Terry Keagen flew down the ribbon of highway faster than the law allowed on his way to Gray, his regular Sunday ritual for the past few months. Andra waited for him. His mind carried a picture of her at an oak finished table with painted white legs surrounded on four sides by four chairs with green cushions. She would wear jeans; long sleeved shirt and no shoes. Her long raven colored hair would be tied back in a ponytail while she twirled a spoon in her coffee, though she always drank it black.
He hated himself.
Each week he swore he would stay away. She was on the mend after the murder of her brother. Each week he swore he didn't love the small, shy, quiet woman who invaded his dreams with her gentle hands and soft lips. Love snuck in the door of his heart like a thief in the night. She's married and beyond my reach.
Autumn painted leaves shades of orange, yellow and red, the most rare of the colors. The highway stretched before him gray, dreary like the funk in his soul, Andra, his constant thought, a sweet torture. He knew better, of course, than to fall for a married woman. Marriage, a sacred institution, the line that could never be crossed sat between them like the Red Sea without Moses in sight. Did Andra love him? The question had no answer. While she admitted she looked forward to his visits, it was a far cry from love.
No, she has more class than to fall for me. She wouldn't betray her husband in such a horrendous fashion. His gloved hands squeezed the wheel with a death grip as he increased his speed to foolhearty. Speed cleared his mind, forced him to focus, made him free except for the wonderful agony of his love. He wove through traffic leaving the other vehicles behind like a parking lot. The exit with a stoplight loomed ahead on the right, the only force large enough to end his reign of speed.
He loved Andra Grant. He switched radio stations while he waited for the green light. His heart beat out a hip-hop beat, fast and hard. His mind again turned to green eyes that twinkled with laughter at his lame jokes. Her red lips didn't need the make up she applied, the chin she always held with a proud tilt. She drove him crazy. The urge to kiss her, really kiss her tortured him. The light changed. He stomped the gas pedal. The engine purred like a lion, throaty and low. A sudden flash of Andra's face after she learned of Allen's death kept a lid on the aggressive wolf within.
Keagen pulled off the highway toward Andra's house. This time, he swore to his heart, he wouldn't go back. He would leave her to live her life with Grant. He would move on, get over her. If he found the task didn't work, he'd cut out the piece of his soul, and then hide it in his heart forever.
He killed the engine in front of her gray two-story house. He swung the door open; the odor of trouble assailed his nose, rusty and putrid. Keagen sniffed the air. Blood. Not a lot, but enough to speed his approach to the house. Inborn grace made the trip across the lawn easy. He was a skin walker, a werebeast, a werewolf. His senses exploded in his nervous system. Careful not to break the door in, Keagen hammered on the wood.
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Together they will find out if their love has the fiery strength to survive.
