The trouble with hairy, p.22
The Trouble With Hairy, page 22
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
Shit! she thought. I should fire Maria and hire him!
Louis coughed to regain her attention. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do the silver,” he shrugged. “Is that okay, Mrs. Burman?”
“Okay?” she repeated. “Of course, it’s okay. Wait a minute.” She turned on him, fixing him the infamous Burman glare. “No, it is not okay!”
Louis visibly wilted.
“That’s not what I meant,” she snapped, seeing his reaction. “You are a houseguest. I don’t know how the fuck your family treats visitors, but where I come from, guests are not maids.” She rounded on him menacingly, attempting to frighten him into obeying while at the same time, fixing her eyes anywhere except on his exposed crotch. “You lift one goddamned finger in here again, and you will really be in the dog house. And another thing…”
Louis looked at her, almost cringing as if he expecting her to physically attack him.
“I have had five husbands. The last one, Harry Burman, was a great guy. I’m proud of the name so I keep it. But I haven’t been Mrs. Burman for years. When you say it, it makes me sound like a Hebrew schoolteacher. You call me anything but Pam or Pamela or even just Burman, and I’ll wash your fucking mouth out with soap. Got it?”
Louis nodded.
“Good,” she said, satisfied she’d made her point. That accomplished, she decided to address the more perturbing aspect of his presence. “Now, get dressed.”
“Ma’am?” Louis asked.
“What’d I say about the fucking soap?” she yelled.
“Sorry,” mumbled Louis. This white haired madwoman had him so flustered, he could barely remember his own name. “Why should I get dressed, Pamela?” he asked, carefully.
“That’s better,” she said. She turned her attention to the substance of his question, wondering how to address it delicately. “I’m an old woman, Louis,” she finally began. “And I haven’t seen one of those in years.” She waved at the lower portion of his naked form, trying desperately to be tactful about it. “So long ago that seeing one is an unwanted reminder that I’ve practically forgotten what to do with one.” She flushed, slightly embarrassed, a new emotion for her.
“Besides,” she added, “What would the neighbors think?”
Louis looked confused. “But, I hardly ever wear anything while I’m indoors,” he protested. “No one in my family does.”
“Well, start,” she snapped, after she’d rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a nudist colony. Now, cover your ass. We’re going to lunch.”
“Lunch?” he repeated.
“What are you?” she demanded, “A werewolf or a mynah bird? Lunch, for Christ’s sake!”
“But…”
“I called ahead. They’ll have something for you. No matter how many times you tell ’em you want a steak done medium well, the fucking cook sends ’em out to you bloody. Now, will you stop arguing with me and put some goddamned clothes on?”
Louis mumbled something unintelligible, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.
“Jesus!” Burman sighed in frustration. “What the hell do your people teach your kids? Certainly not how to dress or how to talk. Look at me when you speak. Open your mouth. And, for Christ’s sake, stand up straight! Do you want to end up with a hunch?”
“I don’t have anything to wear,” Louis reminded her miserably. “Whoever trashed my apartment, ruined everything.”
“Of course you do,” Burman snarled. “What do you think’s in the goddamned bags I left by the front door?”
“What bags?”
“Lord save me,” she fumed and strode to the hallway and grabbed several large shopping bags. “Here!” She threw them at Louis.
Louis caught them deftly and stood, stupidly clutching at them.
“By the way,” Burman asked, “how do you do that?” She was staring, fascinated at his chest where the amount of hair was rapidly alternately increasing and decreasing.
“I dunno,” Louis said, and opened the bags to peer inside.
“Put frigging Nair outta business,” Burman mumbled to herself.
Louis emitted a cry of delight as he dove into one of the bags, removing a pair of slacks, two pairs of shorts, several cotton short-sleeved shirts and a set of denim overalls. He looked up at Pamela, almost speechless.
“New clothes?” he asked, clutching the bag possessively as if frightened that Pamela had made a mistake and was about to seize them back.
“I guessed at the sizes,” she grumbled. “If nothing else fits, the overalls should. I hear they’re back in style.”
Louis looked at her, gratitude shining in his eyes. “I always wore my older pack-mates’ stuff when we went out.”
“Well, now you have your own.”
For a moment, Pamela thought Louis was so moved he might come over and lick her hand. “Oh, for God’s sake!” she said, unaccountably uncomfortable. “Stop staring at me like a puppy dog and get dressed.” Louis bolted for the spare bedroom.
“There’s underwear in the other bag,” Burman yelled after him.
“Under what?” Louis called back.
“Oh, never mind.” She gave up with a sigh. “Just hop to it!”
While Louis was dressing, Burman had time to carefully re-examine her morning shopping trip. Chris had given her the money, of course, so that wasn’t the issue. Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite seem to get a handle on why she’d taken so much care in picking out clothes for the young intruder she’d been so recently saddled with.
She’d bullied the salesman at International Male until he’d retreated into the employee’s bathroom for a quick Xanax. With a particular shade of green in mind, she’d vetoed six garments, ranging in color from a pale mint to something called Northern Moss, finding none of them suitable. Finally, the clerk had appeared with a stunning forest green pullover, which Burman was certain would go well with Louis’ brown eyes and dark hair.
Pullover in hand, she’d stalked across the street to terrorize the young man behind the sales counter at All American Boy, where she’d chosen a pair of stylishly cut tan trousers, praying they would fit. As an afterthought, she’d added the overalls, just in case. She stopped at several more stores, ranting and raving at the help, disliking almost everything until she found exactly what she wanted. Then, she’d returned to the office, waiting impatiently for lunchtime so she could rush home, eager to see how her purchases would look on the young werewolf.
Get hold of yourself, Pamela, she mentally chastised herself. You’re not dressing a furry Ken doll.
She wondered if it could be pity for the young man’s predicament that had affected her, and rapidly dismissed the thought. Her assistant, Carlos Hernandez, was the only person — aside from her late night visitors of the evening before — for whom she harbored any feelings other than disdain and irritation. Oh, Carlos could be irritating at times, there was no doubt about that, especially when he was asserting himself in his Shanda Leer persona, but Burman’s levels of tolerance where he was concerned, even when Shanda was present, were much higher than with most others. In the time they’d worked together, they’d grown quite close; in fact, she’d invited him to meet them for lunch, her treat, out of curiosity to see what he would have to say about her hirsute houseguest.
Although she had nieces and nephews galore, all of Burman’s own marriages had been barren. Carlos, therefore, had become the son she’d never had.
No, she thought. That’s not quite right. He’s the daughter I never had.
Carlos as a man was slim, willowy, neurotic and very effeminate. Shanda, though, was something else entirely. In fact, she’d been modeled after Burman herself as Pamela had discovered a few Halloween Parades ago. Burman had been inordinately pleased by the compliment and, never saying a word to her assistant, she’d allowed her fondness to increase.
She’d also developed a proprietary attitude toward Carlos’ frequent, and always, unsuccessful, love affairs. She insisted on meeting each prospective Mr. Leer and, to date, had left them all quivering wrecks in her wake. None of them could possibly meet the high standards that Pamela Burman had decreed on Carlos’ behalf.
But her feelings for the werewolf, given the short amount of time she’d known him — barely twelve hours — puzzled her. She wondered, at first, if she wasn’t feeling some subliminal sexual attraction to the so obviously virile youth. He seemed to be perpetually aroused and she made a mental note to ask Chris if maybe the damned kid had musk glands or something. But, aside from her curiosity at Louis’ constant priapic state, she could honestly admit to herself that, physically, at least, she felt no attraction. Why then, had she taken two hours off from her morning schedule to shop for him with such diligence when she could have gone to K-Mart over near Fairfax Avenue and have been done with the whole damned thing in twenty minutes?
She shook her head to clear the confusion when Louis emerged from the spare bedroom.
“My, don’t we look nice?” she commented, before she was able to stop herself.
Louis blushed and glanced in the hall mirror, looked away, and turned back, absorbed in his reflection. A grin split his features.
“Stop preening,” Pamela was intentionally sharp to hide her amusement. “We’ll be late.”
She grabbed the werewolf by one arm and, before he could utter a word, dragged him out the condo’s front door.
CHAPTER 14
Pamela Burman made a hard right turn off Santa Monica at Orlando into the restaurant’s parking lot.
“Goddamned son of a bitch!” she exclaimed, as the green Chevy following them braked late and almost tapped her rear fender.
“Take this down,” she snapped at Louis, “2XTV041.”
Louis looked at her blankly, having no idea what she was talking about.
“The license plate,” she explained impatiently. “Bastard almost hit me.” Louis’ expression failed to change to one of comprehension and she sighed with exasperation. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”
Burman threw the car into PARK and reached across the front of her passenger to remove a small pad and pencil from the glove compartment. She jotted a hasty note, threw the pad back inside and slammed the compartment shut.
“That’ll teach ’em,” she smirked with satisfaction and, without bothering to check, flung open her door, almost castrating the parking attendant who had recognized her car and was rushing over to open it for her.
“Watch where you’re going,” she snapped when the attendant tripped over himself to get out of her way. Louis, much more carefully, opened his own door and got out.
“And only God Himself can help you if you scratch the frigging paint,” she tossed over her shoulder as she grabbed Louis by the elbow and led him up the stairs to the front entrance of La Boheme.
La Boheme was an upscale restaurant. Its decor in burnished copper and muted patinas was elegantly designed to ease the tension from the multitudinous bankers, attorneys and accountants who frequented the establishment and made up a majority of its lunchtime crowd. And crowded it was.
Burman strode through the entrance and across to the maitre d’s podium without stopping. Louis, on the other hand, paused tentatively in the doorway, uncomfortable at the sight of so many normals seated together in one place without benefit of a pack leader to provide them with direction. “Well?” Burman was waiting by the podium, tapping her foot impatiently. Louis walked over to her, slowly, avoiding making eye contact with any of the people seated at the cocktail tables in the front foyer.
“Too many people,” he whispered.
“Oh, bosh!” She grabbed him by the arm and, with a brusque tug and a nod at the maitre d’, she dragged him across the flagstone landing, past the huge fountain pouring water into the blue tiled reflecting pool and down the short flight of stairs into the restaurant proper.
Until he’d been made outcast and found his way to West Hollywood, Louis’ experience with “normals” had been limited. Aside from his brief time in school, he had rarely left the confines of the ranch. From his earliest years, one message had been repeatedly drummed into him: absolute loyalty and dedication to the pack. Though the message itself was simple, the ramifications proved to be incredibly complex, especially for Louis who had always felt himself to be intrinsically different from his pack mates.
One aspect of the loyalty mandate was abundantly clear, unquestioning obedience to the pack leader’s whims. Unfortunately, Etienne was not only domineering and overbearing, traits fairly common in pack leaders, but he also suffered from a caprice uncommon to the lupine race.
Loyalty also meant the cultivation of a deep-seated distrust of outsiders. The pups were strongly discouraged from making childhood friends; school was barely tolerated as an evil necessary to keep the government from delving too closely into the exact nature of the commune on Etienne Chartreuse’s property. Under no circumstances were any of the Chartreuse children ever to even intimate, by behavior or word, that they were anything other than members of a normal, if extraordinarily reclusive, human family. But, contrary to everything he’d been taught, Louis sought the company of human beings.
His first friendship was with Ricky Gibbs, the embodiment of a phenomenon primarily found in law firms, politics, large corporations and high schools — a “golden boy.” Blond and handsome, captain of both the wrestling and the football teams, Ricky was beloved by teachers and students alike. To Louis, Ricky was the unquestioned pack leader of Albuquerque Western High.
For reasons Louis was not to fathom until much later, Ricky singled him out and made irresistible overtures toward friendship. The first contacts were limited to the cafeteria where Ricky went out of his way to say hello. From his first grunted responses, Louis progressed through a nod to a shy, mumbled greeting and, by Halloween, the blond god and the dark haired young werewolf often chatted briefly. By Thanksgiving, they were eating together every day and often walking partway home together after school.
Louis remained reticent, however. Generally, his conversational contributions were limited to the occasional grunt while Ricky waxed on about everything from baseball scores to his favorite subjects — hiking and camping. Ricky loved nothing better than to pack a sleeping bag and take off into the hills surrounding Albuquerque for a weekend of outdoor living. Just prior to Christmas vacation, Louis overheard something that would change, not only his relationship with the other boy, but also his life.
Louis was in the hall when he heard Ricky’s voice raised in argument drift around the corner. A group of football players was needling Ricky about his friendship with “the weird hairy kid from the hippie place out on Fulsom Road.” Louis listened with amazement to Ricky angrily defending him. When the other boys accused Ricky of being “sweet on the weird kid,” things escalated to near violence and Louis stepped into view, determined to protect his friend. With a snub that was to echo through Albuquerque Western High society for a week, Ricky turned his back on his football chums, threw his arm around Louis’ shoulders and led him away.
Louis remembered very little of the rest of the day. For nights afterwards, all he could think about was the warmth he’d felt when the Golden Boy had touched him! Louis didn’t know why and, what’s more, didn’t really care; but one thing was certain — he desperately wanted to repeat the experience. He waited a week, working up his courage, before popping the question. Would Ricky mind if, one weekend, Louis went camping too?
Louis’ mind whirled while he waited for the answer. How he would explain going away for the weekend to Etienne and Lucille was foremost in his mind. Nevertheless, he was determined to go if invited. And Louis was nothing if not stubborn.
Not long after, the two boys were comfortably bundled in their sleeping bags, hidden high in the hills outside of town. As Louis was drifting off to sleep, content merely to be with his hero, he felt a hand reach out from the sleeping bag next to him and clasp his, fingers gently stroking as shock waves of pleasure shot up and down his arm. At last, the reason for Ricky’s attention manifested. One thing led quite naturally to another and, by the end of the outing, Louis was, for the first time, hopelessly and irrevocably in love.
Ricky provided Louis with a wealth of information about the Gay community and provided introduction to Albuquerque’s alternate society; the bars, the restaurants and nightclubs. The affair continued, unabated and in secret, until the close of their senior year when Ricky moved to California to attend UCLA. For two years afterwards, Louis was forced to go elsewhere to indulge his physical needs. Never comfortable with the crowds of normal in the bars, he began prowling certain notorious alleys and truck stops at night.
In retrospect, he figured he should have known it would be only a matter of time before another member of the pack stumbled onto his secret. Nevertheless, his face still reddened with the embarrassing memory of Etienne bursting into the truck stop bathroom that fateful night before he was Cast Out.
Having nowhere to turn, he hunted coyotes, rabbits and the odd barnyard animal on his way to California in search of Ricky Gibbs. But Ricky had dropped out of UCLA after his freshman year. At the Student Records Office, Louis was lucky enough to meet a sympathetic gay clerk who had known Ricky peripherally and recalled the handsome youth had left college to try his hand at acting and had gone “on tour” somewhere. Moved by the young werewolf’s despondency, the clerk tentatively suggested West Hollywood as a likely locale for Louis to start searching for his lost lover; Ricky was extraordinarily good looking, perhaps someone in Boys’ Town might have known him more intimately and kept in touch. Without funds and having no friends, Louis slept on the streets. West Hollywood’s homeless population was rife with rumors of a large dog, strangely intelligent, usurping the choicest garages and loading docks for its own use. Early one evening, while walking on two legs down Santa Monica Boulevard, Louis discovered a not-unpleasurable way to get by in human form.
