Little Wolf

Ch 6 Being Man

I took a moment while out of Dad's view to wince and rub my shoulder. I stuffed the very wrinkled bag in the back of my sock drawer without even looking at it. Peeling off the ripped shirt, I threw it in a corner. I had to bend over some to take a look at my shoulder in my dresser mirror. Touching it gingerly, I knew I was going to be sore for the next few days.

No clean shirts left in my room, which meant nothing to hide the bruise that was working its way across my shoulder. I resented that grip but knew I wouldn't have stayed if it hadn't been there. And I had promised to listen.

I demanded to be treated like a man and got more than I bargained for.

His words about possibly becoming a rapist came back to me. He never said he had, only that the struggle in a crowded city was too much for him, how finding mom had been a godsend.

I didn't want to ask, was determined not to ask. At the same time, I was desperate to ask, to be reassured that my dad was who I always thought he was.

It was my turn to try and stop the trembling that was the side effect of too many emotions. I wanted to rid myself of my jeans and run across the land, paws digging into the earth to spur my speed. I got as far as setting my hand to the button on my jeans.

Be a man.

I couldn't run, couldn't go out there without my emotions under control, couldn't stay hiding in my room.

Fake it until you make it, my mom had whispered to me once when I started school, sharing a grin with me. She had tried preparing me for manhood even then. She advised me not to let them see me get ruffled, no matter who "they" were- girls, bullies, or my dad.

I took a deep breath before I went back out to join him.

He was in the kitchen, cooking up a pan of potatoes, with two steaks sitting on the counter waiting their turn.

"I threw a load in the washer," he said without turning around.

"I was going to."

I was relieved my voice came out steady, even if I still felt shaky. I didn't realize how long I'd been in my room.

"You can get the next one," he said. I heard the smirk in his voice.

I snorted. Dad always hated doing laundry, not that it was my favorite thing to do either.

He glanced back at me to see how I was doing. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in my shoulder, but he said nothing. I could feel it, though, the silent words. Be a man. I could feel a certain amount of pride coming from him too. Gad, this was awkward.

"What are you gonna drive while you're out there?"

His question caught me by surprise. "I thought you'd drive me up in the truck. After that, I don't know. I'll camp out, travel around as a wolf probably. I'll figure something out."

"Michael down at Split Creek has that old motorcycle of his he's been talking about getting rid of. We should go over and talk to him about it. Bikes are cheap on gas, and you can go off-road with that old thing."

That old thing? That "old thing" was a frigging Indian motorcycle that's probably worth a small fortune as an antique; ten times more valuable because of how well kept it was.

Michael had a shed out back full of enough spare parts to make a few bikes. Working on the old motorcycles has been Michael's lifelong hobby, and he was as old as Grandfather. An Indian was a dream bike if there ever was one! Forget the more famous, more prominent, or fancier motorcycles. A bike like that could go just about anywhere my four paws could take me.