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Reece

March 15th

I'm in a smoky bar. It's a cliché, I know, but just roll with it. It's the only bar in walking distance from campus anyways, and though it is smoky and dank and old fashioned, it is usually filled with barely legal drinkers and college kids. But now, in the middle of the spring break, it's all but deserted.

My name is Reece. I am a dalmatian. Third generation immigrant. 23-year-old. Studying at Lotus University. Single. In my spare time I like to hang out with friends and watch motorsport. And, when the fancy takes me, dress up in women's clothes and hang around in bars. Don't judge, everyone needs something to do with their time. I just happen to like girls' clothes. I am 5' 4", and slim, though my best friend might say I'm bordering on scrawny. I've been blessed with a very feminine body, and I know how to make it stand out.

Right now, I'm wearing a pair of skinny, low cut jeans, which makes my ass look really nice in a way that doesn't look intentional. I've got some random band t-shirt which I cropped, showing off a flat and toned belly, not too muscular, but hinting at it. Though I don't think it's entirely necessary, a hint of light fur-dye around my cheeks and eyes accentuates my face. I love the results, I'll look at myself sometimes in the reflection of shop windows and mirrors, and think that I look damn good, but that's really all I want. It's not like I'm here to trick people into thinking I'm a girl. That's just a side effect, though the attention is flattering, and addictive.

Every now and then a new patron saunters in, orders their drink, and retreats to the darker corners of the bar. I can't see them very well. My canine eyes are better suited for movement, and my color vision, though perfectly fine, is more washed out in grey when the light becomes insufficient. But I can smell them.

I sense from the smell alone that there's a pine marten, or other weasel like animal somewhere in this bar. There's a scent of musk and fish, not strong, but to a dog like me, you might as well be in a fishery. I try to ignore it.

There's a couple of very old guys, possibly teachers, in a far corner. I can tell from the rustling sounds coming from that area that they are both preoccupied with newspapers. In this light, that means they must be nocturnal. Not my types. I get very uneasy when all I can see in the night are two glowing bright eyes. My type is more canid, bigger, tougher, and more... manly. The sort of guy who definitely wouldn't go for the sort of girl I'm dressed up as. But hey, one can hope, right?

The final individual is a bartender, a tired looking badger with a waistcoat and towel slung across his shoulder. The bartender seems to think this is some sort of village pub in the old country, not a modern establishment.

There's a tingle from the bell above the door, and almost instantly, the scent hits my nostrils. He smells primal. Old, but not in a sense that he has lived for a long time. More in the sense that the scent itself is connected to an older part of my receptors. Every dog knows that smell. I feel my fur stand on end, and my tail curls up underneath my chair.

A grey wolf sidles up beside me and creaks down on a bar stool. He is big. So big that he probably has to mind his head going through doors, and so wide that I have to lean away to not interfere with his personal space. His shirt is heroically trying to contain tufts of fur coming out from between the buttonholes, sleeves, and neckline. It's thick and roughly trimmed. He is still in his winter coat, and its past march already, a faux pas if nothing else.

The smell is strong, it's almost a stink. To us smaller canids, the smell means something more than just musk, and there's a good chance he's aware of it. It tingles my spine, and fuck me, it kinda works for me.

The wolf orders a beer. He looks bothered by something. His ears are flicking back and forth, and his nose is twitching very slightly. It must be awful dealing with the heat in this room. My emotions, in my tail, ears and mannerisms, are showing and it's considered rude if you don't try to hide it. I try to relax and order another beer. It's going to be my last one for tonight. I'm going to do something I've not done in this outfit before, and which is probably a really dumb idea. I'm going to try to hit on this guy.

After a long silence on his part, and several moments of me building up my resolve, I finally turn to him, and ask, "It's pretty hot in here, eh?"

"Winter coat," he mumbles.

"You've got your coat in still?" I ask, tentatively.

He nods and drinks some more. There's a bit of an awkward silence as I wait for him to respond, but nothing comes.

"Yeah," I chuckle nervously. "We did get a really early spring this year, didn't we?"

I look him up and down while waiting for him to reply. He's really damn attractive, even with all that extra fur. But then, he sniffs the air for a moment and his ears flick ever so slightly towards me. He gets up and leaves his beer, and I presume he's gone to the toilet, but after 5 minutes he's not returned. You don't want to spend that long inside the toilets at The White Banner, just to avoid some pushy dalmatian a third your size. His beer is almost untouched.

I look around the bar again. Even with my poor vision in this dark room, it's obvious that there's no seven-foot wolf here. I jump off the bar stool, and head for the door. I didn't even hear the bell go off, but I sense his lingering smell, and it points me this way. It hangs in the stale air of the bar like the smell of coffee in the morning. Only more potent and exhilarating. I step out into the night air, and draw in a lungful.

The smell, which was so penetrating and clear in the close bar atmosphere, has all but vanished outside. With a faint breeze blowing and no way of knowing where he went, I am lost. I sniff around for a short while, but I cannot pick up his scent anywhere, it has all gone with the wind. Though we canines have an excellent sense of smell, there's simply no way to track the scent of a wolf in a breeze. It belongs in nature, blends in, and dissipates.

The streetlights guide me to the campus, where I live. Dejected, I plop down on the bed, kick off my shoes and stare at the ceiling without even bothering to remove my fur dye. Eventually, I fall asleep.

March 16th

I get up at around 12 the next day. My face feels rough. Makeup dries out the skin underneath my fur, and not removing it before bedtime is a dumb thing to do. I step into the shower and begin carefully washing out the smell from the bar. In time, it is replaced with the fresh strawberry scent of my shampoo. I condition and rinse my fur to maintain the shine. Then, I use a special water repellent oil that treats and protects the skin. The added benefit is that the fur becomes hydrophobic for a while and you don't get that annoying wet dog smell. It's expensive, yes, but I normally don't use a fur drier. It'll dry my skin even more and blow loose fur around the whole apartment.

I try to reason with myself that trying to find him again would be silly, fruitless, perhaps even risky. I can't go as a girl. I'll go as a guy, and I'll talk to him, and set things straight, find out who he is, and perhaps get to know him.

I walk back to the bar, thinking that the chances of finding him, and the chance that he's interested, are minimal. But I have to know. When I stick my head inside the door, a small tinge of irrational disappointment trickles into my head as I see that his spot near the bar is empty and his beer isn't there.

The bar is still dark, the only light comes through the windows, and the sun must combat years of nicotine stains and other dirt which the bartender considers essential patina. The atmosphere reminds me of one of those post-apocalyptic scenes.

"Hey, good afternoon" I say, and try to act nonchalantly. I wonder if he recognizes me in my normal flannels and jeans.

He nods and goes back to wiping beer mugs. I wonder if bartenders are required to wipe beer mugs as some sort of old-time naval law. They aren't getting any cleaner.

"Was there a big wolf in here last night?" I ask. "Around half past 9?"

The bartender studies me unsubtly and shakes his head. Even now I can smell a very faint trace of the massive wolf in the stale air.

"Smells like he was here," I say, raising my eyebrows slightly and inclining my head towards him in a 'are you sure about that' kind of tone.

The badger scratches his white chin stripe. He gives the air a few sniffs as if he's unaware that there are any smells at all in here. "Well, when you mention it, I think perhaps I saw a guy come in here once. Big fella."

"Did you know who he was?" I ask.

"Can't say I did. He looked like he was dressed for some sort of sports team or something."

I try to recall what he had been wearing that night. I hadn't been paying much attention to what he wore over that thick fur. It was a blue shirt of some kind, and now that the badger mentioned it, it did have a somewhat weird cut. More like a uniform shirt than a dress shirt. There was something about how the sleeves were turned up, they looked like they were made like that. Then there was some sort of label or badge on his shirt, I suppose. I can't be too sure though; I was slightly distracted.

I thank the bartender, and leave. Walking in the opposite direction from where I went last night, I maintain the vain hope that maybe his scent might have rubbed off on something between here and where I'll find him. The air is calm today, but it's overcast. If it begins to rain, all kinds of dormant smells would be kicked up from the ground, and what little hope I have of finding his scent outside would be buried. I really hope it doesn't rain.

If he works nearby, the most likely place would be Safewell Springs, which is just fifteen minutes by bus from the campus and bar. It is where most of the teachers live, those who wanted cheap and affordable housing close to the school, and didn't mind the generic, conservative, middle America aesthetic. There are some shops here, a lawyer's office, a real-estate manager, some nondescript companies in an office building, and a garage. The latter is the likeliest place to start when looking for tough manly wolves, so I go there first.

The garage is open for business when I arrive there, and its large gates are drawn up. A grey figure with a roundish silhouette stands nearest to the entrance, he's got his back to me. I don't think he can hear me approaching over the din of tools rattling away and cars ticking over. He finally turns as I approach and gives a start.

"Good morning, how can I help you?" He begins. A stock phrase. It's clear from his body language that he's suspicious of my approaching on foot.

"I'm looking for a wolf," I say simply. I'm not quite sure how to defend or even define my intentions. I don't have a good, Christian reason to find him ready at hand.

"A wolf," he echoes. His forehead, glistening with sweat, angles towards me. He's a pig. Not in an ad hominem way, he's just a pig, physically. He has pointy short ears, a stubby, wall-socket-snout and very distinct breathing sounds.

"And who might this wolf be?"

"Oh, just some guy, I met him last night, but I didn't get his name. He's... really tall and uh... large."

"We ain't got no big wolves in this here garage," He replies, "and we don't want them here either." Then he spits.

I can read a room well enough. Racial tension. He's probably grown sick of all the fairy tales. Some of his colleagues have put down their work and are sauntering over.

"Hal, what's he wondering about." A gruff voice comes out from the back of the crowd. Hal turns and meets the eyes of an opossum in overalls with his sleeves rolled up, covered in grease up to his elbows. The opossum wipes off with a dirty rag and looks at me.

"I was looking for a wolf, do any of you guys know a really tall grey wolf, or perhaps a timber wolf, who still has his winter coat?" I ask. Perhaps some of the predator animals can be of more help.

"Who wants to know?" someone from the group asks. I can't tell who said it. "You some kinda' reporter or something?"

"I'm no reporter," I say, feeling my body tense from the suspicious tone.

"I know someone like that at least," the opossum says. He hesitates for a bit, looking me up and down.

"You do?" I ask him, my ears perk. "I just need to talk to him, if it is him. Can you tell me where I can find him?"

He strokes his chin; the other workers are going back to their places.

"I could say, I just don't want it to come back to me if there's anything wrong. I don't know you or what you want to do with him."

"I don't intend on telling anything to anyone," I promise. "Honestly, I just want to meet him. It's really important to me that I talk to him."

"Alright," He concedes, "If anyone around here fits the description it must be Mr. Whyllis son. I think he works around the racetrack, but I'm not sure where. He's a very private wolf, and he doesn't like nosy people."

The opossum leans in a bit closer and whispers. "I've heard he's got a mean streak too... Look, whatever it is you're after him for, just leave it. It probably isn't worth it."

"It's okay, I'm not after anything," I lie. "Thanks for the advice, and your help."

I can feel my tail starting to wag as I put the garage behind me. This chase is a fun distraction from the schoolwork I should be doing. I stop by a bakery to pick up some fresh buns and a coffee. While tucking in, I pull my phone out and open the search engine.

After a while, I've hit the correct spelling of the name. Mr. Whyllis is the owner of Whyllis Holding and Whyllis Racing Ltd., the local racing team. There are no pictures of the son that I can see, but from newspaper articles I can tell that Whyllis is a wolf, and the right species, too.

He is being described in cliché analogies to his species. I guess the local newspaper, in which I find most of the articles pertaining to his business, probably have slow week. My eyes nearly ricochet off a headline near the top. The Wolf of Bethnal Walk. I might not have paid much attention while my teacher talked about journalism, but I know a paid article when I see one. It's a sort of character profile, celebrating a newly created race team. They have some success with a new driver. There's a picture of a stocky wolf with grey fur and a white muzzle in the article, which can only be Mr. Whyllis, the senior. I put away my phone and finish my coffee, staring out over the traffic.

I've always had a soft spot for motor racing, I'll admit. And this wolf is becoming very interesting, very quickly. Maybe he even knows the drivers on his father's team? Surely, he must. My tail bats even quicker. Who wouldn't want a tall, buff, boyfriend who's also friendly with racing drivers? I mean, I'm not saying I'm going to ask him on a date or anything, but I'd like to at least find out if he bats for my team. If there's even the slightest chance, I'll really try. It won't be like the other times I've been in a relationship; I'll really make an effort this time.

Let me take a break for a second and explain what's so special about racing drivers. Not unlike other athletes, the racing driver has to stay in absolute top shape, which makes him a treat to behold.

Then there's the competitive nature. Everyone wants to be on top, but there can only be one. Even when there are two drivers per team, there is only one winner, even among them. None of the 24 drivers are happy with second, and they're willing to risk their lives to pass that car in front. That breeds a truly intense personality, one which make me weak at the knees.

In addition to competing against other people with the mere skill of their personal capacity, a racing driver also battles the laws of nature itself. When I see a racing driver go by, I can't help but think that there goes someone who pushes against the very bonds of earth itself, like an astronaut or a test pilot, and it sets him apart from us mere mortals. Perhaps I should have gotten a degree in racing instead of English Lit.

Back in the real world, I make a call to my best friend Aiden, an arctic fox. I recall him being headhunted by a local engineering firm. Perhaps he knows something about Mr. Whyllis. He picks up after two rings. I realize I should have waited until I was sure he was off work, but he seems cheerful when he answers.

"Spot! My god, the last person I expected to hear from. how the fuck are you, girl!"

"Hey Pip." My name for him, short for pipsqueak. Aiden is a mere 5 feet on his bare, white paws. "How ya' doin?"

Aiden works for Courage Performance Parts, a supplier of performance parts, owned by someone who is named Courage, possibly a last name. They engineer their own parts, from what I understand. That's pretty much all I know about them. I've been a bad friend when it comes to keeping up with him, that's for sure.

We shake some dust off the old friendship, and of course, agree to meet up for a coffee one of these days. I'm almost certain that that date will be forgotten by the both of us. That's just how we roll. As the conversation about ourselves start to slow down, I suddenly remember what I was doing.

"Pip, dear, I'm... doing an assignment, and I wondered if you know who Mr. Whyllis is?" I haven't got any better excuses prepared.

"You mean you don't know him?"

"I can't say I do, is he some sort of big shot?"

"He's only one of our company's most important customers."

"So, you know anything about him?" I ask, my tail tapping the chair as I visualize the next few steps before me.

"Sure, I know about him. What did you want to know, exactly?"

I take a deep breath. "I was wondering about his son. Do you know him?"

"His son?"

"Yeah. He's got one of those, hasn't he?"

"I guess... why do you want to know about him?"

I hesitate, I want to find him so I can work out if he's gay, and potentially ask him out?

"It's... uh... for an assignment."

It's obvious from the long pause at the other end, Aiden knows me a bit better than that.

"Reece..." His voice comes out slowly.

I hate it when he, of all people, use my real name.

"Look," I interrupt him. "Aiden, can you help me or not?"

"That guy is bad news, Reece." He sighs.

"So, you know about him then?"

"All I know is that he's a race mechanic. He comes in sometimes and talks technical with the foreman. I've never talked to him, but I can smell him well enough..."

Ah shit, I hope he hasn't cottoned on already. "Aiden, it's not what you think, it's just a bit of fun, nothing serious. I'm just going to work him for a bit, see if he swings-"

"Reece." I can hear his breathing on the other end, he's searching for ways to talk me out of it. "He's not like the others," Aiden says, "If you fuck something up here... He doesn't smell like he's the type to talk it out or fuck someone behind your back. Often as not he smells of alcohol. During work hours, I mean. And he's got this mean look about him. Most of the guys shut up when he's around... Tell me what it is about this guy that you need to find out."

I sigh. The memories of my exes aren't pleasant, but Aiden seems to think they're necessary. Which means he probably isn't joking. "I'll be careful. Don't worry."

"You better be, Spot," He mutters unhappily. "I want it on record that I think you're being irrational. I can find you a nice guy if you want, just say the words."

"I'm telling you, Pip, I'm not interested in your guys."

"I haven't fucked these ones; I promise they won't rebound on you."

"No, it's not that. I just want to do this, okay?" I tell him, fidgeting with my paws. I'm glad he can't see me, because he always could read my body language, and I wouldn't have made it difficult for him. "I'm just curious. Nothing more. I just want to talk to him."

He sighs again over the phone, "Just be safe, okay?"

"I promise Pip. I'll tell you how it goes."

I promise him we'll catch up over coffee, or maybe lunch, at Kelly's before I hang up. I spend the rest of the day feeling bad that he's probably worried about me. But at least I know about this mythical race mechanic son. Even if it is ever so little.

I have assignments which need to be finished before the spring break is over, so I can't spend too much time searching for this wolf today. Getting to Safewell Springs raceway is at least an hour's ride by bus, so I save that project for a rainy day.

Back at home, I kick back and diligently ignore my chores and responsibilities for a while. I turn on the computer and look up some old racing footage from Safewell Springs raceway. I've yet to catch sight of the wolf, but I see the black and gold liveries of Mr. Whyllis' cars. Occasionally, close-up shots of the racing drivers flash across the screen. Intense eyes, forceful personalities, big smiles. Fur which looks like it's blowing while they're standing still. Every inch of them scream speed and action. A fascinating breed.