Brotherhood of the Wolf

Chapter 6.1: Family Ties

As an anthropologist, pack dynamics are naturally fascinating to me. The strict hierarchies that dictate social structure. The unwritten codes of behavior that govern their their roles and responsibilities. The distribution of power between dominant and submissive members. And the strong family-like bonds used for mutual protection and the safeguarding of pack territory. These are all characteristics that have evolved in order for the wolves to not only survive, but also to thrive.

There is a part of me that craves this type of community, and why wouldn't I? It's who I'm supposed to be, no matter how much my parents tried to suppress it.

Clayton has even invited me to join his pack, although that makes it sound like he sent me a gold-embossed card with an option to RSVP. But that is nowhere near the truth of what happened. Because he basically backed me into a corner without any other viable options.

Maybe it was just out of pride, but I immediately refused him.

That was probably the wrong move, I know, especially when I'm risking having a missing person's case pinned on me. Plus now that I've found out that the man who signs my paychecks (figuratively anyway) heads another local pack, my job could also be on the line if I don't make a choice soon.

But how am I even supposed to pick?

First of all, I don't even know if Black River would want me. So then it's either Allegheny or staying rogue. Apparently the latter's not an option either since getting stuck between two rival packs means being on the bad side of both.

I wish there was someone I could talk to who'd give me some objective advice, and I totally see the irony in that desire with regards to weighing the merits of solitude over a community.

"Hey there, beautiful. What are you drinking? My treat," says someone as they slide into my booth across the table from me.

We're in the COCK AND MAMIE pub, the only '21 and up' place on the whole campus. With a barmaid holding a rooster on its carved clapboard sign out front, it had just the right amount of raunch to pun ratio in its name to catch my eye.

I also thought this would be a good place to avoid the chaotic energy of college kids on a late Saturday without staying cooped up in my cottage. And up until now, things have been fairly quiet in this old English-styled establishment, with mostly older graduate students or faculty passing through for a drink and a light meal. I, myself, have been peacefully downing decaf lattes alternating with virgin cranberry spritzers all afternoon.

Until this drink-offering someone decided to crash my internal existential debate, that is.

I look up from page sixty-three of the textbook I'd been staring at for the last ten minutes while trying unsuccessfully to plan my next lecture.

"Uhm, what?" I ask the strange guy in a Greek system shirt and backwards baseball cap holding a half-full pint of beer.

"I'm gonna buy you a drink. What's your poison? You look like a tequila kind of girl to me," he says, already waving at the bartender. "Hey! Two tequilas over here, man. Thanks."

"Oh, no. No tequilas," I say, tapping my book to emphasize all of the imaginary reading I still have to do. This dude has clearly mistaken me for being just another student, and even if I were, drunken fraternity brothers were never my type.

"Come on! Live a little, sweetheart," the guy says, reaching for my hand, but I pull it away.

"I think that might be Professor Sweetheart and she was quite clear with that no," says the bartender who's appeared at the booth in the nick of time.

Tall, blonde and very good looking, he's a bit too built for me, but the bulge of his muscles under his crisp button-down shirt is just enough to get the message across.