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    Bite Me: An Elucidation in Three Acts
    Bite Me: An Elucidation in Three Acts
    Bite Me: An Elucidation in Three Acts
    Ebook64 pages52 minutes

    Bite Me: An Elucidation in Three Acts

    By Kim Fielding

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    About this ebook

    Bennet's just an ordinary office worker from Modesto… until the moon is full.

    And being a werewolf is stressful. It interferes with Bennet's work schedule and wreaks havoc with his love life. As if that wasn't bad enough, things get more complicated when he accidentally bites a very handsome dental technician named Mario.

    Will Bennet and Mario have a howling good time together, or will things just get hairy? They'll find out during the next full moon!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTin Box Press
    Release dateFeb 18, 2024
    ISBN9798224175604
    Bite Me: An Elucidation in Three Acts
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    Author

    Kim Fielding

    A Lambda Award finalist, Kim Fielding is the bestselling author of numerous novels and short stories spanning contemporary, fantasy, paranormal, horror, and historical. She lives in California with her family, her cat, and her day job as a university professor, but escapes as often as possible via car, train, plane, or boat. She dreams of traveling and writing full-time.

    Read more from Kim Fielding

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      Book preview

      Bite Me - Kim Fielding

      Act One

      Being a werewolf is stressful.

      It’s important that you know this because it helps explain what happened. Most people think werewolf life is what they see on the screen or read in a romance novel. Brooding men and hard women vrooming around on motorcycles, howling through forests and across moors. Alphas and omegas, packs, mindless violence, fated mates.

      But you shouldn’t buy into that crap unless you are also convinced that detectives and lawyers are all gorgeous people with designer wardrobes who never do paperwork, that a group of twenty-somethings can spend all day hanging out in a coffeeshop yet afford huge apartments in a major city, and that the impoverished barista is going to find love with the emotionally tortured billionaire and eventually belt out concerts in sold-out arenas.

      It’s fiction, honey.

      The truth is that I live in Modesto, a smallish California city surrounded by orchards and dairy ranches, with the nearest forest an hour away up in the Sierras. I have no idea where the closest moor is, but I’m pretty sure it must be out of state. I’d never ride a motorcycle; I’ve seen the accident victims in the hospital where I work, and besides, the helmets mess up my hair. I have a few werewolf pals—we text each other and occasionally meet for coffee—but nobody would call us a pack, least of all ourselves. I’m so against violence that I feel vaguely guilty when I squish the ants that have snuck into my kitchen. And as for fated mates, well, maybe Grindr and the Brave Bull aren’t the best places to find one.

      I have the same worries as most single, gay, middle-class men in their late thirties. Inflation and paying my bills, trying to make sure the hospital I work for has adequate staffing, that weird noise my Toyota has been making lately, climate change, pandemics, my possible need for reading glasses, constant spam calls, aging parents, my lack of romantic prospects, the next-door kid’s new electric guitar, remembering all my damn passwords, the rise of fascism…. You get what I mean.

      And yes, I realize that as a white, cis man with a decent job, I’m incredibly privileged. But that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and rose petals. Let’s face it. Life nowadays is stressful for everyone.

      And then there’s the werewolf stuff.

      I wasn’t born a werewolf. Nobody is, which is a shame, because it would sure be easier if it was something you got through your genes like colorblindness or lactose intolerance, both of which I did inherit, by the way. Then your family would understand. No, lycanthropy is something you catch from another person, kind of like herpes—which, thankfully, I don’t have.

      Incidentally, a lot of us prefer to be called lycans or lycs instead of werewolves, I think because those sound less horror-moviesque. I don’t care much, myself, but I do try to respect others’ feelings on the matter.

      There are extensive—and I mean extensive—discussions in the lyc chatrooms about what causes our condition. I’m fairly certain that some of the lycs spend most of their days, and nights, posting about this issue. I don’t know how they have the time. Maybe they’re retired. Or billionaires.

      Anyway, I don’t have the time and I bet neither do you, so I’ll summarize. It basically comes down to two major theories. Either lycanthropy is caused by a virus that’s spread via saliva and only certain people are susceptible. Or it’s caused by magic. And also saliva. Honestly, I think the magic theory is kind of a cop-out, sort of a handwaving that indicates we have no fucking idea what’s going on. But I also think it’s probably right. I mean, how else would you explain a transformation that so thoroughly violates the laws of physics and biology? I work in a hospital. I’m not a medical professional, but I do know that bodies tend to behave in certain predicable, if occasionally disastrous and eventually fatal, ways. Switching species when the moon is full is not one of those ways.

      Whatever the cause, the condition comes with certain liabilities. The actual transformation part isn’t that bad, as long as you make sure to strip off all your clothes before it begins. That’s a lesson most of us learn very quickly. You try taking off a pair of

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