dollar theater.

Rafael

There's a little dollar theater in town. Well; there are several. But this is the one wolf knows about. This is the one he's found.

Afternoon; southeast suburbs of Denver. Close to Cherry Creek. Place is called Elvis Cinemas, and it sits somewhat improbably in one of those big mixed-goods malls you can find in every 'burb of America. 24 Hour Fitness. Mattress Firm. Whole Foods. Hard to even see the entrance from the outside, and inside it's predictably dowdy, sort of dim, neon lights, small concession stand, 1990s casino-floor carpeting.

Wolf isn't inside. He's outside, walking out, drinking a melted Icee. Squinting in the bright daylight. He didn't drive here; he took the bus. Still does that sometimes.

Devon

Same parking lot, there's Proof 'Nite' Club. It's about as douchey as you'd expect, but those people come out at night. Yes, even weekdays. Looks like nothing special at all on the outside. It's next to a Fresh Fish Co. But outside Proof, there's a patio, an angled corner jutting out from the building. There are some tables, but more importantly, there's some shade.

Devon is sitting out there. She's by herself. She's at a picnic table under what little shade she can find, and she doesn't see Rafael at first when he comes out of the movie theater. She is hunched over something, drawing or writing or something. Her hair was cut a while ago, but not short, just trimmed. It's in two braids, off her neck. Black tank top, a dark green silk vest far too large for her -- stolen from his closet, perhaps. Black plastic bracelets, concert bands, so on. Short denim shorts, the pockets visible against her thighs. Black boots, black socks. Her steadfast backpack, its pink stars.

Looks over for no reason, mid-thought. Sees a familiar shape, not quite a person or a face. Just a shape, a posture. When she peers, and then recognizes, she does what any reasonable person would do.

She gets onto the table, wearing some of her big bug-eyed sunglasses, takes off her vest, and whips it back and forth over her head like a flag signaling to a ship.

Rafael

Saw her before she sees him. It's elemental, primitive, supernatural; eyes pulled there because his soul recognizes her. Her blood, anyway. So he's already looking at her, curious, wondering why she was here and what she was doing and is she coloring? Then she sees him. They're too far apart for him to make out the color of her eyes, and that's a shade too rarefied to remember accurately.

She gets up. On the table. For a second he thinks she's just flashed him and half the parking lot. Then he realizes there's still a tanktop on, and she's waving the vest around, and he's snorting a laugh as he comes down from the curb. Heavy, sure gait. All shoulders and long stride. Heads across the parking lot and it's hot, dry, sun is blistering. Soon enough he's in shade again, shadow of the building, and he reaches up and grabs the rails on the patio, pulls himself up and over.

Puts those hands on her waist when he gets to her. Lifts her off the table and kisses her before he sets her back down.

Devon

He's jogging over, so she drops the vest. Not to put it back on, just to drop it. And stays on the picnic table, a few feet higher than he is. He has to hop the railing and she smirks at him, wryly. She thought about jumpig down but there is a part of her that likes this: looking down at him from above. No wonder she's smirking.

Anyway, he lifts her, hefts her up, pulls her against his body, and she goes. Puts her hands on his shoulders. Wraps her legs around his waist. Kisses him, holding herself on him like that, like she hasn't seen him in days.

Which is true.

Rafael

He lets her stay. Was a time, not so long ago, she jumped on him and he pushed her away. This time he doesn't. Even though it's eighty-five degrees. Even though his skin is hot to the touch, warmed by sun and his own indestructible metabolism.

"What are you doing here?"

Devon

"Shh," she mutters, putting her hands on his face. "Less talking, more kissing."

And kisses him again. No matter that it's hot. She's sweaty. Feels it where he touches her, smells like nothing at all. Scary, in its way, how inhuman that makes her, how unreal it makes this seem. She drinks of his mouth, for a few more seconds at least, before she's had her fill of him. Draws back and smirks that dry little twist of a smile she has.

"Not much. Felt like exploring. Got tired. What about you?"

Rafael

"Movie theater over there." He nods over his shoulder without turning his head. So: just this lazy jerk of his head backward, to the side. "Saw the new Mad Max." He glances at the paper. "You coloring or something?"

Devon

"Good, isn't it?" she says, and kisses him again, this time on his cheek, and his jaw, and then his neck. Keeps hanging off him like a koala. He peers past her and finds that it is indeed a coloring book over there, and some markers. Mandalas. Intricate, elegant designs sprawling across the page.

Devon purrs against his neck. "You smell good," she mutters, which

she doesn't ever say. Because then people realize that they can't smell her at all.

Rafael

She is coloring. Because of course she is. But it's not Dora the Explorer or something; it's some intricate, self-replicative design, meditation on a page.

Girl distracts him. Maybe not on purpose, but she does. He lifts his head, lets her nuzzle and kiss. She likes his scent. His laugh rumbles in his body, doesn't quite get out his mouth.

"Probably stink," he disagrees. "Rode the bus. Walked."

Devon

"Yeah," she says, of his stink. Bus. Walking. "Sweaty," she mutters, and bites his neck a little.

Then, almost suddenly, pulls her head back and gasps a laugh, perhaps at herself. "Missed you," is all she says. Plain and to the point.

Rafael

"Yeah? Should come see me next time instead of exploring the damn city." She still hasn't let go, so he hefts her a little higher, her legs secure around his waist. Holds her one-armed while he gets a chair out. Sits.

Devon

She perks her eyebrows. "Saying you didn't miss me?"

Eyebrows stay up while he jerks a chair from a nearby small round table, sits down in it. Her legs drape to either side of his lap. She grinds slightly on him, both shameless and purposeless and thoughtless.

Rafael

His hands grip her hips, still her. There it is again, that quick flick of his eyes around, looking for trepassers and interlopers. Then he smirks at her.

"Public," he says. "Sure I missed you."

Devon

Still sunglasses, but they've slipped down her nose a bit. Small nose, for one. Oversized sunglasses. Sweat. He stills her and she fights him, wriggles defiantly and forcefully, and he says public and she smirks.

"Well, should come see me instead of going to see Mad Max, then."

Rafael

There's a glint in his eyes. It's appreciation. Her wit. Her turning of the tables. "Smartass," he calls her, but his hands have moved, and now he's just squeezed her ass.

She's sitting on him and then he moves. She gets scooped up again. Hasn't been on the ground once since she climbed up on that table.

"Let's go home. Who's closer, you or me?"

Devon

She shrugs. That's all. Puts her hand on his jaw and holds him still for a moment, kissing him again. Slowly. Luxuriously. Drinks his mouth, his taste -- still a bit like his Icee. She's demanding today. Seems like she'd be happy to stay right here, making out in the shade of a closed night club. Is happy right here, making out in the shade of a closed nightclub. Her other hand is on his chest. He's squeezing her ass. She's leaning into him when he picks her up again.

Their mouths break apart and she cocks one of those sly grins. "They're a six minute walk apart." Leans forward and kisses him again, biting his lip gently. "Doesn't matter."

Rafael

"Six," he muses. Strange, but he's never walked it. Would think he had, short as the distance is, but no: he's ridden it on his motorcycle. Driven it in his car. Been driven, in his other car.

Wolf thinks maybe it's a symptom, as though being rich were some sort of disease. Not a contagious one, though, so he's not afraid to kiss her. Opens his mouth with hers, kisses her soft and thorough. Possessive, but maybe not in a virulent, vicious way.

"You count the minutes?"

Devon

She's walked it. A few times. Six, seven minutes. Depends on how fast she bothers to go. Depends on the weather.

Devon just shrugs to his question. "Just walk. Saw the time in one place and then the other." Smirks. "Why, you want me to?"

Rafael

Wolf cants a smirk. "Only if it gets your ass to my place faster. And more often."

Glances across that hot, sweltering parking lot, then. Grimaces.

"All right. Let's get on a bus."

Devon

Nose wrinkles. "I know. I live so close." Darting toward him she kisses his jaw, quickly. "Sorry," which is fast and muted and NOT A BIG DEAL, RAFA. Or at least: that's what she wants. No big deal. No wonder she never apologizes for anything.

He glances. She follows his eyes and makes a face. "Are you rich or not?" she wants to know. "It'll be an hour before we get downtown."

Rafael

Are you rich or not? It's so audacious a challenge he can't help but laugh.

"Guess we can Uber."

Devon

"You are so bad at being rich," she says, squirming against him a little, kissing his jaw again, his cheek. Takes his face in her hands and kisses his mouth again that way, but is smiling into it, unable to deepen it much because of that smile. "All right. We'll Uber."

Rafael

"What, you wanted a private helicopter?"

-- kissed midway, muffles some of those words against her mouth. Finishes his sentence anyway, and it might be true that he's bad at being rich but he's pretty damn good at holding her up. Ages on end.

"You call 'em, I don't have the app. You can put my card in. Since I'm rich."

Devon

Can fuck her freestanding. She doesn't doubt it. Has he? She thinks she'd remember. But then: she might dream something like that. The thinking of it makes her bite him, lightly, scraping her teeth over his chin in a sudden rush of animal heat going through her.

Answers him, at least: "No. Was thinking of rolling up the partition and fucking you in the car finally."

Rafael

"Oh."

Wolf thinks a moment. Chin tilted up. Lets her nip and nibble at him: that hard line of his stubbled jaw; softer flesh under the ridge of bone.

"Well, should've said so." Hoists her higher, her thighs off his hips now. "Reach into my back pocket and get my phone."

Devon

How was he not thinking of it. The way she wrapped herself around him, rubbed herself against his lap, kissed him, licked his neck. She thinks: oh, you idiot. She thinks: are you serious. He hoists her up and she smirks, drawing back. Doesn't go for his phone.

"Do you really want to?"

Rafael

"Fuck?"

Pause. Thinks.

"In the car?"

Like his brain's moving slow-motion, weighed down by new-kindled lust. Or maybe he just doesn't think too straight when she's like this. Wrapped around him. Riding him. Wait, that's the same thing as new-kindled lust. Wolf wraps his arms low around her waist; leans forward to nuzzle her shoulder, neck. Thoughtful.

"Nah. Wanna go home and fuck in a bed." He kisses her collarbone. Pulls back, smirks. "I'm boring like that."

Devon

Her nose wrinkles. "You are boring."

And her hand is on the back of his neck. Caressing gently, fingernails with their chipped dark polish stroking, scratching. He's boring, and the touch feels like love.

She leans to him again, brow to brow, and closes her eyes. Smiles soft. Just for a moment, stays like that, near to him. Before she draws back, and wiggles her hand into his pocket. Makes him unlock it. Immediately takes a selfie of the two of them, which he is not prepared for. Then downloads Uber to his phone and ties his account to it. And orders them a car. And the whole while she's perched on him, held up as though effortlessly, unless he sits them down somewhere.

"Tim will be here in four minutes," she says, and gives him another smooch, tucking his phone into his pocket again. "What shall we do til then?"

Rafael

Maybe he should put her down. Damn mooch. Won't even stand on her own. Plus it's hot out. Wolf doesn't, though. She does all sorts of things: takes his phone, installs crap to it, inputs his personal information, takes a selfie. He holds her, glowering disgruntled into that selfie. Looking over the edge of the phone to watch her order a car.

Tim is coming, she says. Who's Tim, he wonders, but then he puts it together. She asks a ridiculous question. He leans up, nips a kiss onto her mouth.

" 'Shall'," he mimicks. "So fucking British."

Probably only thinks so because he's never been there in his life.

Devon

He may not discover later that she also texted that selfie to herself so she could make it the face that pops up when he calls her. It's his icon now. Him and his girlfriend of almost-a-year. He kisses her, small nibbles of kisses this time. She grins at his teasing, arms looped around his neck, nuzzling his face. His sweaty, dumb face.

They're so cute that if she were not the one being held up against him right now, she'd make vomiting motions off to the side. But she's kissing him.

"I'm only British in that I was born there, really," she says, with a shrug. "Only five years lived there, and those weren't consecutive."

Rafael

"But you call her your 'mum'," he points out.

Devon

"She is my mum," Devon says, grinning. "When she'd say 'I'm your mum' -- which she did, when I'd talk back -- that's what she was. So that's what she is. Not maaaaaaaahm," to which she affects the most nasal Bostonian version of 'mom' one can imagine.

Rafael

All offended: "That is not how Americans say mom."

Devon

"That's how Massholes say mom."

Rafael

"Massholes?"

Devon

Eyebrows up. She nods. "Go to Massachusetts sometime and try driving. You'll get it."

Rafael

Wolf snorts a laugh. Hefts her up a little. Turns; leans against the porch railing. "England. Boston. Here. Buncha places in South America. Where else you been, Devon?"

Devon

"Wales and Scotland, a bit," she says. "Paris and Amsterdam with some mates. Lisbon, with mum." Wrinkles her brow a bit. "Never Ireland, for some reason. Almost went to Iceland but the trip got cancelled. Want to go to Japan and Florence, too, but haven't yet."

Rafael

It's a long list to him. All those countries. All over Europe. Wants to go elsewhere too. Japan, Florence. If he weren't so bad at being rich he'd offer to take her. Fly her there.

Instead: "Isn't Devon an Irish name?"

Devon

"My dad named me. Mum kept it."

That's all she says about that.

Rafael

"Huh."

Sort of a grunt, really. Acknowledgment. He files that bit away. Doesn't know her past all that well, though he does think he knows her. At least a little. Knows enough not to pry, anyway; not to ask her about her dad, that disappeared man, that dead wolf.

Shifts a little. His body's stone-carved, wood-hewn. A solid, thick slab of meat and bone. And hot. Too hot to be holding on to her like this, but for some reason neither of them seems inclined to stop. Wolf pulls her a little closer after a while. Not looking at her now. Puts his arms around her, lays his chin over her shoulder, canine.

"Kinda means your mom named you too, doesn't it?" She can feel his jaw moving against the lee of her shoulder. "Could've changed it, but she didn't. Must've liked it."

Devon

That son of a bitch. That asshole. That shithead. Fuck that guy.

Don't ask about him.

--

Can't see his face. He rests his chin on her shoulder and she holds onto him. Tim will be here in a minute, pulling up in some big black SUV or something outside of Proof Nite Club.

So he can't see her face either. He can feel her sigh: the expansion of her chest, the quick deflation. "Yeah. Well. She forgave him."

Rafael

Wolf grunts again. It's a thoughtful grunt, such as it were. "Maybe she was happy she got you out of the deal. Even if it was a raw deal."

Devon

"She just loved him, Rafael," Devon says, muttering it. "And forgave him. Can you drop it?"

Rafael

Wolf's a little stung. Loosens his arms; starts, for the first time in god knows how long, putting her down.

"Ride's probably almost here."

Devon

Devon doesn't fight it. He starts loosening, and so does she. Unwinds and hops down, boots hitting pavement. It's only a few moments later she hears an SUV, walks over to the railing to lean over, waves at someone. Glances at Rafael as she turns, going to pick up her coloring book, her markers, her backpack. Just a glance, though.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't really know what that glance is supposed to mean. He watches her gather her things up, though. When she goes to reach for her bag, he's already got it. Holds it open for her to put her stuff into, then hands it back to her.

They vault over the railing. Or at least he does. Uber was ordered off his phone, though girl was the one to wave. It's a big car, an SUV, and wolf looks at it somewhat distrustfully. Stranger. Who knows what's in there. He pulls the back door open, looks around. Catches himself before he starts sniffing.

Gets in. Holds his hand out for girl's. Pulls her in after. She's the one to give the address; he's buckling in and looking at the window tint, the air vents in the roof.

Devon

Glances, again, when he walks over, helps her get her stuff. Doesn't know what that is supposed to mean. What it's supposed to do. She doesn't thank him. She takes her backpack that he's holding open, and sets it on the table, and fills it with her coloring book and stuff. Zips it. Follows him to the railing, and he goes -- vaults, really. And she climbs up and hops over a moment later, both of them well practiced at hopping fences. Being places they shouldn't.

He's sniffing -- or about to. Devon comes over and for once, he doesn't climb in after her, scrunching her over to one side. He gets in and she goes ahead and takes his hand. Seems petty to ignore it, refuse it on... principle, or whatever. So she grips it, jumps in, and tells him Rafael's address. Rafa, for his part, may as well be mute.

Tim introduces himself and tries to make conversation.

It does not work very well on either of them, and the ride -- something like thirty minutes, nearly -- is a quiet one. Devon takes out her coloring book and markers again, her sunglasses perched atop her head.

Rafael

Doesn't take long for Tim to get the point: no conversation on this ride, thanks. They drive in silence. It's a pretty long way, but at least they're going opposite the traffic, north, into the city.

Girl takes her book out. Wolf looks over. Watches her color for a while.

"What is that?"

Devon

Shrug. "Coloring book."

Rafael

Her answer, while not quite monosyllabic, is about as stripped down as possible. Wolf's eyebrows knit together. He turns away, looks out the window. Whatever. He tried.

--

Ride goes by in silence. Tim reconsiders this whole Uber gig. So many fucking weirdos in this world; at least this one was accompanied by some girl. Looks like he could break her in two. God knows why she's with him.

Then they pull up in front of his house, and Tim thinks he knows why. Tim doesn't know why, but Tim doesn't really care either. Wolf gets out of his car, the air thins, it's not so hard to breathe. Wolf comes around the back of the SUV, opens the door, but maybe by then girl's already opened it herself. Gotten out. There's no payment to make. Wolf looks in at the driver for a moment, awkward. Then he just shuts the door.

Tim rates his passenger. It's a bad rating. Wolf forgets to rate his driver.

Halfway to the door: "Hey." Wolf lengthens his stride, catches up. "Stop being mad at me. Okay?"

Devon

Doesn't try to talk to her anymore. So she colors, pausing when they go over bumps and so on. The ride is long. And she doesn't so much get over being mad as she gets a little lost in the mandalas; that is their purpose, after all. Tim feels on edge the whole time. The couple is weird. That guy is fucking weird. He knows it's not cool to give riders who aren't like, throwing up in your car a bad rating but he doesn't really want to get this rider again. Asks himself what his own fucking problem is, he's gonna get paid, come on. But all the same, he rolls down his front window, trying to get oxygen to flow into a well air-conditioned, classy SUV.

By the end of a half hour he's so fucking rattled that he grips the steering wheel and stares ahead, and he has made every sigh of Rafael's a threat, and he has made every silence of Devon's a signal of abuse, and he doesn't look.

Rafael opens Devon's door and she gets out, stuffing her markers and coloring book away. Rafael doesn't thank the driver, just looks at him awkwardly before shutting the door. Devon manages to thank him, perfunctorily, before he drives away. He already has his phone out to give the ride a bad rating, because J. F. C. Guy is probably a serial killer; he's saving some poor female Uber driver from him in the future. JFC.

--

They start walking to the townhouse, where they were totally going to fuck. And were this twenty minutes ago, Devon might snark something to that effect: why, so I'll fuck you in your bed?

Harsh, scorched-earth tactics. Brutal, and raw, and unfair, and needlessly cruel.

But this is thirty minutes from the moment when she roughly didn't want to be held and he didn't want to hold her. And thirty minutes or so of mandalas and thought and silence and calm.

--

He doesn't have to catch up to her because she's not stomping on ahead of him. She got in the Uber with him. Couldn't be that mad, or she would have told him to fuck off and taken the bus. It's not -11 and snowing outside, this time.

Hasn't put her shades back on. They are in her backpack now. She looks at him and her brow wrinkles.

"Not mad," she says. Frowns a little deeper. "You could say you're sorry, you know. Instead of just telling me not to be mad. You could try talking to me about it."

Maybe a little mad. Mandalas can't do everything.

wolfman

Wolf's almost comically taken aback. He trudges toward the front door in silence for a while. Then:

"You told me not to be mad that other time. It worked."

Now they're at the door. Does she still have a key? Probably. He can't remember. Anyway he reaches out, takes her hand. Turns her to face him. See his eyes looking at her, glimmers of green under heavy brow. See that furrow-browed look of his; her serious, glowering werewolf of a boyfriend.

"Don't be mad," he repeats, softer. "I'm sorry."

witch

No apology, no question, just... he looks so shocked. And her brow wrinkles just a bit more, and they turn in silence and walk up to the door. He says she told him not to be mad once and it worked. "Well, we're not always the same," she reminds him, but there's no venom in it.

Takes out her keys. Naomi's place, his place, her mum's place in another country, her family's place in another state. Twists it in the lock, or is about to, when Rafael reaches over and takes her hand. She doesn't bat him away or bite at him, doesn't jerk back. Looks up at him, his very serious face.

Says nothing at first, after he repeats his imperative-that-isn't. After he apologizes.

Then: squeezes his hand. Shrugs slightly. "Don't need you to... sort out my family shit and put a silver lining on it," she says, but not angrily. "Don't want you to." She withdraws her hand, carefully, and twists her key in the lock, pushing his front door inward. A blast of smooth, cold, conditioned air washes over them. Reaches over to him again, when her hand is free, taking his and drawing him inside with her.

"Sorry I got so mad," she says, quieter now that they're indoors.

wolfman

Wolf's hand is big and encompassing, firm flesh over a scaffold of strong bones. It wraps around hers. Sometimes he still doesn't get it. How did they get here? There was a night he stopped for a hooker. What he thought was a hooker. Wolf wonders if she thinks that's who he is, or was, before he met her: some sleazy douchebag who rolled around the city at night looking for some reasonably young, reasonably pretty, reasonably undiseased woman he could pay for. That's not who he is, and he suddenly wants to tell her that, tell her how rare that was, how rare she is, how unexpected, how precious.

Doesn't, though. Doesn't seem like the time or the place. His hand squeezes her gently.

"It's all right. I get mad too sometimes. Anyway, you're here."

witch

"That's the understatement of the century," she quips dryly, regarding how he 'sometimes gets mad'. Not that she means at her. But really: he's a werewolf.

"Yeah," she says, stepping closer, still holding his hand. Still speaks quietly. "Don't want to fuck right now, though. That all right?"

wolfman

Wolf lets go her hand; slings his arm around her shoulders instead. Pulls her against his side. Big motions, rough strength. Sometimes it's like he forgets who, what, how fragile. Presses his lips to her temple.

"Wasn't expecting it anyway. Let's just go watch one of your old movies."

witch

One of her old movies. Weird how that's a habit. She wonders if he knows that she watches new stuff, too. And kid movies too. And all kinds of things. But those old silver-screen ones: she does like those. Which is

how

some time later, they end up on his chair, curled up together under a thin blanket, watching The Wizard of Oz. Devon's taken her hair out of her two braids, lest she look a bit too much like pre-Emerald-City Dorothy. It falls in soft, fluffy waves on her shoulders and gets on his face. She's taken off her bra and tossed it aside to the ground, her boots off, her socks off, her hand in a bowl of popcorn they're sharing. They don't share their beers.

But sometimes she finishes his.