Sunglasses 11: Mammoth Monitoring

“A cat,” Mel said, stifling a massive yawn.

I jerked out of my road hypnosis. “What?”

“That’s my shifter form,” she told me. “I know it’s probably driving you crazy, so I thought I would just say it.”

She was watching the road, showing me her profile. Her full profile, with no glasses. It was hard not to stare. Mel’s face—her eyes—still felt so new. It was as if a lockbox I’d assumed would be sealed forever had been opened to reveal priceless art. Without her shades, the heady combo of sharp and soft was in full effect. I already loved the way her precise jaw line and nose balanced her plush lips; now I added piercing eyes gentled by long lashes.

“Cal? Did you hear me?”

Distracted, I tried to get my mind back to the words. “A cat?”

“Yeah.” Pause. “An ocelot,” she added. “We’re night hunters.” Mel waved vaguely at her face. “That’s why they’re slitted.” But the primal eyes she was referring to were nowhere to be seen—and her human eyes seemed oddly flat, like she was in tight control of her expression…was she mad?

An ocelot.

My reaction to the news felt as flat as her expression. It was the way she'd announced it. Abruptly, like she didn't care at all. In my limited experience, I’d gotten the impression that shifters were super proud of their animal forms. I guess that showed how limited my experience was.

I tried to shake off my muted feelings. A minute ago I’d been anticipating this information with my entire heart. I was probably just…processing. Mel moved with such grace, right? A wild cat made sense. Yeah. Yes.

“I can see it,” I said eventually. Damn. Why had I waited so long? Now I'd made the awkward undercurrent worse. 

“You won’t.” Mel said, almost snappish. She was mad. “I mean, you won’t see it. I don’t shift in front of people. It’s a…folk custom.” The last two words were practically spat.

For a brief instant I thought I’d offended her, but a second look gave me the sense that Mel’s anger had a different target. The tension still wedged in my throat. “Folk custom?” I asked weakly.

Mel blew out a breath. “Our lineage has these, I don't know, traditions.” Her brows drew down. “Only certain people are allowed to see us shift. Extended family.”

I had nothing good to say about that, so I said nothing. After today’s research, I knew there were all kinds of shifter groups out there. Some of them practiced sacred rites like that. Whatever community Mel came from, it didn’t sound too different from the strict naturalist packs in Kansas. Still…

I stared out the passenger window, unable to keep from brooding.

The dull noise of the highway and a sad ballad on the radio underscored our latest conversational roadblock. Mel’s resentful words had mixed with my disappointment, turning the mood into a stew of frustration. I had the irrational urge to roll down a window and clear the air, but it was freezing outside.

A green sign flashed past. Ansley, Nebraska, was five miles away.

“What are you thinking?” The sudden question surprised me. Mel’s voice had lost its edge and gone gruff. She sounded sad now, not angry.

My head was filled with a mess of turbulent thoughts, but only one kept floating to the top. I voiced it. “If there wasn’t a custom…would you show me your other self?”

Mel’s shoulders rose on a deep breath. When she exhaled, her whole body slumped further into her seat. “I honestly don’t know.”

The answer should have upset me, but something about the way she said it was so forlorn that I wanted to hold her hand. My fingers even twitched. But I didn’t move. 

We drove on in silence.

Minutes later, we crossed over a creek and passed through a wall of trees. A gas station glowed in the distance. Beyond it was a glitter of lights marking the outskirts of Ansley. Much closer, a blindingly lit sign showed the turn-off to the station.

“Should have used sans-serif,” Mel muttered darkly, referring to the sign’s fancy double M logo. She flipped on the turn signal. “Need to fill up.”

We left the road and drove down the center of a cement parking area big enough to be an airport tarmac. The building at its center was twice the size of the Gas N Snak, but it was the huge mammoth statue on top that drew my eye. Harsh spotlights made the tacky sculpture look like it was at a movie premiere. One of its giant legs was perched on a sign: MAMMOTH MART.

The roadster passed parked big rigs and a couple RVs before arriving at the long row of pumps. Mel pulled up to the one at the end. She turned off the car but didn’t move. Neither of us did.

This sucked. I unbuckled my seatbelt. A walk and a little distance would be good for both of us. “I’m going to—”

“Hey,” Mel said.

My hand froze on the door latch.

“I don’t like keeping stuff from you.”

As before, I didn't have the right words to answer. Mel leaned forward until her forehead touched the steering wheel. Her hands tightened against it.

“But there are these things, Cal. Things that I…” The distress in her voice was so acute that my own walls crumbled in sympathy.

“That you can’t talk about?” I prompted.

She sighed. “Things that don't belong to just me.” Raising her head, she turned, and in the light from the station I saw her primal eyes. Even under lifeless fluorescents their color was arresting. “I am trying, Cal. More than you know.”

My instinct was to say something noncommittal, but that answer evaporated. The raw honesty of Mel’s gaze deserved honesty back, not hedging. “I can see that,” I said.

Her eyes searched mine, and those narrow vertical slits widened. “Goddess…I think you really can.” She sounded surprised, as if she'd seen the truth in my expression.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I know this has been difficult. We’re both…taking a lot of chances. Does it feel that way to you too?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

I cleared my throat. “So we keep trying, right? I just hope you’re having fun—at least a little. For me, this night has been…” 

“It has,” she said quickly. “And I am. Having fun.” Mel gave me a pained smile. “For what it’s worth, no one outside of my…community…has ever seen these eyes. You’re the first.”

The admission thumped me in the chest, and I thought it had a similar impact on Mel. We hastily regrouped. She made a show of pulling out her aviators while I ran my fingers through my sleep-messed hair. Once I’d gotten it semi-behaved, I turned to her.

“Good?” I asked.

Her lips quirked. “Works for 1 a.m.” She pointed at her glasses. “Good?”

“They always make you look like a hot background character from Top Gun.”

Mel grinned in a way that told me my compliment had achieved “lock on.”

Super quick timeout here: I know some of you reading these metaphors probably think I'm a dork. I can be. But that night I was a dork riding with Mel Wade, and her grin made me feel like the coolest unincorporated hamlet gas station manager in the Midwest. Screw off.

“Think we’ll have to hold the lever to make the gas turn on?” she said lightly.

“Ha ha. That's funny. Sick burn.” I pressed my palms together. “Will you at least take pity and not bring up the smooth pavement or expensive novelty statue?”

Mel popped the driver's side door. “Hey now,” she said sympathetically, “It’s not the size of a station’s mammoth that matters…it’s how well the gas pumps.” Her sexy lips basically slapped the last word on the ass.

I knew she was joking, but goddamn. “I pump really well,” I stammered. “Uh, I mean our gas, Oz Gas, it pumps really, um, strongly.” 

She laughed. “I'm sure. Don’t worry, Cal…I prefer places that use sans-serif fonts and employ cute managers.” She winked and slid out of the car. 

I sat there for a few seconds while my blood came to a frothy boil. The flirty version of Mel could beat the ratings of Dallas in its prime time heyday. That was why my feelings kept veering between “luckiest man in the world,” and “probably being filmed for a YouTube prank.”

No, I told myself, Don’t do that. You’re funny, and she likes your eyes. She likes you. Give yourself more credit before you become a tongue-tied idiot. Bolstered by the mental pep talk, I opened the door and joined her outside.

“Don’t forget your jacket.” Mel pointed at me with one hand while the other settled on the pump’s handle.

“It’s not that cold—”

“Just…please?” I saw her mouth tighten in embarrassment. “My, um, my other half needs to know that you’re warm.”

Feeling oddly pleased by Mel’s primal protectiveness, I dutifully fished my jacket out of the back. While I zipped up, she lowered the rear plate and started filling the tank.

“I can help pay for gas,” I said.

She shook her head. “I’ve already budgeted for the entire season.”

“Yeah, but I can still—” 

“Nope.” Her tone made it clear there wasn’t going to be a debate.

“Come on, let me do something.” 

Mel reluctantly considered me. “You make good snack picks,” she admitted after a moment. “So if you want to buy snacks…okay. I trust your instincts.”

I feigned offense. “Instincts? That's a skill. My job has forged me into the ultimate Snack Master. Wait right here.” I gave her finger guns. Both barrels. Mel’s open laugh was an energizing wind at my back.

Mammoth Mart’s interior was as bright as everything else. I narrowed my eyes at the spotless floors and smudge-free glass. Whatever. I’m sure they got a lot more business than the Gas N Snack, so they had more money to spend. Plus, their staff didn’t have to pick up after the Wagner brothers. Wandering the aisles, I resisted the urge to study their inventory and note the brands we didn’t carry. 

It didn’t take long to amass a good selection of savory and sugary junk food. I played it safe with a couple classics, then added a few “deep cuts” discovered through vender samples and bored late-shift snacking. I had this certainty that Mel was a peanut butter fiend, even though I wasn't sure where the idea came from.

After I added two bottles of water, it got hard to carry everything. I might have overdone it. Fuck it. I’m trying to impress a girl. Owning my motives, I strutted towards the front and dumped my haul onto the surface of a self-checkout kiosk. I eyed the touchscreen with envy.

Mammoth Mart was officially my nemesis.

With enough snacks to breach the South Dakotan—and possibly Canadian—border, I made my way to the exit lugging an annoyingly sturdy plastic bag with a custom logo.

My knees nearly banged against the glass as I stumbled to a halt. The guy behind me cursed as he bumped into my back. All thoughts of gas station competition fell out of my head.

“Fuck.”

The customer swerved around and pushed outside, muttering an uglier obscenity. I remained frozen.

A raised pick-up truck with chunky off-road tires had parked behind Mel’s roadster. Its gleaming black paint job made me think of a prowling night monster, and the tall antenna on its bumper protruded like a needle stuck into the thing’s hide.

I dodged past a second exiting customer as I changed course. Walking along the store’s outer aisle, I peered through the windows, straining to see beyond the pumps.

Mel finally came into view, but only half of her. The rest was blocked by a hulking man in a familiar leather jacket. His long black hair—eerily similar to the truck’s flawless surface—made him instantly recognizable.

“Ángel.” The word left me like a growl.

The man was definitely invading Mel’s personal space. He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at her. Mel wasn’t giving ground, but her arms were tightly crossed. 

I set the bag down in a nook between cases of soda, and rushed back towards the entrance. Thanks to a spike of adrenaline, everything was suddenly sharp and clear, almost quivering in my vision.

Once I was through the doors, I would make a beeline for the roadster. Ángel’s back was to me. I could surprise him. Maybe shove him against his truck and tell him to back off—picturing it made me realize I was still pissed about the “friendly” warning earlier.

Just as my fingers touched the “PUSH” etched onto the door, Grams’ voice broke into my thoughts, loud enough to be heard from the past. 

Lord save me from fool boys who think roosterin’ is bravery!

I winced as the hollow in my stomach—braced for a fight—flooded with old guilt. I could almost feel the cold sting of a peroxide-soaked swab on my skinned elbow. But the memory of Grams’s disapproval hurt worse.

Hold still and mind me, Calvin!

I had been ten at the time of that particular lecture, fresh off of a stupid dare contest with the Wagner brothers. I had “won” by jumping off Grams’s roof. Only luck had kept me from breaking my neck. She’d clutched my shoulders and fixed me with a furious stare—I’d been too young to see the fright underneath it.

Any damn idjit can act like a bird with a tiny head. You should have told those boys off. Jumping’ off the roof wasn’t brave, it was stupid and easy! Roosterin’ always is. Not letting them goad you into going along…that’s bravery. You do what's right, not what looks right. You cotton? 

At the time, I hadn’t. Gritting my teeth, I stepped back from the door. I stood there, fuming, until my over-stimulated brain began to think again. 

Like it or not, I was an ordinary human. Getting between a pair of shifters who could toss me like a football wouldn't help Mel. I hadn't seen Ángel’s posse, so at least he was traveling alone—but what options did that give me? 

The idea came in a rush.

Yes…it could work. I would need to be clever and a little lucky—and the outcome would depend on how swank Mammoth Mart actually was.

It wasn’t easy to be casual with my mind speeding, but I did my best to stroll calmly across the store. Conveniently, the drink dispenser was on the front aisle and partially hidden from the lone attendant.

I crouched down and opened the cabinet doors underneath the “Mammoth Thirst Quencher.” It had triple the hook-ups of the Gas N Snak’s machine, but disconnecting the carbonator hose was child’s play for a grizzled manager like myself.

Grabbing an empty Big Swig cup, I headed to the front. “Hey man, the Fayt Spiced is messed up.” I waggled the cup and raised my eyebrows.

The boy behind the counter looked younger than Rory. His eyes went wide and his throat worked. “Um…I’ll take a look.”

He came around the counter and trudged towards the front of the store. He wouldn’t be able to fix it—I could tell based on body language alone. Poor kid. I waited until he crouched down to inspect the machine. Once his head disappeared below the level of the shelves, I hustled to the employee side.

Spying a forgotten Mammoth Mart hat beside the industrial microwave, I made it into an impromptu disguise as I arrowed for the door to the back office. It opened right away, and I walked in hoping there wasn’t anyone else on duty this late.

The room beyond was empty. And clean. And had a micro fridge and job board with six employees on it. Lucky bastards. My racing heart sped up when I saw the security feeds on a desk-mounted screen. I was a lucky bastard too. I hurried over.

Professional envy wasn't my best quality, but it had helped tonight. My earlier assessment of the station had revealed familiar-looking security cameras under the pump shelter’s roof. They were part of a system a rep had demoed for me last year. The Gas N Snak could never have afforded that brand, but I’d paid attention because it was fun to pretend.

My eyes zeroed-in on the feed in the bottom left. Mel and Ángel were in the same confrontational pose as before. Son-of-a-bitch was still crowding her. I tamped down harder on my anger and scanned the controls.

There! An audio feed and a transmit button—naturally Mammoth Mart had the deluxe version. Following the cord plugged into the audio jack, I located a dusty-looking ear bud. I wiped it off, put it in, and used the mouse to double-click the corner camera.

A loud hiss of background audio and distant traffic invaded my ear as the feed went live. The monochrome display filled the screen. Ángel was pointing at Mel, his finger jabbing the air. My stomach clenched at his aggressive posture, but Mel’s body language wasn’t scared at all, only angry.

“…do you act like this? Like a child pitching a tantrum?” Ángel’s voice. The audio was poor, but easy to make out.

“Child? Try ‘grown-ass woman,’ ” Mel shot back. “One who’s beyond pissed off. The reason you’re mad is because I won’t act like an obedient child.”

“That isn’t true at all, pequeña madreselva.” His voice grew low and seductive. I sneered at the screen. “You know I do not see you as a child.” His pointing hand reached out to try and touch Mel’s elbow. She twisted away from it.

“So you were just being a run-of-the-mill asshole. Got it.”

At that moment she glanced in the direction of the store. It had been quick, but Ángel caught it. He quickly jerked his head to look over his shoulder, then turned back. “Did you drive here alone?” Fuck. 

“Why?” Mel answered. “Do you want to repeat the dick-measuring threat display from earlier? It's none of your damn business.”

“If you're talking with a stranger, it’s all of our business!” His words, infused with a distinctly “cult” vibe, raised goosebumps on my arms. But when his hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, fire roared in my veins.

I quickly pressed the transmit button and leaned towards the stubby microphone, only remembering to lower my voice into a grumble at the last moment.

“Ma’am, this is the manager. Do you require assistance?”

On the blurry monitor, both Mel and Ángel jumped as my words crackled out of a nearby speaker. He let go of her shoulder and spun around, probably trying to locate it.

“Ma’am?” I repeated. “Do you need help? You can speak. I can hear every word you’re saying.”

The veiled threat hit home. Ángel’s body language stiffened. I bet he was replaying their conversation in his mind, wondering if it had been recorded.

“It’s all right,” Mel called out. “There’s no need.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at Ángel like she was sizing up roadkill, trying to decide if running it over would hurt her car. “He was leaving.”

I’d expected her not to want help. Mel wasn’t showing any fear, and even if she had been worried about Ángel, her need for secrecy would take priority. Had her shifter traits caused that much trouble in the past? The thought that someone might see Mel’s eyes and not think they were extraordinary…but now wasn’t the time to stoke fresh anger.

“I went ahead and phoned the sheriff,” I said into the microphone. “Just in case.” Mel might not have been intimidated by Ángel, but I figured a little incentive for him wouldn’t hurt.

On the screen, the two appeared to be in some kind of staring contest. Mel folded her arms and cocked her hip, silently announcing her intention to stay put.

After a long moment, Ángel spat a phrase in Spanish. He whipped his head side-to-side in a show of pure agitation before throwing back his shoulders and raising his chin. “See you tomorrow,” he declared. It sounded like a threat.

When Mel didn’t disagree with him, my misgivings about the storm chasing part of our trip ratcheted tighter…but that could wait too.

Turning on a booted heel, Ángel stomped back to his truck. He wrenched open the door and climbed in. The pick-up’s engine roared to life. Ángel pulled out of the parking lot recklessly, probably hoping to miss the made-up sheriff I hadn’t called.

Time to go. 

On the way out, guilt pulled me in the direction of the drink machine. The high school kid was still peering into the cabinet underneath with a look of despair.

“No luck?” I said.

He just shook his head, blinking at the jumbled hoses.

“Do you mind if I take a look? I’ve worked at gas stations before.”

“Go for it, man.”

He moved out of the way and I quickly ducked under. “Let’s see…ah ha! Good news, I think it’s just your carbonator hose.” I quickly reattached it, shut the cabinet, and stood up. Grabbing an empty Big Swig, I got some ice and filled the cup with Fayt Spiced soda. “There we go.”

“Aw, sweet.” The attendant looked as thrilled as a minimum wage employee could. “It’s on the house, bro.”

“Appreciate that.” Waving, I wandered over to retrieve my stashed bag of snacks. Then I got the hell out of there.