The edge of the horizon still glowed with an orange haze as Alexander walked down the street. The air, which carried the sounds of a distant siren and was heavy with exhaust, had a hint of a chill. But the sky was clear–the usual fog blown east over the bay. Here, with the wide flat industrial buildings, Alexander could see the downtown skyscrapers silhouetted by the setting sun. This urban world was so different from the forested low mountains of his youth, but it still held much natural beauty. He whistled an old marching tune from his days in the army as he walked down the sidewalk, a lightness in his step. Seeing that the light at the corner was green, he hustled to make it across before it turned. After stepping onto the far curb, he continued halfway down the next block and then made his way into the club.

Rick, the bouncer, gave him a stoney nod as he passed, his squared jaw flexing with the subtle movement. At this early hour, there wasn't a line to get in. Not that Alexander would have waited in one if there was. As he strode through the entrance, he glanced at himself in the tainted plate-glass window and smoothed back his dark hair. He then walked across the nearly empty room and pulled up a stool at the bar.

Before he'd even sat down, Izzy grabbed a bottle of Woodford Reserve Bourbon from under the counter and poured a generous pull. "Haven't seen you since the brawl," she said with a smirk, setting both the glass and the bottle in front of him.

His eyes glanced down over at the black-painted floor where he had found himself the other night. With a twitch of his eyebrow, Alexander turned his attention to his drink. He brought the glass to his lips and tilted it back, savoring the citrus and spice notes that floated at the edge of the whiskey. It went down smooth. "Wasn't a brawl," he answered matter-of-factly. "I didn't fight back, remember? I walked away."

Maybe it was stupid to meet Shirley back at the club after what had happened the last time, but fuck it. Why should he be scared away from some place that had been home for so long? When he met a woman for drinks, this was where he went. Always. Izzy did the pouring. The lights dimmed as the crowd thickened, and the music would seal the deal. One run-in with a werewolf would not change his entire strategy.

Besides, he'd already tried to change his strategy. Supr hadn't been the quick fix that Marco had promised.

"Fine, not technically a brawl," Izzy allowed with a shrug. "So, who are you meeting?"

"The same girl from the brawl." Alexander shrugged back, then took another sip from his drink. "She'll take a Cosmo."

Izzy's eyebrows raised and her lips corkscrewed. But before she could utter whatever smartass remark she was thinking up, Shirley walked in through the door. She was wearing a tight, strapless dress, which hugged her curves and showed off her thighs. Her hair and makeup were flawless. Smokey eyes, shining lips, hair curled and bouncy.

"Stop drooling," Izzy said as she took out a cocktail shaker and started mixing vodka, triple sec, lime, and cranberry juice.

Alexander ignored the remark and stood to greet his date. "You look simply gorgeous."

"Thanks, baby." Shirley held out her hand.

Alexander took it, kissed her knuckles, and then guided her to the stool next to him, where, despite her tight-fitting dress, she hopped onto the seat with remarkable grace. As Shirley sat, Izzy poured the pink drink she had mixed into a wide-rimmed martini glass, and then she walked to the other end of the bar to give them some space.

Alexander placed the tips of his fingers on the bottom of the glass's stem and moved the drink closer to Shirley. "I took the liberty of ordering you a drink. Cosmo? Right?"

"Look at you, being all suave." She flashed him a smile, revealing a dimple in her left cheek.

Meeting her smile, Alexander felt a rush of warmth in his chest. It was almost as if he was alive again. He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling her scent. Notes of plum and roses, a hint of mint. He brought his fingers to the corner of his mouth to make sure that he wasn't actually drooling. He needed to taste her so badly. The pull he felt in his gut was immediate. Deep and visceral. "I'm just so glad you agreed to meet me," he managed to respond.

That evening, before he had done anything else, he had rolled over in bed and opened his laptop to check his messages. Checking an app before being fully awake—Marco must finally be rubbing off on him after all these years. The bright red dot next to his inbox had caused both elation and panic. She had replied. And despite how dumb his message was, she had agreed to drinks.

"Of course I agreed to meet you, baby. I'm the one who found you on Supr. I was afraid you'd think I was a stalker or something." Her eyes darted downward, and she took a careful sip from her full glass.

She looked so vulnerable at that moment, and Alexander had a sudden urge to sweep her up in his arms. To ditch the small talk, and to simply take her. But he knew better. Instead he scooted forward, closing the distance between their knees, and rested his left hand on his own leg, near enough to her that his fingers could reach out and feel her. "I just joined. I'm not very good with technology," Alexander admitted in a low voice. "I was so happy to read your message. That you found me."

Shirley put her glass back down and met his gaze. "I'll be honest. It was just luck." She shifted in her seat, her knees bumping into his. "Transylvania, huh? Is that... where you are from?"

Alexander laughed and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh no, I was born in America. The username was my roommate's idea. He's the one who helped me set up my account."

"Well, baby, I wondered why you had such a boring accent if you were actually eastern European," she mused.

"Boring?" Alexander placed his hand on his chest with mock hurt. "What? Do you want me to say that I vant to suck your blooood?"

Shirley laughed and reached her hand out to his knee. "Maybe later."

"Maybe later." Their eyes met, and a devilish look passed between them. The moment stretched like a rubber band and grew taut. Alexander held her gaze, allowing her hand to rest on his knee. It slid slowly towards his thigh. He could sense her pulse quicken, her sweat glands open, her breath pause. "Definitely later," he said, snapping the tension.

They both took long sips from their drinks. A slight blush bloomed on her chest, and Alexander could feel the heat prickling at her skin like electric sparks dancing along a wire.

"I'm sorry about Zach," she said just above a whisper as she placed her glass back on the bar and looked away.

Alexander's eyes inadvertently glanced back to the ground where he had been knocked over, humiliated by that beast, overpowered in the moment. He could have won the fight if he had wanted to. If he had used his speed and agility, used his fangs, he would have been victorious in the end. But it would have been bloody. Cops would have been called and it wouldn't have ended well for anybody. Vampires were hard to kill. Werewolves had the brute strength, and often they had the numbers, but they lacked longevity. There was a reason vampires lived to be thousands of years old, yet a were's lifespan was the same as a human's.

"Don't be sorry about your past. We all have a past." Alexander brought her face back into focus and grazed her jawline with his index finger, drawing her eyes back to his. "Trust me. I've had a very long one."

"Bet you've never dated a werewolf."

"No. You're right about that. But, I've made my fair share of mistakes." He thought about the women he had loved. Fiona's fiery temper, which had been exotic at first, but frightening after a time. Sarah's insistence that their affair remained a secret, to the point of ignoring or insulting him in public. Georgie, who always wanted to play dress-up and put him in frocks and make-up, just for fun! And Allison. Always Allison. With her female empowerment and feminist ideals. Her unwavering belief that despite his cross-dressing tendencies–as she put it–he was a woman. Were all his relationships mistakes? He shook his head. "Those mistakes are in the past," he affirmed. "What I want to talk about is the present."

With that, she relaxed, and her smile returned. "I'm pretty happy about present circumstances, baby."

"Me too," he agreed.

And they soon fell into an easy conversation, made easier by Izzy's arrival with a second Cosmo. Shirley loved her job, even though the hours were irregular. Her cat's name was Pickles, and she was a brown tabby that got into everything. She'd been cooking for as long as she could remember, first at her grandmother's elbow, and then later, almost embarrassingly, inspired by TV chefs: Emeril Lagasse, Bobby Flay, Ina Garten. Her favorite photographer was Ruth Orkin. She related to her photograph, "An American Girl in Italy," on a primal level. However, her own Instagram most comprised cat photos altered with various digital filters. Alexander sat in rapt attention, listening and laughing. His hands feeling at home, first on her knee, then her thigh, then her waist.

Soon, people crowded in around them. The lights dimmed, and the music went from background noise to a bone-invading volume.

"This is the time of night when I should ask you to the dance floor," Alexander said, his hand cupped to Shirley's ear.

"Should ask?" She curved one eyebrow up at him. "You don't want to dance?"

Alexander shook his head. No, as much as he wanted his body pressed up against hers, he didn't want to be in a sea of strangers. "Want to get out of here? Go someplace more private?"

"I'd love to. Come on, baby." She stood and took his hand. "I hope you like cats." And she led him away from the bar, through the doors, and out into the chilly night air.