An American Werewolf in Hoboken
“Fucked, Fluffster. You’re fucked.He slid guiltily from the counter, turning fully to identify the male who’d entered the kitchen. His ears stood up attentively.“His name is Fluffy?” the man asked after a guffaw of loud laughter. “You named a dog the size of Bigfoot Fluffy?”Bigfoot is all a lie. Just ask me, the werewolf.The man, slick and dressed in a black leather jacket and skinny jeans, whistled, rocking back on his heels. “Damn. He’s friggin’ huge, JC.”Why thank you, intruder.“Yeah, he’s hu...ge all right, and in a whole lot of trouble. He ate my steak!” She grabbed his muzzle and gave him the “bad dog” eyes, her shoulders sagging. “This is bad, Fluff! No, no, no!”Not the whole steak. He shot her his best guilty look before letting his head hang low in shame, only to catch a glimpse of her visitor’s shoes.And who the hell was this? Max’s gaze wandered up to assess the face of the man who’d interrupted a perfectly good meal, sized him up, and in two seconds flat he wanted to chew his way through his the guy’s intestines.There was an immediate phony vibe about him—cocky and self-assured.MoreLess
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