Moonlight Desires

Chapter 2

Seth meant to get up early and check the parking lot for the car he had seen in the forest, but he had slept through the initial alarm and the first reminder fifteen minutes later. Promising himself a nice long shower and power breakfast later, he hurried down to the main floor and into the parking lot, but there was nothing matching the abandoned car. Maybe it wasn't her, Seth thought as he took the elevator back up to his room. Other people use that hair dye. Other people wrestle. But how many did both of those and would smell like Becky? It wasn't likely. Even to a werewolf's keen nose, there were only so many truly distinct scents in the world, and when he had smelled that particular combination, his mental image of Becky—red hair, Irish accent, great laugh, fun, friend—had flared in his head. Even after he had the luxurious shower he had promised himself and more to eat for breakfast than he should, he still couldn't shake the disconnect of such a familiar scent in such an unexpected place.

It bothered him all throughout his drive to the next event, and even though Roman must have figured something was wrong, he gamely avoided any potentially problematic topics—generally girlfriends and the McMahons. "You need me to drive, man?" Roman asked, glancing up from his phone. "I actually got a proper sleep last night, so I'm good to go."

Seth appreciated the gesture, but shook his head. The day after the full moon, he found he regained control faster if he had to focus on tasks like driving. If his mind was left to wander, it was too easy to sliding into an in between state. This time, though, there was the added danger of something about Becky slipping out. No one on the roster knew about his lycanthropy—except perhaps Becky now; he wasn't sure how much she would have pieced together—and as much as it pained him to keep his nature a secret from one of his closest friends, he knew it was for the best. "Nah, man. I'm good. But thanks. You can get the next leg." Maybe. Even on his clearest, most human-minded days, Seth liked being the one in the driver's seat.

Roman reached over and tapped Seth's hand, almost white-knuckled with its tight grip. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Seth took one hand off the wheel during a straightaway and flexed it a bit before switching and stretching out the other.

Laughing, Roman leaned back in the passenger seat, stretching out his legs. "Must be the full moon, man. It's been fucking with everybody. Someone caught Charlotte and Andrade making out backstage, so I guess they're a thing now. Becky was sick—"

"She was?" Seth feigned confusion. "She seemed fine when I talked with her last night."

Roman shrugged one shoulder as he reached for his coffee. "That's what I thought. I chatted with her for a bit right after we got to the arena. But she must have a stomach bug or something, because I saw her leave not long after her spot with Nattie."

"Hope she's okay." Seth kept looking straight ahead, trying to sketch out a timeline in his head. If Becky had left not long after her spot, that would have given her enough time to reach that section of the forest and then shift and go for a run. He had left a while after she did—Roman had caught a ride with Drew—but she wasn't a confident driver, so she wouldn't have sped or taken the shortcuts he had. Circumstantial evidence, he could imagine his mother saying. "With WrestleMania coming up, this is a bad time to get sick."

"I'm sure she is," Roman said. "Probably just a twenty-four hour thing."

When they arrived at the arena, Seth lingered in the parking lot with his bag. "Go on and head in," he told Roman. "I thought I recognized my friend's car back there. I just want to go check it out." It wasn't entirely a lie. "I won't be long."

Roman nodded. "Cool. See you in there."

After Roman was out of sight, Seth walked back through the parking area, the wheels on his bag rattling every time they bounced over a crack or a piece of gravel. Normally the clatter annoyed him to the point of wanting to launch his bag into the stratosphere, but he was too busy reciting the make, model, and license plate he had committed to memory. He found and dismissed four likely contenders before he happened upon the right one—and peering in the passenger's side window, he noticed a few strands of flame-orange hair clinging to the head rest. "It was her," he thought, dazed.