Page 12 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

That elicits a snort from Alana. “Thank you.”

“It’s just the truth! Anyway, you have fun. Remember, if he tries anything freaky and you need an out, just call me with some bullshit emergency, and I’ll come pick you up. You got the pepper spray I gave you? I can’t let you get snatched.” Citlalli’s ears go flat when she hits her with a stern, maternal glare. The kind that Alana knows better than to challenge. It’s hardly a real concern, getting kidnapped; not because it isn’t a possibility, but because Alana is certain that, should it ever happen, Citlalli would find her and have said kidnappers in body bags before the cops could even blink.

Alana will forever remember the time some random guy messaged her on her bakery’s social media in an attempt to flirt, only to become perpetually offended by her lack of response. The same curves that had emboldened him and his receding hairline to reach out in the first place, were then viewed as something vile.

“Man, whatever. Your fat anyway bitch,” he had typed in all caps, far too lost in his rage to be grammatically correct with his insults. Citlalli managed to locate his Social Security number, address, and employer, and email his mother within a few hours of Alana sharing what happened.

“I will. And I’m not going to need it, but yes, I have it. Thanks, Mom.” Alana flashes a smirk and sticks her tongue out.

Citlalli retaliates by flipping her off before wrapping her in a hug. “You’ve got this. And don’t worry, I’ve got things handled here. Now have fun, go be a slut.” Releasing Alana from her embrace, she waits for her to turn towards the door to strike a hand across her ass.

The contact elicits a shrill yelp, but bright, airy laughter bubbles forward immediately after.

CHAPTER NINE

ALANA

The summer sun is still high by the time Alana reaches the halfway point to the restaurant. She weaves through the crowded streets, strangers bustling around in hurried steps like worker bees, their heads bent over their phones.

It’s a lively city, if one could call it that. It’s smaller than most, easily explored within the span of a half hour. It’s a stark contrast to the humble town further north that Alana calls home—where the world doesn’t seem to move so fast. The kind of place where people are more inclined to stop and smell the roses; where the impatient blaring of car horns or street music is replaced by buzzing cicadas and birdsong. The commute isn’t the most enjoyable, but coming home to quiet summer nights always makes it worth it.

When Alana approaches the restaurant, it’s equally as busy as the world outside. The loud, distorted voices of many people talking at once send her heart racing. She resists the urge to pick at her nails. Couples sit at the bar, while others occupy the lounge where a pianist plays. As Alana surveys the scene, it’s apparent that she isn’t sure what she should be looking for.

There hasn’t been much in terms of communication since her initial agreement, and she hadn’t thought to ask for details on what this mystery man looked like as a human. At least, she assumes she’ll be looking for a human.

Most werewolves from the website probably enjoy the anonymity that comes with shifting. A way to separate their identities, with minimal threat of being recognized by anyone outside their wolf form. It’s what she would do, had the roles been reversed. And while the restaurant is decent in size, it might be too crowded for a werewolf to take their full form comfortably anyway.

There are a few monsters she can make out, though: orcs, elves. There’s even a cecaelia bartender, her intricate tentacles safe within her rolling water tank. Alana bites the inside of her cheek. Maybe she didn’t think this through enough.

Grounding herself, she weaves through the crowd to claim an empty seat at the bar while she waits. It’s five minutes before the clock strikes five, so there’s a chance he’s not here yet. She imagines she’d know when she sees him—some sort of telepathic link, where they’ll lock eyes and she’ll know. You, you’re the one I hired to get me laid.

“Can I get you anything?” the bartender asks after serving the gentleman beside her. She observes Alana with an arched brow as she scans over the cocktail menu, her eyes a piercing blue. A beautiful contrast to jet-black tentacles and purple skin.

A shot. Three, actually, is what Alana wants to say. “A cosmo, please,” is what she says instead. The bartender nods and slides the drink over soon after. The warm burn of alcohol soothes the thrumming trapped beneath her skin, but her foot taps against the metal bar below her chair. She looks at her phone again, jaw taut. Maybe he forgot? She could shoot him another email, but something tells her he wouldn’t respond in time even if she did.

It isn’t long before doubt starts to trickle into the back of her mind. It cascades like spilled ink, cold and unpleasant in the way it stains every surface of what little confidence she had. Perhaps this whole charade is some sort of test of her desperation. A moral lesson sent by the Gods. She always told her mother she’d never meet strangers off the internet, and yet, here she is, willing to potentially fuck one. A scenario begins playing in Alana’s mind, one where her mom or Nana comes jumping out from behind somewhere and drags her horny ass home by the ear. Alana stirs her drink and takes another small sip. She aims to finish it and head out when someone slides into the empty seat next to her, just as the last gentleman leaves.

“You know, we really ought to stop meetin’ like this,” a low, smoky voice sounds from beside her ear.

Alana’s stomach drops into her ass like it does during a freefall on a roller coaster. Except, this time, there’s no burst of adrenaline after. Her head jerks to the same familiar smile from the other day, and she almost falls right out of her chair.

“Cyrus?” His name leaves a few octaves too high. She blinks rapidly, taking him in. His facial hair has been trimmed, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt with a few of the buttons left unlatched to expose a peak of chest hair. He’s somehow hotter than usual. “What are you doing here?” Alana manages to ask after her core brain functions return.

“Well,” Cyrus says, glancing down at his watch. “I was fixing to meet up with someone.” Those dark eyes regard her with interest. “And yourself?”

“Oh, um, me too, actually,” she confesses. “But I think I’m going to head out since he’s running a bit late.”

Cyrus waves his fingers at the bartender, whose name tag reads Selene. “Let me get a Whiskey Sour, please. Thank you, ma’am.” He slides some neatly folded cash out from his jacket pocket and places it in Selene’s tip jar.

Her eyes flicker to it as if debating whether to accept it. When she seems satisfied, she nods. “I gotcha, Sugar.”

Shifting his focus to Alana, he says, “Well, now, don’t be hasty. I might have underestimated the foot traffic to get here, is all, but I do apologize. Can I buy you another Cosmo to make up for it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t—” Alana waves off the offer. Then, she blinks, her mouth hanging open in a question that takes a solid few seconds to come forward. “Huh?”

“I’ve got to say, it colored me a little surprised when I saw an “Alana D.” pop up in my books. I figured it might have been somethin’ of a coincidence. Small world, isn’t it?” Cyrus fixes her with a lazy, lopsided grin—the kind that makes her feel far too warm even with the AC blasting right above her.

There’s no way the universe loved to embarrass her this much, is there? Alana looks the man up and down, brows at her hairline, and eyes stretched wide. The charming demeanor, the random people he meets every day? Gods, how could she have been so oblivious? “Oh. Oh wow.”