In the back of my address book was a list of contact numbers for the wærewolves who kenneled in my basement during full moons. My finger ran down to the name Johnny. A last name wasn’t necessary to clarify this guy. There was only one Johnny.

I put quarters into the pay phone and dialed Johnny’s number. It rang twice.

“’Lo?”

          “Johnny, it’s Persephone Alcmedi. I—”

          “Hey, Red.”

          That threw me. My hair’s dark, dark brown. I tried going blonde in my late teens. A week later all the prissy cheerleaders at school started saying things like ‘Your Greek roots are showing.’ I went back to brown; blonde hadn’t been me anyway. I’m a darkling. “Red?” I asked.

          “I’ve decided I’m going to call you Red from now on.”

          “All right. I’ll bite—no pun intended. Why?”

          He snickered in a very masculine way and lowered his voice. “’Cause I like the idea of the big bad wolf visiting you and Grandma.”

          I laughed so hard people pumping gas turned to stare at me. Johnny’s sigh made me imagine the satisfied smile he surely wore. He loved attention.

          “I knew you’d call me eventually,” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but this isn’t what you think it is.”

“Damn.” He breathed the word more than said it.

Quickly, I asked, “Busy tomorrow?”

          “Never too busy for you, Red.”

          “Stop it. And don’t read into the words.” On full moons, the wolves let themselves into my storm cellar and locked themselves into the cages they wanted with whomever they wanted to share them with—an important choice, since these caged animals passed the time by mating, and furious mating by the sounds of it. Wæres differ from natural wolves in that they don’t have to be in heat for such activity. When I went to unlock the cages at dawn, Johnny was always alone. He teased me and howled at me, the pack clown, so to speak.  

“Aw, c’mon, Red. Go out with me just once. I won’t bite. I won’t even lick if you don’t want me too.”

          I grinned, but softly said, “No.”

“Busy or not?” Now I felt guilty for asking.

          “I said I wasn’t.”

          “Perfect. Would you please go to Cleveland and pick up something for me in, uh, well...your stage clothes.” He fronted an awesome techno-metal-goth band. 

          “In daylight hours?”

          “Mm-hmmm. At four o’clock.”

          “Awesome. I love scaring the white-collared types. What’m I picking up?”

          “Probably a briefcase or something like that.”

          He paused. “You don’t know?”

          “Long story.”

          “Sounds like perfect dinner conversation to me.”

          I rolled my eyes. “Johnny.”

          “Okay, okay. Where?”
          “From the manager of a coffee shop near the Rock Hall of Fame. On ninth.” 
         “No way! The place they roast their own beans?”
          I had to smile. His enthusiasm never waned. I didn’t mean to be cruel, but if any man would make a good wolf, as in cousin to man’s best friend, it was Johnny. He had the personality of a tail-wagging leg-humper that had just gotten his treat. “Yep.”