Chapter Nine

I WAS as ready as I was going to be. I had a bulleted list of talking points. I’d rehearsed my request a dozen times. All I had to do was dial my phone. Easy, right? I mean, I didn’t even have to dial any numbers. I only had to click an icon, or tell Siri to call my parents. No dialing required. But I’d been staring at my phone for the last twenty minutes.

I’d already put it off longer than I should have. First, I decided I couldn’t do it without getting something for lunch first. A fruit smoothie wasn’t a meal, after all. And, given I’d been eating twice as much as usual and I was still hungry, a little predeception meal was in order. Then I had to wait until after five. It wouldn’t be fair to interrupt my dad at work, right? And I needed to charge my phone. Couldn’t have the battery die at the wrong moment. Then I had to eat again, followed closely by the realization that my parents were likely doing their own thing for dinner, and I couldn’t possibly interfere with their plans. Which was how I ended up staring at my fully charged phone, with its mocking green Call icon glowing at me. If I didn’t make the call now, my parents would be in bed, and I’d have to deal with the stress and angst again all day tomorrow.

My thumb hovered over the icon. I took a deep breath—

Knock knock.

Son of a bitch. “Who is it?” I barked, slamming the phone onto my bed. My neatly made bed, because goodness knew I couldn’t possibly call my parents from a rumpled, slept-in bed.

I didn’t need his answer to tell me who was there. Even through the door, I could catch the edge of his midnight-in-flight, snow-and-fir scent. But normal people didn’t generally identify their friends by scent, and I desperately needed to feel normal right now. Normal meant I wouldn’t break down and confess all to my parents the minute they picked up the phone.

“It’s me, Owen.”

I sighed, then grabbed my phone as I stood to open the door. Maybe a little distraction would give me the guts to do what I needed to do.

The tinny ringing noise coming from my hand stopped me in my tracks.

Somehow, when I grabbed up my phone, I’d accidentally hit the stupid green Call button. The one so helpfully displayed below my parents’ contact information.

“Oh shit.” I stared at the phone like it was a bomb about to explode. Every nanosecond that passed was one nanosecond closer to the point of no return. I wasn’t ready. This was enough to knock me off my game. Like, big-time.

“Yusuf?” Owen knocked at the door again. “Is everything okay in there?”

The call rang again.

Any second now my mom was going to answer.

I grappled at the door handle, remembered to unlock it, tried again.

Owen stood there, arm poised to knock once more.

The call rang again.

Maybe Mom wasn’t there? I could hang up, but she’d see I called. If I didn’t leave a message, or if I hung up without talking to her, she’d assume the worst. She’d probably have the Navy SEALs or the National Guard on campus in a matter of seconds. All while booking a flight and packing a bag. She was scarily efficient. And dramatic. And protective.

“Joey? Baby, is that you?”

And she’d answered the call.

Owen cocked his head, eyes wide with concern. “You okay?” he mouthed, stepping close and resting his hand on my shoulder.

And just like that, the nerves were siphoned off. I nodded to tell him I was okay, then lifted the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”

Owen moved as though to leave me to my call, but I grabbed his wrist to stop him. His presence, maybe the support in it, grounded me. I didn’t know the why or how of it, but at this moment it didn’t matter. I needed every bit of support I could get.

I dragged Owen to my bed, nudged him down, then sat next to him. I grabbed the notebook in which I’d jotted my talking points. Owen’s eyebrow quirked at my notes, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s been almost a month since we’ve talked! Your father was about to call the Marines.”

I couldn’t help but smile. My mother always used “your father” when she really meant “I.” To hear her tell it, you’d think my father was a nervous wreck. Guilt quickly replaced the momentary flash of nostalgia. The month she claimed was a slight exaggeration, but I hadn’t called since the week before my inner lion decided to introduce himself to campus. Since that night, I didn’t have any idea what to say to my parents. Even if I avoided the elephant in the room—or would that be a lion in the room?—I was afraid she’d pick up on the doubt and fear. And if she thought something was wrong, there would be no stopping her. She’d be on the next flight west.

I’d paused too long, lost in my thoughts, because she started flinging questions at me in her lightly accented voice. “What’s wrong? You’ve been sick, haven’t you? I knew we shouldn’t have let you leave. What are your symptoms? Should we call Dr. Mirza?”

“Sorry,” I managed to say before she could spiral any further. “I’m fine, I promise. No need to call Dr. Mirza.” I covered the speaker on my phone to clarify for Owen. “My immunologist.”

“Who is with you?” Mom demanded. “Who are you talking to?”

Whoops. “My… friend is here.” Damn it. My voice wasn’t supposed to stumble on the word.

“Friend?” Mom asked. She made the word sound like a foreign concept. Which maybe it was. I’d never really called anyone “friend” before. And even my parents didn’t have anyone they called friend. They’d been too caught up in me and my health crises to have much time for friendships away from the doctors. Just one more thing to add to the pile of stuff I felt guilty about.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah. His name is Owen.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You have a friend.”

She sounded a little odd. Was that hesitancy? Or pleasure? Damn the long-distance connection. It was so hard to read her emotions without seeing her face.

“So, um… sorry it’s been so long since I’ve checked in. I’ve, um, been pretty busy lately. Classes, you know.”

“But you’re feeling well? Your father says Dr. Mirza received a request for your medical records.”

Damn it, I’d forgotten I’d given Dr. Weyer permission to request my records. It hadn’t occurred to me Dr. Mirza would have told anyone. I was pretty sure HIPAA laws should have prevented that. Of course, Dr. Mirza had been my specialist since I was five years old. He probably hadn’t even considered the fact that I was no longer a minor before discussing things with my father.

That would explain the number of their calls I’d let go to voicemail over the last few days. Now I felt even worse for the radio silence. The records request probably sent up all sorts of red flags. “No, seriously, Mom, I’m fine. Really.” I was teetering on a very thin line. I had to convince my parents I was well enough they didn’t worry themselves into ulcers, but I couldn’t let on how much better I truly was. That kind of swing on the health scale, even one for the better, would be cause for alarm. Especially since I couldn’t explain the cure. Not yet, at any rate. Maybe not ever.

Owen tapped a finger on the notebook held forgotten in my hand.

Right. My talking points. I sucked in a steadying breath. I could do this. “Anyway, I need a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Yeah. Can you send me my birth certificate?”

There was a pause, then, “Your birth certificate?”

“Yeah, I probably should have brought it with me, but I didn’t realize I’d need it and I thought it would be safer in the files at the house. But now I need it, and I don’t have it, so—”

Owen patted my thigh, causing the avalanche of words to tumble to a halt. I never babbled. It, as much as anything else, told me I was more keyed up than I’d ever been before. Owen’s touch did more than stop the words, though. It also stopped my brain. Only momentarily, thankfully.

“Why do you need your birth certificate, Joey?”

My mind screeched to a halt.

“Joey?”

Owen nudged me. Crap. “Oh, uh, financial aid forms,” I finally said after sputtering for a few seconds while my brain struggled to come back online.

“Financial aid forms?” Mom’s voice sharpened. “Joey, what is the matter? I thought you had already taken care of your tuition payments.”

I cringed. Just one more log to throw on the guilt fire. My parents had spent every penny they’d earned on my health care, tapping into their retirement funds and everything. But they hadn’t stopped making regular deposits into my college fund. One I should have been too proud to touch. I wanted my independence; I should have done my damnedest to do it on my own. But I didn’t have any obvious skills, and college was expensive, so I’d used part of the college fund to finance my education.

“I’m considering not using the fund you set up. You guys have done so much already, that, um, I was going to look into financial aid options so you guys could, I don’t know, take a vacation.”

Owen rolled his eyes.

My mother let out a horrified gasp. “Yusuf Robert Franke!” Then she started muttering something in Persian. The words were muffled, so I didn’t quite catch what she was saying. It was probably better that way.

Ten minutes and a promise to contact my father later, I managed to calm my mom. She hadn’t promised to send me my birth certificate. I tried not to let the omission mean anything more than it did. After I disconnected the call, I tossed my phone on my desk and returned to my bed. Owen had scooted himself against the wall on the bed, tucking his legs under him tailor-fashion.

“Dude, you are the worst liar. Like, ever.”

I groaned and plopped down next to him. The mattress bounced, causing me to rock into Owen. Instead of his typical polo shirts, tonight he wore a tank top that showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the taut hills of his biceps. My arm pressed briefly against his, sending little zings of warmth skittering along my nerves. I’d ended up closer to him than I’d expected, and Owen probably wasn’t looking for a snuggle buddy. I inched away so our bodies didn’t touch.

“You’re right. I’m a terrible liar. It’s just that I’ve never really lied to them before. I mean, the occasional fib about whether I drank enough water, sure, but never an outright lie. I hate it.” I pressed my fist to my queasy stomach. Yeah. The whole thing didn’t sit well with me.

He reached over and rubbed along my back. I wanted to melt into the touch. It was comforting and disconcerting. “Figured. The bullet points gave it away. Most practiced liars don’t need a script.”

I slouched against the wall, which trapped Owen’s hand, which was still tracing my spine in that Labrador-soothing way of his. I jerked forward. If I had to choose between a comfortable posture and Owen’s hand on me, I’d sit up straight. I swept the useless notebook away from me. “Yeah. Fat lot of good it did me.” I sighed, leaning into his caressing hand. “Is it a shifter thing? The touching?”

Owen’s hand stalled, and I regretted the question. I didn’t want him to stop. “I don’t mind,” I said, faster than I probably should have.

After a second he resumed his petting. “It’s kind of a shifter thing, yeah. Most animals live in packs or prides, and while shifters don’t have the same kind of dynamic, not as such, they still tend to stay in family groups. Touch and connection are pretty integral parts of shifter society.”

“Even for owls?” Thanks to Animal Planet, I had a vague recollection that most owls were considered loners and didn’t often live in groups. Though I also remembered that a group of owls was called a parliament, so groups or flocks weren’t unheard-of concepts.

He smiled somewhat wistfully. “Shifter owls aren’t quite as solitary as our native counterparts, though we’re not quite as pack-oriented as some other avian species, and definitely not as much as the canines or even the felines.” He shot me a knowing look. “I suspect any group things we rely on go to our human half rather than our owl half.”

His hand stilled at the small of my back. “Does it bother you? I tend to be a bit more touchy-feely than other owls. I hang around enough shifters who aren’t loners that I sometimes forget not everyone needs touch the same way.”

“No. Don’t stop… I mean, it’s nice. It doesn’t bother me.” I arched my back a bit, a silent invitation to keep stroking me.

Owen didn’t disappoint. If anything, his touch firmed. More pressure, less brushing of fingers. I closed my eyes, and eliminating one of my senses kicked the others into higher gear. The summer night sounds outside my window were clearer, a subtle symphony of crickets, rustling leaves, and distant coyotes that was uniquely Wyoming, uniquely beautiful. The pressure of Owen’s touch took on new dimensions, feeling warmer, more important. Flavors I normally associated with Owen’s scent settled on the back of my tongue. Snow and pine and the cool air of midnight all had a taste.

I don’t know how long we sat like that. Eventually Owen’s caresses slowed until they stopped altogether. He didn’t lift his hand. It lingered, flexed. Goose bumps prickled along my skin, and I shivered.

There was something in the air, like a weighty expectation. I was afraid to open my eyes in case it broke the mood.

Owen cupped my face with the hand not planted at the small of my back. He swiped his thumb under one eye, along the cheekbone. Then, in a nearly identical motion, he traced his thumb along my eyebrow. I kept my lids sealed, and the brush of his skin across my eyelashes tickled enough to have my lips parting in a slight gasp. I nuzzled into his hand, both in a bid to increase the pressure and to return, at least in a small part, the caress. It was a very feline gesture, one I didn’t want to think too hard about.

“Yusuf?” His breath ghosted along my cheek.

“Yeah, Owen?”

His combed his hand through my hair, tucking the almost-too-long strands of my bangs off my forehead. The hand planted at the small of my back lifted, and I pushed back, trying to prolong the contact. “Can you look at me?” With one hand palming my cheek, he used the other to tip my chin back.

Reluctantly, I blinked my eyes open.

The quick, easy smile I’d found so fascinating the first night I met him was missing. It had been replaced with something gentler, something more serious.

“I’d like to kiss you. Will you let me?”

Oh man. My heart throbbed, deep and almost sickeningly.

Owen. Owen wanted to kiss me. Kiss me. He hadn’t asked the night before, which meant this was different somehow. More important, maybe. At least it felt that way.

I sucked in a breath. Licked my lips. Stared into those wide glowing amber eyes.

I wanted to say yes and please and okay and right now. But try as I might, the words wouldn’t come. So I did the only thing I could do. I nodded.

This time his smile was sweet and full of joy. “Okay. Yeah.”

He leaned up, and I held my breath.

His lips were soft, the stubble on his chin rough.

I didn’t know what to do. Whether I should kiss him back or allow him free rein. At first his kiss was simple and sweet, a brush of lips against lips, nothing more. Then, when I didn’t jerk back—or yank him to me—he pulled back long enough to gauge my interest. Last night had been quick, casual. This was anything but.

My eyes were wide, probably three sizes too big for my face. Even though I couldn’t focus enough to see him well, I didn’t close my eyes. His lips curled up, and I wanted to touch. To taste. I didn’t wait for him to make the next move. I leaned forward, captured his mouth. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a clue. But before I had time to worry about it, Owen took over. Oh, he wasn’t forceful or demanding. He tilted his head, perfecting the fit of our lips. He tested. He teased. He tasted. And me, I reveled in each new touch, each new movement.

I was too caught up in everything he was doing so I could dissect the movements for future study. The first time he flicked at my bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, I shook. It tickled but didn’t cause me to want to laugh. Instead, something twisted in my abdomen, a feeling both tantalizing and discomfiting. He didn’t push. He didn’t pressure for more. In fact, it was I who opened to him, drawing his tongue into my mouth.

I moaned.

He groaned.

I looped my arms around his neck, closing the distance between us. It was like someone or something activated a new facet in my brain. Or, more likely, my body. I needed to feel him, the hard lines of him against me. I needed to get closer, to touch as much of him as I could. I’m not even sure a complete melding of our bodies would be enough. I dug my fingers into his shirt, fisting the warm cotton.

Owen broke away, gasping for breath. He rested his forehead against mine, and I noticed that somewhere along the way I’d gone from sitting next to him on my bed to sitting on him on my bed. I straddled his lap, so between that and my extra few inches in height, I had to look down at him.

My body thrummed with excitement. I was also, I realized, hard. I wasn’t embarrassed, not really, but my reaction, given everything else at this moment, seemed ill-timed. I leaned back, thinking I should probably not be climbing all over Owen like this. But then I noticed Owen was aroused too.

I scrambled off him. We were friends, weren’t we? Sure, kissing like we had maybe stretched the bonds of friendship, but humping my friend was definitely crossing a line. Right? But maybe not. Not if he was as into it as he seemed.

I snatched a pillow from the top of my bed and covered my lap. I wanted to be smooth about it, but I’m pretty sure I came off as frantic and desperate.

Owen sat up straight, crossing one leg over the opposite knee, then stretching his arms out, a seemingly casual change of posture probably geared 100 percent to hiding his boner.

Damn, the whole thing was awkward, and Owen probably regretted the kiss. Especially if he hadn’t intended it to go so far.

I cleared my throat. “So….”

Owen nodded. After a moment he patted his pockets before digging out his phone. A glance at the screen later, he said, “So, yeah. I should probably go. I’ve got to work the desk tonight.”

“Right,” I said.

“Right.” After another awkward pause, he stood. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

He crossed to the door, opened it. He stilled, hand gripping the knob. “You want to do lunch tomorrow? We can meet after class.”

I was a jittery mess, so my voice wasn’t as calm as I’d hoped. “Yeah. That’d be great. Lunch.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, I flung myself flat against my mattress and tried to smother myself with my pillow. “Argh.” I tossed the pillow aside when I remembered breathing was actually a good thing. It had been one very strange day, and the last hour only made it worse.

Well, not worse. I ran my fingers across my lips. No, definitely not worse. Just… more complicated.