an open bend of county highway, respective drivers slouched against their flanks. It was the boys' first face-to-face since the Sable street fair, and Tyson briskly turned to make his leave. "Well, see ya," he grunted.

"Is NISU starting soon?"

"Moving back into the dorms this weekend."

The young shepherd strapped in behind his Porsche's steering wheel, scowling to himself. Since returning from the trip he had been stuck in a disconnected daze, one in which the world seemed to be falling from his fingertips, disassociating from his conscience. He had thought little of school, little of friends or foxes or how fucked up his life had become, little of anything beyond his increasingly-violent passions.

Fuck it, he reminded himself, and he put his car in gear--but even that, his beloved 944, had become indiscriminate to his paws.

The Hibernation was the home field of undercover cops in Sandy, a lodge for wandering prostitutes, dealers and junkies, or at least those had been the rumors at Sandy Varsity High. How true they were, Tyson couldn't know, but the place was a certifiable shithole. The motel's once-white-painted exterior wrapped about two ends of a crumbling parking lot, which itself was empty but for a windowless utility van and a silver Lexus GX. Tyson attempted to hide his 944 behind the SUV and rushed to rap his knuckles at the nearest room's door. It opened, almost immediately, with a screech of dry hinges, unveiling smoke and lustrous black fur. Shock, quickly followed by anger, rendered Tyson mute.

The black shepherd stood nude, exposing herself to the outside, world, her arms stretched to either side of the door, and she smiled lazily over the threshold. "What took you so long?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tyson snarled, advancing into the motel room. His glare darted about, quickly itemizing the room's tacky furnishings, but before he could turn back towards the black shepherd, her sleek, slender arms, fastened about his abdomen. One set of claws grazed a trail down the front of his shirt.

"I'm having another vacation, and you're here to join me."

The claws continued their descent and deftly released the fly of Tyson's jeans, delved into his boxers and brushed his sheath. Gradually, with deep, firm strokes, the paw coaxed him forth for the second time that day.

"Why did you come here?" rumbled Tyson

This was nothing like their vacation, nor their secret rendezvous of the last couple weeks. They were in the middle of Sandy--the sort of small town where everybody knew everybody, where gossip spread like wildfire, through circles of worship and beer--and their vehicles were parked in tandem outside a seedy motel.

"Let's not worry about that now," whispered the black shepherd.

Baring fangs and excitement, Tyson whirled around and shoved the black shepherd's back 'gainst the door. His grip tightened on her trim shoulders. His voice demanded again.

"Why did you come here! Why aren't you home?"

But she only looked at him with that queer, provocative smile.

His paws jerked, rattling the black shepherd so that her head rolled about her neck and knocked against the door, producing a dull, short thud, and while pleasing, the effect wasn't enough. Not enough to wipe the smile from the black shepherd's face nor to satisfy his irritation.

"Yes!" moaned the black shepherd, "that's my strong stud!"

Horrific images flashed before Tyson's eyes. Terrible ideas wrestled in his mind. His paws squeezed harder.

He gave her one last shove and teetered from the door to the bed, only himself shaking then--his claws digging into his paws, tail as rigid as the hotel mattress.

A quiet few minutes passed before his anger bled, thereupon, Tyson, exhausted, hoisted his gaze to the black shepherd again.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, but his voice had turned hollow.

Rubbing at the back of her head, her expression disappointed, the black shepherd shrugged. "Your father kicked me out."

_"He_kicked you out?"

"I had to let him win for once," snickered Patricia.

The black shepherd sidled over to the foot of the bed, and her stupid grin vanished, replaced by a vacant, lopsided expression. She dropped, letting the old box spring wheeze, adding, "He knows that I've been cheating on him."

The words should have been a gut-punch, a crippling blow, but they didn't make much of an impact upon Tyson in the moment. He glanced to the black shepherd as she lit a cigarette beside him, and he spoke inconsequentially.

"Did he tell you how he planned to kill me?"

Patricia puffed a ball of smoke through a frown, then barked a laugh.

"You? He doesn't have a clue about us."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he found out about an old fling."

"Old fling?"

"Oh, come on," giggled the black shepherd, a wicked grin twisting at her muzzle, and she let a paw fall back to her son's still unfastened pants. "You're not the only guy I've been with since your father."

The playful tone of the black shepherd elicited a convulsion of Tyson's vocal chords, snapped his field of comprehension tight until he saw nothing beyond his partner's smile--that look which was so unfit for her, and felt nothing beyond the rising tension of his rage's return.

"Who else?" he snarled.

"You wouldn't know them."

"Them?"

The black shepherd nodded, shrugged, and stroked Tyson's hardness. She was still smiling. She was enjoying herself. She was fucking with him.

She was saying something, something Tyson could no longer hear, when a paw snapped over her snout, clamping her jaws shut, and her torso was hurled back upon the bed.

He could feel the black shepherd's hot breath on his finger tips, moisture from her mouth on the heel of his muzzling paw, the strain of her jaws fighting to open against his grip. He didn't want to hear it, whatever it was that she had to say, and he kept her face shut as he fucked her for the second time of the afternoon.

He could see every crackle in her black nose, how the light played off her every whisker, off every line of her purebred muzzle--long and strong and, no longer clutched in his rigid grasp, roughly panting. He could feel her pulse around him, her warmth and both their wet.

The shepherds lay, bodies and breaths tied, upon unkindly linen.

"I was trying to say," the smiling black shepherd panted, "that you don't have to worry. You're the only one for me now."

Tyson searched the dark eyes beneath him.

"Prove it."