Page 24 of Fat Arranged Mate
Before I can decide whether to respond, movement catches my attention. Our neighbor from across the street, walking his dog on an evening stroll, approaches along the sidewalk.
Instantly, Dylan shifts closer, his body language transforming from contrite to affectionate. His hand finds mine on the step between us, warm and steadying. I allow it, aware that I am being watched and that I need to maintain our cover, regardless of my personal feelings.
"Evening, folks!" the neighbor calls. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"
Dylan's thumb strokes across my knuckles, the gesture so natural it momentarily steals my breath.
"Perfect night," he agrees, voice conveying intimate contentment rather than the tension of moments before.
The neighbor—Thompson? Thompkins?—pauses briefly to chat about weekend weather predictions and the upcoming barbecue, which apparently is quite the local event. Throughout the conversation, Dylan maintains physical contact, his shoulder against mine, his fingers intertwined with my own.
"Hope to see you both there Saturday," the stranger says as he continues his walk. "The wife's making her famous potato salad. Not to be missed!"
"Looking forward to it," Dylan replies with a warmth that sounds genuinely convincing.
As the neighbor moves out of earshot, I expect Dylan to release my hand immediately. He doesn't. The contact lingers, his palm warm against mine, our fingers still loosely intertwined. Something shifts in the air between us—not forgiveness, exactly, but a momentary truce.
"We got invited today," I say finally, breaking the silence. "To the barbecue. My colleague at the clinic mentioned it."
Dylan nods, his thumb still absently tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "Good opportunity for reconnaissance. The whole town will be there."
"That's what I thought too."
More silence, but less hostile than before. The blanket around my shoulders and his hand in mine create an unexpected bubble of warmth against the cooling evening air. We don’t say another word to each other, and that night, I don’t sleep a wink.
Chapter 8 - Dylan
The Logger's Rest smells like every dive bar I've ever been in—stale beer, ancient grease, decades of spilled whiskey soaked into the floorboards. Country music drones from an ancient jukebox in the corner, competing with the clack of pool balls and rattle of gruff male laughter.
I nurse my second beer slowly, careful to maintain the pleasant air of a guy unwinding after work without approaching actual intoxication. When hunting predators, it pays to keep your wits intact.
Sera's expression when I told her my plan earlier this evening flashes through my mind—a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something that looked almost like fear.
"It's too risky," she had insisted, blocking the door as if her smaller frame could physically stop me. "We need to gather more information first—we don’t know how widespread they are—"
"Which is exactly why we need to know what they're planning." I grabbed my jacket, checking for the burner phone concealed in the pocket. "Bartenders hear everything. The Logger's Rest is their central gathering point."
"And if they recognize you? If they sense something off?" Her eyes held an intensity that almost made me reconsider. Almost.
"They'll see what I want them to see—a newcomer interested in local hunting.”
"There are other ways to gather intelligence," she argued. "Less dangerous ways."
I ignored her. Now, a part of me twinges with guilt at the thought. She doesn’t mean to be naive, doesn’t mean to be so affected by a life not spent reckoning with the violence and danger of humans. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know any better.
But it’s too late to feel bad about my attitude now. I'm committed to this approach. Dylan Winters, a sturdy, intelligent human with concerns for his family and a well-paying job, doesn’t fight with his wife—Dylan Winters has no guilt, no shame, no demons. He’s who I have to be right now.
Four men at the bar have Guardian pins visible. Two more, at a corner table, wear the black shield emblem on their caps or jackets. I've been careful to express just enough interest to seem genuine without appearing suspicious.
"So you never hunted before moving here?" asks Mike, a heavyset man in his fifties who introduced himself an hour ago and hasn't stopped talking since. "City boy through and through?"
I give an embarrassed shrug, playing my role. "Never had the opportunity. Always seemed like a useful skill though."
"Damn straight it is." Mike signals the bartender for another round. "Especially these days, with the woods getting dangerous."
"Dangerous?" I prompt, though I already know where this is going.
This is it. What I’ve been waiting for.
