The Oregon rain
#14 of It's been a quiet week in Cannon Shoals...
As the storm lashing Cannon Shoals finally breaks, Zach Leon is left picking up a whole lot of pieces -- with the town, his father, and his complicated relationship with an old friend.
As the storm lashing Cannon Shoals finally breaks, Zach Leon is left picking up a whole lot of pieces -- with the town, his father, and his complicated relationship with an old friend.
_Here's the final piece of the storm cycle kicked off by "Take the long way home." It's a sort-of-sequel to "For Pierrot and Columbine." There's some smut in it. Beyond that, consider this a content warning for some talk of depression and suicide. It's a follow-on to a dark story so that happens; I hope you take some optimism and light away from it, but I don't want you to go in blind. _
Thanks to Spudz,
Rechan and Max Coyote for their help with this.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"Riders on the storm" cycle:
- Take the long way home
- The tough guy
- All along the watchtower
- The Oregon rain
"The Oregon rain" _ _by ** Rob Baird**
In two days of hurricane-force winds and crashing thunder, the loudest thing Zach Leon had yet heard was the sound of his phone hitting the counter. He was still trying to process the conversation.
Maybe it wouldn't be true. Maybe his father would come back from the hospital and it would all be some misunderstanding. He wasn't old-old, but he was getting up there -- it wasn't strange that something might be the matter. But not this, and not the way he'd said it.
It was just one more thing to deal with, and he'd had enough of those. With his parents in Corvallis while his dad was getting tested, Zach had been running the motel more or less by himself; two days of storm had worn the red squirrel down to the bone.
The worst of the winds seemed to have died down, at least, but the rain came in buckets and the longer it lasted the more the weather sealing gave out in the motel's older rooms.
Then again, all of them were old. Beachcomb-Inn dated back to the 1960s and five decades of "renovation" had been sporadic, haphazard, and halfhearted. When his father added wireless internet access to the building, it took the spot of "color TV in all rooms" on the sign out front.
Also, if Zach cared to nitpick, the sign technically called it 'Inter-Net.' "Close enough," Clarence had said. Fixing the sign would take money, after all, and the tourists would know what was meant.
Indeed, it even added a bit of rustic flair.
When he was still in high school, the squirrel had sometimes let himself wonder about the guests, imagining himself in their shoes -- setting off on grand adventures north or south or east, with the country at the beck and call of their steering wheel.
It had made him think of Dinah Shore: See the USA in your Chevrolet; America is asking you to call. Drive your Chevrolet through the USA -- America's the greatest land of all.
He only knew the commercial because his father had internalized it, and his father only knew it because his father worshipped the United States and everything it represented. Abuelito was a Spanish Republican; a refugee from the Civil War.
His Chevy was still parked out front, a 1959 station wagon that looked every bit as dated as the Beachcomb-Inn itself. It was, Zach had been reminded constantly, the car that carried his father and grandfather to Cannon Shoals.
Migrants. Wanderers, like the tourists who stopped in on their way along 101, bound for God-only-knew-where. But as time went by, the shine had worn off the tourists the way it wore off the Nomad. Now he saw the weariness in their eyes at the end of a long day, and the last bits of their patience fraying...
They were not headed for grand adventures, anyway. They were going to Disneyland, or the Grand Canyon, or Yosemite. Or worse, some road trip that would never be appreciated by anyone who hadn't planned it.
Or perhaps they were stuck. Perhaps something unexpected and unpleasant had brought them to the Shoals. Perhaps they were like his parents, stuck for the second day in Corvallis. He could see his dad clearly, pacing the worn carpets of the Holiday Inn he'd called from.
Coping. He would be going off about the décor, or the size of the room, or the color of the drapes, or the brand name of the cleaners in the maid's trolley. Dios mio, he'd be lamenting to Zach's mother, holding up a coffee mug with a stain on it that only he could see. Explique esto! A ver si se atreve!
Explain this! The same tone he'd used on a young Zach, when he looked at a report card, or found one of his precious model ships damaged. Completely different from the voice Zach had heard on the phone.
You need to start thinking about how you're going to take over.
He helped with the models now; wasn't that good enough? A collection of frigates and tugboats and fishing trawlers in neat little bottles decorating the lobby of the Beachcomb-Inn and more than a few of the guest rooms spoke to their partnership.
He thought of the Inn as belonging to Clarence, though actually Zach's grandfather Juan was the one to have founded it. And because Zach was an only child, it was supposed to pass to him -- eventually. A lot happened eventually; Zach was only 24, though, and still half hoped that Clarence Leon would live forever.
It wasn't just because of how close he was to his parents, although he was and always had been. It was also because he had no real interest in taking over the motel. Sometimes he mentioned this to his father, when they were working on the little boats, and Clarence shrugged. Where else would you go?
Amanda Li, his girlfriend, phrased it slightly differently: where do you really think you're headed? He hadn't had an answer. She did -- but her answer had been 'California,' and that was that.
The longer he thought about it, the more agitated he became. His brushy tail flipped, and his teeth chattered in the unflattering way they sometimes did when he became upset. The squirrel sighed, and tried to distract himself with the latest model they'd been working on.
Putting ships in bottles took a lot of delicate work. Every step required meticulous effort. Clarence was obsessed; the older squirrel assembled the tiny details of riggings and spars with the focus of a neurosurgeon. The results were masterful -- could've been worth a lot of money. Could've been a job, even, instead of running an antique motor inn.
But this place is ours_, Zach! How many children in these troubled times can say they have a family business?_
He pulled out his father's carefully organized set of model paints and was just beginning to plan out which ones he'd need when he caught sight of a car pulling up outside. It had the colors of the town police, although the lights were off.
The driver made his way to the door, pausing for a halfhearted attempt to wipe his feet dry -- the water dripping from his overcoat notwithstanding. It didn't matter; the lobby had seen worse. "Welcome to the Beachcomb-Inn."
"Hey, kid." He knew the cop, Sergeant Hayes. Danny Hayes was a few years older than him, but out of everyone on Cannon Shoal's police force the stoat seemed by far to be the most visible. "Ain't under arrest, don't worry."
Dan never came by unless he had to, and he only had to when one of the guests was deciding to be troublesome -- once every few months, at most. "Good to know."
"I'm just checkin' up. Y'all okay?"
Zach nodded. "People are restless, but that's nothing unusual."
"Don't like bein' here?"
"Don't like being stuck here, I think is more of it."
"Ah, fuck 'em. Worse places to be stuck."
That, though, was a matter of opinion. Zach divided the town into several different groups of people. The older generation, the ones who still remembered the bustle of the canneries, they were fixed in place just as surely as a barnacle and would never leave. His father would die in Cannon Shoals if he could. Guess we'll find out.
But then Zach thought of himself, and his friends. His high-school classmates. The ones who had the sense that there was something beyond the walls of Neatasknea Bay; that there was something calling besides foghorns. When she left for San Jose, Amanda had said the town made her feel 'old.'
She was two years younger than him.
Zach's grandparents had come to the town seeking to make their fortune. What was he making? What was he even doing there, standing behind the front desk of a motel that nobody would remember?
There was a third group, though. His peers who did not feel so restless or rootless. Danny was young and didn't seem to be particularly stupid. He could've left if he wanted. But he hadn't. Worse places to be stuck, the stoat said. Now he was turning to head back out.
"Hey, sir? Can I ask you a question?"
Dan raised an eyebrow. "I dunno?"
"Did you mean that? That there's worse places to be stuck?"
"Shit, yeah. I spent an hour at 3 AM diggin' my friend's Land Cruiser outta two feet of mud on some fuckin' Forest Service rut. These fucks don't know how good they got it."
"Oh." The squirrel felt a little silly, having ascribed some grand meaning to the cop's words. "Right. I guess that's a good point."
For someone who could not get through the Lord's Prayer without swearing, Danny seemed to be fairly perceptive. "You thought I meant the town?"
"Yeah."
The stoat took a deep breath and looked through the motel's front door. The worst of the storm was over; the gale-force winds had broken overnight, and what remained was merely a heavy, pounding rain. "Are you, like, tryin' to ask me for advice or some shit like that?"
Zach's brushy tail curled up, in defensive reflex. "Well..."
"Guess y'don't know me very well."
He shook his head. "No. We talked a bit after Joan, uh... you know. Back in June. You came to tell me. I was working the desk here."
"I guess." The cop turned to check the weather again. Even if it was no longer dangerous, he seemed willing to take a break from being out in the downpour. "Look, man. If you want my advice, well... well, then you're a fuckin' idiot. Oughta be common knowledge. But also, I gotta get somethin' out of this."
"Something like?"
"You got any coffee?"
It was still fairly fresh, so he didn't hesitate before nodding. The mug he poured it into had come from the Historical Society. Cannon Shoals, 97363 it said -- like the number was supposed to be famous. A child's drawing showed the Bay in summer daylight, with a blue sky over the highway bridge. "Milk or sugar?"
"Nah." Dan took the mug, and snorted quietly at the artwork just like Zach did. "Fuck, man. When this shit's over..."
"You've been out in it, huh?"
"My own fuckin' fault. Got off yesterday and wound up helpin' somebody who needed to go north. Got stuck in the damn woods and by the time I was out, was time to go back on shift. Chief has us out checkin' up on stuff."
"Nothing bad, I hope..."
Dan shrugged. "Not too bad. But you wanted some advice, right?"
The squirrel grabbed a cup of coffee for himself and tried to think of the best way to pose the question. "Do you like it here?"
"Sure."
Zach watched the milk he added billow in soft, creamy clouds through the bitter coffee. "But if you had to stay here forever..."
"Fuck, man -- what's your name?"
"Zach."
The stoat's nose wrinkled. "Eh, it'll do for now. I guess. Anyway, Zach: highway's right out there. All ya gotta do is walk out an' put yer thumb up if you want to leave. Don't be such a drama queen. Me, I stay on purpose."
"And you like it."
"Sure," he repeated. The squirrel had heard rumors about the cop -- that he had a bit of a temper, and that he wasn't inclined to put up with anything. His eyes were singularly fierce. "An' if you don't, might as well get out. 'Stay here forever' -- shit, it ain't fuckin' Gitmo."
That was easy for him to say. He didn't have the motel to deal with. Didn't have his father talking so ominously on the phone from Corvallis. "Sure, I know. The thing is that... do you wonder what goes on out there? I see all these people coming through..."
Dan's stare narrowed. "And?"
"And... I just feel like maybe I'm missing something."
"Like fuckin' what? Whaddya think they got out there?"
"I don't know," the squirrel muttered. He fidgeted with his coffee, though the milk was long since mixed. "I haven't seen it."
"Fuckin' Christ. Ain't shit keeping you. You ain't on parole. You know where you're goin' wrong, Zach?"
Zach knew where the argument was headed. He heard it sometimes when he went to the hardware store, or the grocer's -- the old guys complaining about the newcomers with their hipper-than-thou attitude. Lectures about how Cannon Shoals used to be great.
When the fisheries were healthy. When the mills were running. When the railroad still stopped at the harbor. Before 'Salem' or 'Congress' started 'meddling.' The Eden that the Shoals had once been.
Still, what was the harm in asking? "Where?"
"When you were in school, some teacher told you that one 'bout those dumb fucks chained up in a cave, starin' at the shadows on the wall. An' you got to thinkin', it was like they didn't know any better. Just these poor bastards, and their whole world is shadows."
"Sure. Plato's allegory. What about it?"
Dan grinned, although given the teeth behind it Zach would rather that the stoat have kept his mouth closed. "Y'got it in yer thick head that it's like that here. You're the poor fuck, and there's some real world of sunlight an' open air that you don't know about. Well, there ain't."
"You're saying it's no better out there?"
He shrugged. "Whatever? The unemployment's better in Chicago. The weather's better in Phoenix. Fuck, the gas prices are better in Saudi fuckin' Arabia, so what? All depends on what you're lookin' for. My point is it ain't like that's the real world and this is somethin' else."
"And so I should be happy."
"You should be happy 'cause you only get one life and it's fuckin' dumb to waste it being miserable. We're the luckiest bastards ever drew breath on this mess of a planet, man."
"Yeah?"
"I got this thing, you know, this Xbox? I can go home and fly a goddamn Blackhawk in movie-quality 3D before some fourth-grader in BFE Kansas shoots me out of it with a 12-gauge. That's awesome! Think I'm gonna try to tell some dessicated-ass Great Depression motherfucker I got shit to complain about?"
"No? I... think I understand?"
"Doesn't mean you should settle. Go to New York if you want. Just don't think they got the secret of life out there."
Phrased like that, Zach could see the cop's point. "Fair enough."
"Just figure out what makes you happy. That's all."
"Xbox?"
"Yeah. That and doin' lines off strippers. I'm a simple man." He drained his mug, set it firmly on the counter, and excused himself before Zach had time to dwell on the cop's hobbies.
Now that he was once again alone, he considered the question. What did make him happy? His friends -- and they were all locals, almost by definition. The car his dad had handed down: the feeling of the wind rushing past, and the road blurring, and the tug of inertia as he threw it into the bends on 520, headed eastbound...
But he knew those curves. They had a sort of comforting familiarity, and it wasn't like he regretted that any. Besides which, the car didn't seem keen on leaving Cannon Shoals, either: as much work as he put into it, he still didn't trust the TR6 to get past Bandon without breaking down. He laughed quietly with that realization, in the empty lobby.
Working on the models made him happy, too, anymore. At first it had been more of an imposition -- pop trying to force his hobby on a recalcitrant son. But he saw what Clarence enjoyed about it, all the same. And it passed the long shifts at the front desk.
This was the first time that he'd been entrusted with the job of making the hull, and Zach admitted some pride in the result. It was larger than the mouth of the bottle, so he had cut it in pieces, fitting them together along the lines of the wooden planks. With the staining, the joins were hardly noticeable.
Not bad, Clarence had said, and he would certainly know. He'd taught Zach everything. The squirrel found himself staring blankly at a piece of deck he was carving when the realization hit: he might be working on the last of them, the last of the models he would build on those slow nights with his ever-meticulous father.
How was it even possible? Who would help him plan the mess of rigging that needed to be so carefully orchestrated to make a model ship look accurate? Who would pore over the old books with him, looking for references until they had everything just right?
Who would tell those tedious, aggravating, dumb jokes that he annoyed the guests with when they came to check in? I'm not getting old, that's just flour in my hair -- I'm going to San Francisco. Ugh. Don't mind the rain. April showers bring May flowers. You know what May flowers bring?
Pilgrims, Zach would mouth to the hapless guest. They'd say it, rolling their eyes, and immediately Clarence would tilt his head. Huh? No, seasonal allergies. We've got some antihistamines behind the counter if you need it. Anyway, you're in room 133. Good joke, though!
Seasonal goddamned allergies! The hobby knife in his fingers blurred and he took a few shallow breaths. It didn't help. He had to put everything down until the worst had passed.
An hour or so later, the tinkling of a bell distracted him from his carving. He looked at the front door to find that a figure in a bright yellow rain slicker had nudged it open and was walking towards him. A hood obscured their face, but the limp was unmistakable. "Joan?" She stopped and, when the door closed behind her, slipped the hood off.
Joan Findlay was Zach's oldest friend, a Border collie from the north side of town. They'd both grown up as outsiders -- Zach because he was a squirrel in a community of dogs; Joan because she was shy and awkward and prone to saying and doing bizarre things.
They got lunch every Saturday afternoon, at least, and sometimes more often. This was about the right time, but considering the weather her presence came as a shock. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Lunch?"
"In the rain like this? Did you drive?"
She shook her head. "Mom didn't want me to take her car. 'Cause... well. You know."
She'd been in a bad accident over the summer -- it had totaled her old Honda; put her in the hospital for nearly three weeks. "You mean you walked?"
"Yeah. It wasn't so bad. They say the Oregon rain, and all, right?" She was quoting a song; she hummed it sometimes, too. "I wish I'd worn boots, but I couldn't find them and I got frustrated and I thought I was gonna be late so I just left and anyway, it's okay, you can walk up the highway on account of there's no traffic. I think it's closed?"
"It's closed. You really shouldn't have walked."
"I wrote down that we were supposed to eat lunch. So I wouldn't forget." Her ears dipped slightly. "I guess you already ate? I'm sorry. I should've called. I didn't mean to put you on the spot."
"No. No, no." He put the cap back on the knife and gestured towards the table in the lobby. "I haven't eaten. It's just a surprise."
"Shouldn't be a surprise, Zach. We do this every Saturday." She hung up her raincoat and then shrugged off the backpack it had been covering.
That was a Joan sort of thing to do. He could picture the sequence of events; she'd put her backpack on, started to don the jacket, realized her mistake and just kept going. "Well, you know me."
"I do." She pulled two sandwiches from the backpack, examining the white paper for the mysterious black runes that indicated the contents and then setting one at his place.
"Where'd you go?"
"Kerry Out." That was a deli on Lincoln Street, a few blocks away. "I was gonna try to get takeout from Rainbow's, 'cause I wanted some fries, 'cept I figured they'd get cold when I got here. Can't microwave those. I got you a..."
She trailed off, as she often did. Zach sat next to her on the couch near the coffee table, unwrapped the paper and took a peek. "Turkey club?"
"Yes! Wait. You don't like clubs, do you?"
For her part, she'd settled on egg salad, which didn't look any more appetizing to the squirrel. "No. I mean, I didn't last time you went to Kerry Out and got me a turkey club. Or, uh. Or the time before."
The Border collie's ears flattened and her shoulders drooped. "Oh, shit. I'm really sorry, Zach." She gave his sandwich a forlorn glance. "Damn it."
"It's okay." At least, it could've been worse. "Just, for next time? I like the crab one they do. Your other boyfriend is the one who likes turkey, Joan. You gotta keep us straight or we'll find out about each other."
She scowled at him, evidently reassured by the subject change that Zach had not suddenly begun to despise her. For some reason -- it wasn't entirely clear to the squirrel -- she still considered it a possibility despite fifteen years of friendship. "He's not my boyfriend."
'He' was Paul Fisher, and something of a mutual friend although Joan was closer than Zach to the Californian wolf. Zach knew that he ran some kind of bookstore, and that it sold the sort of books that Joan liked. "Could be, though. You'd be a cute couple."
"Hmph. Funny, red. He says the same thing about us."
Zach smiled. Most of the people he knew in town said the same thing about the pair, although they were just good friends. He'd thought about it, at times, but Joan didn't seem interested in taking things any further -- and even if she was, the collie's mother had it out for him.
It was kind of a shame.
"How is he, anyway?"
"Alright." Joan paused, taking a bite of her sandwich, and by the time she'd swallowed and was licking the egg from her nose she'd apparently decided that 'alright' was all that needed to be said. "You heard they lost a boat?"
He was used to such conversational changes, though; she didn't mean anything by it. It was just a matter of figuring out whether they were supposed to be linked. "Paul?"
"What? No? Oh. Sorry." Her eyes lifted, searching her brain like it was a messy attic. "No, off the Bar. I heard it on the radio this morning -- light container ship tried to run the Bar for cover and grounded hard... seven confirmed dead, four missing..."
"Ech." None of the squirrel's family were fishermen, but in a harbor town they were all painfully aware of how quick the Pacific could be to exact vengeance for any perceived slight. "Anybody saved?"
"Nine, I think. I could hear the helicopters from where I live, too."
Zach nodded. "You shouldn't have walked," he repeated.
"Wasn't going to miss lunch. How's business?"
"Captive audience, with the highway closed, but most people got out while they could." Even if there were worse places to be stuck.
The dog was finished with her sandwich, judging by the way she folded it carefully back in its paper and set it on the table. "Can't blame 'em. Your dad's still in Corvallis, then? Is that why you're by yourself?"
"Yeah."
She cocked her head. "Have you heard anything?"
He opened his mouth, tried to speak, and found that he couldn't. "I... I don't know that I can talk about it."
"Secret?"
Zach had to swallow heavily. "I mean I don't... I don't, uh... I don't think I can."
The collie's ears went back and her eyes softened -- as much as they could, anyway. Before he could say anything else, she had her arm around him in a hug. "Oh, Zach... Zach, I'm sorry. You don't have to say anything."
His head dropped against her shoulder. "I don't know what we're gonna do." Focusing on that -- focusing on the pragmatic -- kept him from breaking down completely.
"You'll figure something out."
Would they? "I mean... I mean. He says he's gonna fight it but he called this morning and..." Zach's voice sounded thin and reedy even to his own tufted ears. Wavering. "He said we need to talk about how I take over when he's..."
He didn't finish the sentence. No word he could've chosen would've kept him from tears. Fortunately his friend understood; she hugged him tighter and let him catch his breath.
"Thing is... thing is even in the best case, he'll be in Corvallis or up in Lincoln City so often that I... he has to turn it over to somebody."
Joan let him go, leaning back so that she could look him directly in the eye. "So that'll be you. You can do that. Gosh, I mean, it's not like you haven't been pretty much learning how to do everything anyway since you and I were in school."
That was true, but it also wasn't the point. He suspected that Joan must've known that -- because she'd expressed the same desires to him every now and again. "I don't know. It's more than that."
Joan licked his nose, and then sat back on the sofa. "More than what?"
It was the other side of what he'd talked about with the cop. The one he didn't quite want to say in case it turned out to be true. "I figured he'd be here forever. I thought that... I figured that as long as he and mom were here I could still..."
"Go?"
"Yeah. Still..." Zach clenched his jaw, worrying his buck teeth against their lower mates until they chittered. "Still be my own person."
"Damn it." Joan sighed, and squeezed his paw tight. "You don't have to think like that, you know."
"Even if I don't think like that, I still didn't see myself behind the front desk of a motel in thirty years." In thirty years? For thirty years? "I wanted a say in what my life was gonna be."
"I understand that."
"Do you?"
"Hey. Yes."
He looked from the white of her paw to the goldenrod yellow of her shirt sleeve. He was avoiding her eyes; when she wanted to, Joan could turn her Border collie heritage on for full, piercing effect. "But..."
"But what?"
He didn't quite want to say what he felt, because they'd talked about her home life before. Joan lived with her mother, who probably meant well but took most of the younger dog's patience. "You have options, I mean."
"Not really, Zach. The last time I left town it was in an ambulance, remember?" He finally looked her in the eye, and she tried to smile. "One of us better remember, and it isn't gonna be me."
"I know. I know. But, like. Like, Paul. Don't you always say he's going to these talks for his classroom project thing? The one he's always asking you for help with? The one where, like, every other month you say he wants you to go to Denver or San Francisco or something with him? That could be your career!"
"Mom won't let me get on a plane."
"Then don't ask her! It isn't... it isn't like -- you don't live in freaking Guantanamo Bay. You could be off... off anywhere." And one day, he believed, she probably would. And then he'd be there, whittling pine in a dying tourist town until it was time for him to go to Corvallis...
"C'mon, Zach. You don't think I feel the same way you do? You don't think sometimes I feel like I'm trapped? You think I'm always this ball of happiness?"
That, no, Joan was not. The dog was moody sometimes; quiet. Sometimes when they got lunch she said nothing, and kept her ears splayed, and sat closer to him than usual while she picked at her food.
Once, two years earlier, she'd missed lunch and he'd finally gone to her house to make sure she was alright. He'd found her sitting on the edge of her bed, shirt half buttoned, staring towards the doorframe. And when he'd touched her shoulder, she'd begun to sob.
That was just after her father's death, though; it was understandable. Most of the time when she swung between subdued and bouncy he could roll with it. She put up with his own quirks, after all, and it was the least he could do in return.
But the truth was that Joan, not Zach, had an entrepreneur friend who was trying to convince her to sign on as a partner. She wasn't tied to a motel just a few years out of its mortgage. She had a college fund from her dad's insurance that she'd yet to touch. And if her mother could be difficult, well...
"I know," Zach said. "I just figured it'd be easier for you to do something about it."
He expected her typical sardonic humor -- a biting comment. Her muzzle was open for it. Instead her ears flattened into her dark hair, and her eyes lost their edge and went unfocused.
"Joan?"
He almost couldn't hear her whisper, under the drumming rain. "I did." She turned her sharp muzzle away from him.
"What do you mean?"
"'Do something about it.' I did."
"I don't know that I... follow." This was not unusual; the Border collie's conversations could be very difficult to follow in general.
He heard her claws click lightly, and her ears stayed pinned in a sudden display of nerves. But her voice was clearer: "On 101. The crash. It wasn't an accident."
"What?" The shock didn't quite hit until after he'd said it.
"I had this idea that I would just... go over the edge. I figured the guardrails wouldn't hold and it'd be quick and... and nobody would have to know. 'Cause mom complains about my getting distracted all the time, and... they'd just figure, like..."
"Shit -- Joan. Joan. Do you hear what you're saying?"
She was still in profile to him, and he saw her muzzle tighten. "Of course I do, Zach. That's why I'm saying it. You said you thought it'd be easy for me to do something. I'm telling you I did."
'Awful' was not even close to the right word. He felt like he'd been punched -- worse, that it was his own fist that had done it. "Oh, but Jesus -- Joan, I didn't mean like that. I didn't even -- I never..."
"Nobody knows. I didn't tell anybody. I don't even know. I don't remember exactly. It's not even fuzzy; it's a complete blank. I remember thinking I'd made the clearest decision ever, and then thinking I'd made the biggest mistake ever, and then... I woke up."
In all of his wildest dreams -- in all of the panic that followed the accident, when the police came to tell him he'd been listed as one of her emergency contacts -- he'd never even considered the possibility. "I don't know how to respond. Why? Was there... did something happen?"
"Sure. It was dumb, but it happened."
"Can I ask what?"
Joan had a tendency to fidget at the best of times, he well knew. She twitched -- reached out for her sandwich, started to unwrap it; wrapped it again. Then she pressed her paws tightly together: "Dumb things. Okay? There was a perfect storm and I decided nothing was ever getting any better so I might as well fix it and I tried and it didn't work and it was even more dumb, and it didn't change anything 'cept mom's even more controlling now and I've just gotta deal with it, yeah? We all have things to deal with, Zach. You've got a hotel to run, and I'm gonna die alone."
"That's pretty... grim."
"Easy for you to say. You have people. Not just family, either -- that tiger girl. Wasn't like the best choice for you, you really could've done better than that... but at least you had a choice..."
"I mean, she did leave me."
"Got what she wanted out of you."
"It wasn't like that. She just had... different plans."
Joan scowled. "Maybe she wanted a cat toy that squeaked instead."
"I don't think you're being fair to her. Or to me, for that matter. I mean, I can tell you what happened, but..."
"Well, it'll have to wait." She pointed to the door, and he was surprised to see someone else making their way through. With the highway shut down on account of the storm, there hadn't been new guests for nearly two days -- just the cop and Joan; no strangers.
This one was a feline with bronze fur and dark black stripes that ran from her muzzle up into her short-cropped, ink-black mane. Her jacket, which was far too big for her, looked waterproof but had no hood. Rain dripped from her hair and her round ears, decorated with gold rings.
The rings made her look familiar; the squirrel tilted his head curiously and tried to place her. A native? There weren't that many cats in Cannon Shoals.
"Good afternoon," he said, getting up and making his way behind the front desk. He was trying to seem presentable, and mostly succeeding. "Looking for a room?"
"Er -- no." She glanced around the lobby, looking briefly at Joan, and as her head twisted he caught the flash of white on the back of her ears that marked her as an ocelot. At last she padded cautiously over to the counter. "Not exactly. Are you... Zach?"
"Yeah?" If she knew his name, then she was definitely a local, and she did seem more familiar by the second. Ocelot. Earrings. Something that starts with an 'a,' right? Amanda? Anna? "You're..."
"Allie Navarro."
Allison. The squirrel worked the name back through the fragmented database of his brain. It did ring a bell, come to think of it. "Did you go to Rex? Class of... '07, I guess?"
"That's the one," the ocelot said with a nod. "I left town a few years ago, though."
Lucky you. "Oh, cool. Doesn't seem like that happens so often anymore. In for a visit?"
She shook her head. "Moving back, I... well... I think. It depends. I was wondering if Clarence was in?"
"You know dad?"
Allie shrugged. "I used to work for Jim Riggs, so I met him once or twice."
Jim Riggs, a bear who ran one of the town's two gas stations, had been friends with Clarence for forty years. "Oh. Yeah, ah... my dad's out of town at the moment, unfortunately. Did you need something from him?"
Her head tilted sideways, like she was glancing for the door, but after a second she reached into her jacket and retrieved a folder she'd been keeping safe from the rain. "I was wondering if you guys might be looking for help. With the hotel. Jim said..."
When had Clarence told him that? Before or after? He must've had a good reason, although it put the squirrel in something of an awkward position. "Uh... well..."
"Would you at least take a look?" She pulled a piece of paper from the folder, and set it on the motel counter. "I can clean and watch the front desk. But I also have a degree in accounting and I worked as an office manager, so..."
Zach frowned, skimming the lines of the résumé. She'd worked at Riggs' gas station, then some place in Cheyenne and one in Sacramento. That was where her degree was from, too. So some people did make it out. "I can take a look, yeah. And ask dad. What brought you back?"
"Missed the rain?" She smiled hopefully.
"Well, you sure picked a good time for it."
Allie turned around to look at the collie, who had risen with some difficulty to her feet to speak. "It isn't that bad. You're not, uh -- you're not Jamie Findlay, are you?"
Her ears flattened. "No. Um. I mean, I am, but I haven't gone by that for a long time. I'm just 'Joan' now." Jamie had been a fit of high school rebellion, Zach recalled, from her initials -- JM.
"Do you remember climbing the radio tower?"
Zach only knew of the event by rumor, and had chalked it up as one of the odd things that the collie sometimes did. Forgetting sandwich orders, climbing radio towers; trying to drive into the Pacific.
Joan took it in stride: "You and your boyfriend dared me to, yes."
The ocelot laughed. "So you remember that, too. Will you take an apology, a few years late? I don't know what even got into us."
"You were high," the Border collie said. "But it's okay; I didn't mind, either. I wanted to show you I could."
"And you did, by God. You looked like a... like a monkey! God, you could climb!" Allison shook her head, still smiling at their shared memory. "I asked Stef what happened to you. You know what he said? 'Life.' Life happened. I've been away for four years -- all these people I figured I'd never see again... you been okay?"
The canine's smile came out all lopsided and shy. "Well, sort of, sure."
Allison either missed the quirkiness, or ignored it, because she grinned at the dog. "It's good to be back home. It'll be better in the spring, but..."
"Home, huh?" Joan asked.
"Always will be! 'Life happens,' right? These days, I guess I figure there's no better place it should happen than here. And, hey, what do they say? There's no place like home."
It was, phrased without the coarseness, pretty much what Dan had told the squirrel, too. Zach tried to sound positive. "'Home' is where you end up and you know you're supposed to be there."
"Exactly. We should catch up, though. I've missed everybody."
"Really..."
"I'm serious, Jamie! You off tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday. Wanna get some coffee?"
Joan blinked quickly, and her ears flickered -- a gesture Zach had come to recognize, when the Border collie was trying to think of an answer faster than she could form words and stumbling over the awkwardness that resulted. "Well, um..."
"That means 'yes.' I won't make you climb anything." As the dog stood there, still blinking, Allison gave her a hug. "Don't look so surprised! Ten o'clock?"
"Um... sure."
"It's a date, then. For now, I'm going to hit the pavement again. Kinda handing out my résumé all over."
"In... the rain?" Joan cocked her head. Zach figured it wasn't worth pointing out that she'd walked all the way from her mom's house in the exact same conditions. The Oregon rain, and all, as she would've put it.
"Yeah, otherwise I'd be bored stiff... I don't have anything to do in my apartment. Literally, it's just a bed right now. So I'll see who else might be open..."
"Good luck." Zach set the paper she'd given him aside so he could go over it with his dad when he came back. If.
"Thanks. See ya tomorrow." Allison tucked her folder back into her raincoat, glanced around one last time, and made her way back to the door. "Nice music."
It was background noise to him; they always had the radio on in the lobby. All he heard was a synth beat, and then Rod Stewart was singing. Billy left his home with a dollar in his pocket and a head full of dreams.
He waited for the door to close. "You actually gonna get coffee with her?"
"You actually think that home's where you end up and know you're supposed to be there?"
Zach sighed. The radio nattered on: Just got one shot at life, let's take it while we're still not afraid. So much for that. "I don't know. Who the fuck does?"
"I'm sorry for that crack about Mandy, Zach."
"Nah, it's whatever. You were right."
She supported herself on the edge of the front desk. "I wasn't, though. I was just being... weird. You know me. Jealous, I guess. You'll find someone."
"Jealous?"
Joan leaned forward, examining the bits of the model spread over the counter. "Another Nelson ship?"
"Spanish galleon. It's supposed to be the San Francisco Xavier."
"What?"
"You remember that time we went up to Tillamook, and we found that piece of wood on the beach and you said it looked like it had writing on it?"
Half the time Zach thought Joan forgot which way she was walking from one step to the next. Occasionally, though, her recall had an eerie precision. "Oh! You told me there was a shipwreck off Nehalem -- there was supposed to be some buried Spanish treasure. Guarded by a ghost and everything, yeah, I remember that, on account of it was real cold and you gave me your jacket, and you had that bit of agate in the pocket you'd found and said you were gonna give me."
"Yes. Why would you be jealous?"
Her ears flicked, and for a moment the squirrel thought it might've been one of the times when her memory failed her. "'Cause you... heck, I don't know." She stopped, and stared behind him at the empty wall. "'Cause sometimes I thought that was gonna be us, you know, like everybody says 'cept it wasn't ever a thing and you didn't see me like that and why would you anyway an' now you're talking about leaving and it was a dumb idea anyway, but I had it."
She'd managed it in one breath, the words falling in a rush that told him she'd said it without thinking, as she sometimes did. He had to catch up to them. "What?"
The Border collie glanced back to the door. "Nothing. Got distracted. Sorry. I'm gonna go."
"Joan..."
She shook her head in a jerk, twisting so quickly her leg almost gave out; she kept herself from stumbling and went for her backpack. "No. I got -- um. I have things."
"Joan. Get your monochrome butt over here."
She froze. Her back was to him; he could see that her tail was tucked, and her ears had all but disappeared. "Why?" When no answer came, she turned and slunk to the counter. "Please forget I said that."
Not that it was the kind of thing you just up and forgot. "Look..."
Her muzzle dropped. "You aren't going to. Oh, God."
The squirrel found that he was, perversely, grateful for the counter between them. Otherwise he might've hugged her then and there; she would've muttered something, and wrote it off to just being me like she always did, and he might've let her. "It isn't that I didn't see you like that." God knew it wasn't.
"Past tense."
"Don't see you like that," he amended. "I just... thought you weren't interested. Like, all those times we went down to the beach, out on the pier and all? I came close a couple times. More than a couple." All those long summer evenings they'd spent together occupied a fuzzy story in his daydreams.
The story he'd imagined was that she'd have her paw in his, like usual, and when they reached the end of the pier and she started to turn back there would be that instant, when she faced him and their eyes met.
And he would've kissed her -- he imagined he would've still been able to taste the pistachio ice cream she enjoyed so much, because in his mind the moment was sweet like that, and summer-evening warm.
"But you didn't."
"Again. You weren't interested. Besides, thinking about you and your mom, and... Val would've killed me. She hates me, Joan."
The collie slumped; he knew that Joan's relationship with her mother was complicated, and had been since well before her father died. "She doesn't hate you," the dog said, with the careful softness that showed she knew the truth all too well. "Not exactly."
"She does."
"She's... protective. Sometimes she goes a bit too far, yeah, on account of she's worried about me and... I don't know. She doesn't hate you, Zach."
"She blamed me for your accident."
Joan froze, startled enough that her ears didn't even have time to flatten. "What do you mean?"
The accusation hadn't been all that coherent, even at the time. He'd been at the hospital, visiting Joan -- who was still unconscious. Val had caught him at the door, her eyes ablaze with maternal fire. "She said it was something I must've taught you. My reckless driving, and all. She said if you hadn't known me, then..."
The collie's ears still hadn't splayed; now, they twitched with the overt irritation he rarely saw in her. "Oh, Jesus. Mother can be -- ugh. Oh, that's not even -- there's no excuse!"
"I told you she hated me."
Joan bared her teeth: it was the angriest Zach had seen her in a long time. "You didn't believe a stupid goddamned word she said, did you?"
"No... no, I decided it was her being in shock and she wasn't thinking clearly. I'm not even sure I ever let you drive the Triumph, did I?"
The phone went off before she could answer. It was on the internal line -- coming from one of the guests. With a sigh, he lifted the handset and put it to his ear.
"Front desk speaking, how may I help you?"
The voice on the other end sounded cross. "Yeah, uh, is this the front desk?"
Zach closed his eyes. "Yes."
"Okay, yeah, I wanted to tell you there's this noise from next door, yeah?"
"Alright, sir, I'll see what I can do. What's your room number?"
"It's a banging noise. Like: bang. Bang. Bang."
"What's your room number, sir?"
"I think it might be a trapped animal. Yep, there it is again. Bang. Bang."
His paw tightened on the phone. "Sir. What's your room number?"
"I told you. It's 212. How come you don't know that already?"
"Thank you, sir. I'll be right up."
"The last hotel, they knew my number when I called. They --"
Zach set the phone back in its cradle heavily. "Fuck."
"Call for room service?" Joan asked him. "Do you think they want half an egg-salad sandwich?"
"No. Apparently, there's some kind of a noise. I guess."
The Border collie nodded, watching him grab the master key, his toolbox and his big flashlight. "Want some company?"
"Sure."
He set the 'We'll be right back' sign on the counter, waited for her to grab her backpack, and held the front door before making sure it closed behind them. "I think the rain is letting up..."
"Think so, too. Thank God." Because the Beachcomb-Inn had no internal hallways, and he didn't much enjoy getting soaked. Room 212 was on the far side of the motel, facing the water -- he'd been moving people to rooms with nice views to keep them pacified during the storm.
"I like the rain," Joan said. He had to wait for her to make her way up the stairs -- that, in particular, seemed to be hard on her leg. "I never understood why people say rain is gloomy. And it sounds nice."
Without the roaring wind and thunder of the earlier gale, the sound of the rain was all that was left. He paused under the sloping roof on the second floor, listening until it was no longer white noise and he could hear the patter of the individual drainpipes. "Maybe."
"I'd miss it," she went on. "If I left. I wouldn't miss everything, but I'd miss the rain. Hey, what do you suppose that's what he was hearing?" Not the rain: she was pointing to something.
The problem with 211 was obvious immediately. The plywood hurricane shutter had come loose at one end; in the soft wind that remained from the storm it thumped lazily against the wall. The guest next door could've figured out the cause just by looking outside.
At least there was an easy solution. He pulled out a screwdriver and began undoing the fasteners that remained -- no point keeping the shutter up with the storm dying. Besides, the plywood was cracked around the original screws.
Joan helped hold the plywood in place until he'd pulled the last screw out. Together, they lowered it to the floor. Then he straightened -- and as he did his paw caught the edge of the jagged shutter. "Son of a bitch."
"You okay?"
A few beads of blood welled from his fingerpad. "Yeah... yeah, I guess. God damn it."
"Rinse it off?"
Grumbling to himself, Zach unlocked 211 and shuffled over to the bathroom. Yet one more thing, like there always was. He ran warm water over his paw until the bleeding had stopped; all the while he stared at his fingers, because the alternative was to see himself.
It didn't help. This, he realized. This is my life. Putting up and taking down shutters. Listening to the guests complain. Going over the budget line by line, trying to figure out if they could save a few dollars by cleaning the carpets less often.
Model boats, and the brief respite of lunch on Saturdays.
One way or the other, he'd have to face it. He shut the faucet, flicked the cold fluorescent light off, and turned back for the door, where Joan waited in the open frame. She didn't move from it when he approached.
"Ready to go?"
The Border collie shook her head. Instead she stepped inside, and clicked the door shut softly. "I guess we should talk, shouldn't we?"
"Should we?"
She shrugged her backpack off and tossed it onto the bed, making her intention to stay clearer. "The whole time out there I was gonna ask why you thought I wasn't interested. Maybe, though..." The dog stopped, and when she had difficulty figuring out what might come next she turned to look out the window. Beneath grey skies, the Pacific formed a great, impassable moat before the horizon.
But it looked calmer than it had been, at least. "Maybe what?"
"I guess I mean to ask if it matters. You know? Like if we'd known, maybe things would've been different, 'cept now it doesn't matter because it's too late. And all we did was screw things up for us."
He started to say the answer even before he knew what it was. "You know what Dan said to me?"
"Profanity?"
Zach laughed. "That, too. He also told me not to be such a drama queen, though. I just had this thought, right? We're in our mid twenties, Joan. What the fuck does 'too late' mean?"
"But you wanted to leave. The motel and all..."
Everything was becoming clearer, though. He thumped his paws on the sill of the old window. "Yeah. But. It wasn't about leaving, it's not like... fuck! Damn it! I hate it when Dan's right."
"I bet. You sound like him."
"The thing is, though, he had a point. It's dumb to leave because you expect to find the answer out there. Answers aren't like hidden treasure -- like some, uh, you know, some Indian legend about a buried chest with the answer in it. And a ghost. And a map."
"What was the question?"
The squirrel's tail twitched in a hesitant jerk. "Well. Uh. I don't know. You have to find that first."
Joan snickered, turning from the west to look at him. Her eyes held the reflection of the grey afternoon. "That is buried. And cursed."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Also, it's in Arizona, at the bottom of an old silver mine."
"I had heard that," he said, nodding seriously to her joke. "But you know, really, it was more..."
"Who you are," she finished for him. "Who you're gonna be. Because you don't know, on account of you're always in your own head so it isn't like you can see it straight, and the longer you wait the more it looks like somebody else is gonna decide for you."
"Right."
The smile was gone, and she looked away to the pale, drab ocean. "It's worse than that. A bit. Eventually you almost expect they're going to. And then you look for someone to figure it out, 'cept... there's no guarantee they will. And even if they do, the more of you that somebody else figures out, the less of you that's... you."
"Made that mistake?"
"A lot. Thinking people could fix me. I'm not... fixable. I know that now."
Zach shifted, and put his paw over hers. "Hey..."
She didn't budge. "That isn't what I mean. I mean that I'm not a... I'm not a project. Not, um... not... not like your Triumph. Not something somebody can tinker with on the weekends and then eventually I'll be all shiny and restored."
"No, of course not."
"You never tried to do that." Joan twisted; it was as though she could finally bring herself to look at him. She was no longer slumped. "To salvage me."
"Of course not." He said it again, more insistently. "You're my friend, Joan, not a hobby."
Joan's wry smile returned. "Yeah?"
"Plus, you see how good I am with the fucking TR6..."
"Thank God I don't have spark plugs, huh?" She slipped her paw over, so that their fingers intertwined, and took a half step that erased nearly all of the distance between them.
"Nope. Just you. And, ah..." He swallowed thickly, shamefully aware of his own nerves. "And if you're just you, and I'm just me, and nobody else but us is calling the shots..."
"Zach. It's not gonna get more dramatic if you keep waiting."
He muttered a wordless answer. And then, years after either of them had first thought of it and years after he should've, he kissed her. It wasn't particularly graceful; the angle was awkward and at the last minute the look in her eyes made him laugh.
He could tell that Joan saw what he was thinking. The collie's soft ears perked, matching her widening smile. "You don't get a do-over on your first time, Zach."
"Like you could do better?"
She did. Sidling closer to him and wrapping the squirrel in the warmth of a gentle hug, she pulled her muzzle to his and their lips met softly. And whatever he'd been expecting didn't matter; none of it mattered because this time was real -- her claws were really pressed into his back, and her breath was really fluttering over his fur.
"Damn it, Joan." He sighed when, a few seconds later, she pulled slightly away. "We shouldn't have waited."
"Oh, I know." She reassured him with another light peck. "But we did, and... and it's okay. Listen to the rain." Her voice ebbed to a whisper. His long, tufted ears strained to pick it up and caught only the rhythmic, soothing patter on the roof and the window.
They say the Oregon rain will get you down. That was how it went, that song of hers. He remembered it from the radio, now, along with the rest of it -- the part she always must've been implying. But I hunger for the freshness of its sound...
Somehow his paws had found her; they were hugging the dog tightly as he guided her from the window, and his fingers were nudging the outlines of her bony sides. He'd never thought of the skinny Border collie as fragile, but when they sank down onto the bed and her weight settled on his chest he felt for the first time how light she was. Delicate, almost.
Almost.
Their noses bumped, and when she tilted her head to follow the nuzzling with a new kiss there was growing excitement to it. Her breathing became heavier and her eyes were lit with stormy electricity. She was on a mission.
With every passing second he was learning more about the person he'd known for more than fifteen years. He was finding the way she twitched and shivered with every bit of attention he paid to her fuzzy ears, and the way her whiskers tickled his soft nose.
They made up for lost time with insistence rather than speed. Her lips parted for him, but that canine tongue met his with tentative languor and a breathy, dulcet sigh. His paws slid over the whole arch of her wiry back and he learned that he could control the tempo of her wagging tail by where he kneaded her.
To the quiet tapping of the easing autumn rain they explored each other. Joan tried to keep still, but her shallow panting betrayed a humming energy in the dog's frame. She squirmed on him, the warmth of her hips a devastating pressure the squirrel was utterly helpless to resist.
Soon the squirming shifted its tenor to the pressure of a steady rocking that nudged the Border collie against a rigid bulge in his crotch trapped by his jeans. For a few seconds he tried to lose himself in the sweet, soft heat of her muzzle -- but the way Zach was beginning to shudder and push back to meet her was a dead giveaway.
Even despite the barrier of clothing it felt marvelous, just having her so close to him. Every new touch, every prickle of her dull claws and forceful shove of her hips fed him with nervous electricity. The sound of the rain joined a pounding roar in the squirrel's mind.
"Joan," he managed to whisper. "Y-you gotta slow down here."
"Mm?" The collie kissed him deeply, but she matched it with a firmer grind that all but made the question irrelevant.
He'd misjudged. Even as he watched her eyes darken with her teasing he knew he was succumbing. Grunting softly despite himself, Zach arched up in a needy thrust, seed spilling into his briefs in quick-pulsing ropes of sticky warmth.
The black and white dog tilted her head quizzically. "Zach?"
His mind was only clearly slowly, into a growing awareness of what had happened. It was just like him, finding a way to screw up like that. All those years and... "I -- I'm sorry. I couldn't... help it."
She tilted her head the other way, and then grinned before kissing his nose. "Don't apologize. It's okay."
"It's, uh. It's been awhile." He still couldn't help the feeling that he'd failed her somehow; were the mattress at his back his long ears would've been flat. "Just couldn't, uh..."
"What did I tell you? Think of it as a good excuse..." All gentle caress and soft fur and soothing touch, she brought her lips to his for a deep, tender kiss. The pressure left his crotch as she rolled off him -- then her paw was helping to get his jeans and underwear off, ignoring the mess and the softening bulk that had been responsible.
He felt rather vulnerable, next to her, with Joan's fingers in his fur and slowly pushing his t-shirt towards his chest. But he had no choice except to trust her, and it was as though his arms raised of their own accord when she pulled the shirt from him.
"All better," she told him.
"Not quite." He folded his paw into her blouse, and was relieved to see her eyes brighten and the smile widen to become broad and unselfconsciously toothy. Joan let him unbutton her shirt; he took his time, so that he could make the most of exploring the fur beneath it.
Soft, and a striking, summer-cloud white that stood in sharp contrast to the squirrel's ruddy paws. There was so much of it! And when he pressed the shirt open, and she shrugged it from her shoulders, there was unbroken pale fur like fresh snow from her belly to the thick plush of her chest.
Taking his hungry eyes for something like satisfaction at the turn of events, it seemed, Joan settled closer to him again. He heard her fingers scrabbling; he guessed that she was getting herself out of her own pants, but his awareness was taken by the softness of her fur as their bodies pressed together. Red, he decided, blended perfectly.
Zach guided his paws down her sides, and though he planned to stop when he felt fabric again there was nothing -- suddenly his fingers were on her slim hips. He cupped the collie's rear, and with her gasp the realization of what was happening suddenly hit him.
They were together. Truly and undeniably. He had the chance to dwell on it in the warm seconds brought by the feeling of her sharp muzzle seeking out his. For what felt like hours there was only the rustling of her fingers through the fur of the squirrel's cheeks, and the insistent rumble of the rain outside.
She stopped. Her head cocked, freezing her in his vision.
He could not escape the sense that the lanky dog, with her ragged fur and her burning eyes and her habit of wagging her tail too inappropriately and too intensely, was the most wonderful person he had ever met. He took a breath. "Joan, you know that I've always... I mean... you've always been..."
Her ears flattened. "Zach. Hold up." He did, and presently when she decided she could not speak properly the Border collie dropped her head to whisper into his ear. "There's something I want to tell you. A, uh... a word I want to use. For how I feel about you. I... I think you do, too."
He nodded and, instead of speaking, he hugged her as tightly as he could.
"Don't. Not... not right now. Not yet."
"Even if it's true?"
She nosed him sharply; in his peripheral vision he saw her ears splay further. "Even if."
Which it had been -- for the both of them; for years, probably. But he trusted her. She had her reasons. So he nodded again, and told her he understood, and she licked her way gratefully from his ear up the side of his muzzle.
As their lips came together once more Zach worked his paws inquisitively over the Border collie's pelt. In spots the shaggy fur was broken by the scars from her accident; he did not dwell.
Her frame pressed to him; even as light as she was he could still feel every bit of it. He became inexorably, inevitably aware that he was growing hard again beneath her -- she was aware of it, too; she nuzzled into his shoulder, gave him a sharp nip, and worked her hips solidly into his crotch.
He gasped involuntarily at the pressure. The sound didn't stop her from doing it again, panting a murmured moan into his red fur. She could, he found, be assertive when she wanted to.
Then she left his shoulder. She braced her paws on his chest and straightened up. Her slim thighs gripped him as she lifted herself up. He knew what was coming next -- the last objection, practical responsibility, elbowed itself into his brain and even then it took him a few tries to speak.
"H-hey. Joan. We should, uh... Or I should." He coughed, regretting the interruption. "Get a condom."
The collie blinked -- it was hard to tell if this was surprise or sudden recollection, at first. But then she nodded silently, and stretched forward. Her fur filled his muzzle; he closed his eyes and just breathed the dog's scent in deeply.
She rummaged through her backpack for only a few seconds before finding what she wanted and nudging it all the way off the bed. When she sat up and he opened his eyes, she was already tearing the little foil packet open.
She winked, and then twisted around so that she could see more clearly. Her fingers grasped the base of his manhood firmly, and the squirrel let out a gratified sigh as she stroked him, unrolling the thin latex over his ready, waiting member. "Prepared, see?"
Zach couldn't help but wonder. "Did you know? Were you... expecting?"
The Border collie shook her head. She straddled him again, and bent down both to kiss him and so that she could get away with whispering. "Hoping. For... a while now."
His shaft bumped from downy fur into soft, slick warmth and before he could say anything back to her the collie slid herself down and onto him. He groaned to feel himself sinking into her -- how hot she was around him, how snug she grasped his twitching length.
Her slender hips came to rest, and when he looked he could see nothing but their two joined bodies, the fur melted together. It had been a long time coming, indeed. And now... now he stroked her sides, guiding her as the collie lifted herself and he watched himself slide from her, glistening wetly.
She dropped again, again squeezing heat engulfed him, and he found himself entranced by the slow, graceful rhythm. Joan's quiet, shallowing panting flooded his ear. It never rose all the way to words -- just gasps and breathy moans timed to every movement of her slender form's fluid ballet.
Neither wanted it to end. Both reveled in the novelty of each new touch, savoring the satin tenderness drawn from her deliberate pace. Her folds caressed him with a silky heat as he slipped through them to slide smoothly into her body, deep as they both could manage.
Much as she was trying, he could tell Joan was having a hard time staying slow and measured. The downward push that plunged him into her became first more forceful, and then more unsteady. The moans became husky and wanton -- then turned into whimpers.
Then she stopped.
"Joan?" He opened his eyes.
He couldn't quite tell if he was looking at a smile or a grimace. "Swear to God, Zach, I'm almost -- uh -- well. Was."
"But?"
Then it was definitely a smile, but quirky and rueful; she was trying not to laugh and when it happened the sound was ragged. "My leg's about to give out. Can you..."
When his arms circled her upper back Joan sank gratefully onto his chest. The squirrel rolled with her, carefully. He was still half-buried in her, and cognizant enough that when she looked up at him the need in her gaze rippled all the way through his nerves.
He pushed forward to fill her once again and she sighed in ecstasy. A few steady bucks let him find something like a tempo, and when he settled into it her eyes closed. That long Border collie muzzle parted, and she let her tongue loll briefly before managing to control herself.
The squirrel was having more difficulty. The smooth pace was unsustainable. His even, measured strokes turned into an increasingly urgent, swift pistoning. Groaning, panting, his heavy arc of a tail curling and swaying behind him, Zach found himself losing the battle to hold back.
Joan was, too. She licked at her muzzle, starting to whine and huff for breath. Zach could almost sense the way every thrust took her that much closer -- it was just a matter of fighting back the aching need in his loins. A little while longer. A few more seconds.
But it rose like a wave that he couldn't resist. His claws put holes in the sheets as he grasped them in a last-ditch effort. Not good enough. His hips pounded forward all on their own, and the collie below him let out a surprised bark at the sudden surge of energy.
It took them both at once. Her muzzle opened for another bark but before she could get it out Joan froze, her back arched and her whiskers quivering. He was still thrusting, still rutting desperately into her, yet even as she squeezed down on his cock the first jolts of pleasure had already seized him.
He let out a wavering chitter of a groan and bucked one final time, holding himself deep while his twitching length pumped the condom full of his release. And when his strength failed he worked himself from her and collapsed onto his side, letting the hold she had on his back roll the collie with him.
For half a minute they lay there, panting in each other's arms. At first he was too breathless to speak, and then he knew that the only thing he could possibly say was the one thing she'd told him not to.
The energy that had filled them changed slowly, flowering into relaxed, soothing warmth. Finally she managed the strength for a smile, and a cautious lick that bathed the whole of his nose. "Zach."
"Joan?"
"I think... you should stay. Just so you know."
In that moment, with her eyes soft like he'd never seen them before and her arms holding him close, it was not even a question that could be considered. Rather than answering, he gave her a kiss. It was better that way. Intimate. Honest. Quiet.
Silent, even.
His ears twitched, straining. "The rain's stopped," he whispered.
Joan's head tilted. "So it has." She sat up slowly, waited for him to do the same, and then curled against the squirrel's chest. Together they looked out the window and to the west, where the clouds had lightened further.
Now they just barely hid the sun -- like at any moment it might slip free. And then -- who knew? He would take whatever came, but the collie had been right: there was something to the rain, after all. He would miss it.
Joan nuzzled him, then craned her head upwards. "You should only stay if you feel like there's something here for you, though."
"Maybe we can trade. I'll think about that, but you need to think about going along next time Paul asks you. I'll help you find the flights -- hell, I'll drive you to Portland. You can do that much."
"I can do that much."
"Then there's something here for me."
She nodded. "You need to get back to the front desk, don't you?"
"Yeah..."
"I mean..." She lapped at his nose, inviting a kiss he was all too willing to give. The Border collie held it until she seemed to be certain that he would not be the one to end it. Then she licked his muzzle again. "It might turn out to be yours."
"That... that would be okay. Will be okay. A lot of things," he added. "I think a lot of things will turn out to be okay."
"Will; that's the key." They had not found the answer; they both knew it.
"Eventually." When he said that, Joan seemed to decide she could keep him for a few minutes longer at least, because she leaned back into his chest fur. He slid his arms around her.
"That's what Churchill said," she told him softly. He wondered if it might've been a non-sequitur until she kept going: "This is not the end. This is not even the beginning of the end. But... it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
"Not too late."
"No. There's no such thing. The storm always breaks."
"Always."
He held her close. She rested in his arms. And together they watched, and waited for the sun.