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I peeked at the placecard for the seat next to mine, which had his name and claim to fame.
Shane Satyr. Wildlife Photographer.
Chapter 2
Shane
I gave the ravishing human woman a wink as I sat down. I’d noticed her giving me a very thorough onceover, and I could tell she liked what she saw.
I’d been watching the table for a little while from a discreet distance, and it had been clear to me that she didn’t want to talk about her work. The two eagle shifters hadn’t picked up on that, however, and kept steering the conversation right back to it. After her third attempt to redirect the conversation to their music, I decided to step in. Some people just couldn’t take a hint.
Honestly, this was why I would have much preferred to be out in the wilderness with my camera instead of here, but the gala was for a good cause, and I’d been told I should make an appearance for “the optics”, so I just grinned and bore it. The team who organized the event tried their best to change the seating arrangement every year for those who came solo, so I never knew who I’d end up meeting. I tried to tell myself that it was just like bumping into new people on location; that made it a little more fun.
I already knew George. He was an odd duck, but that was almost to be expected. Most creatives were—myself included, I guess. The painter was famous for his interpretation of inanimate objects. Hey, at least my subjects were alive.
The rest of the guests at the table were new to me, but I’d done a little research before sitting down. Jia might not look or act it, but she was filthy rich. Her family had worked as renowned herbalists in China, mainly for royalty and the rich and famous. After a falling out with her traditional, conservative parents, Jia branched off and started a juice chain stateside that had taken the natural health world by storm.
The two eagle shifters were the Swift Brothers. They were set to be the next teen heartthrobs, even though they themselves had left their teenage years behind ages ago.
But the one who really caught my attention was Iris, who apparently owned a PR company. The woman was decked out in so much pink that she could give Barbie a run for her money. She was friendly and approachable, just as a PR consultant should be, but something about the way she held herself made me think that she was keeping back a part of herself.
We made quick introductions around the table and casually chit-chatted as we waited for dinner to start.
When the first course arrived, our attention was split between the food and the cirque performers contorting their bodies into impossible positions while suspended in the air. The conversation died down, and Iris visibly relaxed. She dug into her starter with gusto.
Her hearty appetite made me wonder if she had a similar zeal for other enjoyable physical activities (and I didn’t mean working out, though we’d most definitely work up a sweat). I looked away, trying my best not to imagine her plump, pink-lined lips wrapped around me instead of her fork.
Of all the times for my baser instincts to flare up, why did it have to be now, when I was in formalwear? With the recent trend of going back to our roots and embracing our monster nature, I’d opted for a loincloth version of tux pants, which the tailor had assured me was perfectly acceptable for this particular event.
While it was definitely more comfortable—I didn’t particularly like wool pants rubbing all over my goat legs—it did leave a lot of me uncovered. If I were to get an erection now, it would be quite obvious if I had to stand up. This had not been on my mind when I made my clothing selection.
I was grateful for the very solid, and not glass-topped, table.
There was a round of applause signaling the end of the aerial performance, and the emcee, a minotaur named Maximillian, took his spot on the stage. As he ran through the list of companies and businesses that had made contributions to the event, Iris excused herself. She stood, her matching pink clutch dangling from her wrist, and flashed me a generous look up her skirt to her equally pink underwear. The slit on her dress was cut dangerously, tantalizingly high.
She shimmied out from between our seats before smoothing her palms back down her legs. I clenched my fork to stop myself from helping her.
When she wasn’t back by the time the servers had started bringing out the main course, I decided to go look for her. I found her out on one of the balconies, watching the sunset over Darlington, wine glass in hand. Her silhouette against the colorful sky, especially if I imagined the dress in a more muted color, was beautiful, and I found myself wishing I had my camera with me. Odd. It was rare that I wanted to photograph human subjects.
She turned as I approached, a mechanical smile pasted on her face. When she saw it was me, she relaxed, and her smile became more genuine.
“There you are,” I said.
“Can’t be a social butterfly 24/7.”
“I know what you mean.” I stood beside her, leaning against the railing, and stared out into the city. “And this view is gorgeous, the way the sun sets between the buildings.”
“Isn’t it? I’ve been living here all my life, and I never noticed it.” She smiled. “Well, in my defence, my apartment faces east. I get the sun glaring in my eyes every morning instead.”
I chuckled. “Not quite the same.”
“Nope. I bet you’ve seen your share of beautiful sunsets all over the world.”
“I have. But most of the time I’m so focused on catching my subjects at just the right angle that I don’t really notice it.”
“Metaphor for life,” she grinned. “But for the great shots you get, I guess it’s worth it.”
“Thanks.” I’d spoken briefly about my work earlier. She must be familiar with it, since I had my most recent series on display at Par Excellence, and she did work for them.
