The Lunas Yellow Dress

Drake

It's been raining like it's doomsday, so I decrease my driving speed if I must make it home without an accident. This gives me enough time to notice a woman hurrying down the road, shivering violently from the cold, but as soon as she faces sideways, I recognize her as my crush, Celine.

“Ah ah,” I say to myself, slamming my steering in excitement. A damsel in distress needs saving.

In truth, Celine doesn't know me. I’m a waiter at a restaurant while she’s a mini-celebrity with the prettiest face I've seen on TV. With eyes the color of brown earth, she’s easily the prettiest werewolf in our pack. Right now, through my wet windshield, I can see her bulbous buttocks jiggling as she hurries along. The rain has glued her gown to her body and I reckon she's got the outline of a sexy fish. Or, on a second thought, the outline of a ripe pear. It is unclear what such beauty is doing out here in the rain. Escaping from something? From someone? A flash of lightning fires though the afternoon and startles the hell out of me. It is time, I figure out, to go rescue this damsel. Get her off the damned downpour into the safety of my car.

So I increase the pressure on my accelerator until I am meters away from her backside.

All the while, all the freaking while, my inner wolf keeps yelling warnings at me. "Back the hell off, Drake." Truthfully, I am about making the biggest mistake of my life because Celine belongs to the pack's murderous alpha, Desmond, who has marked her exclusively for himself.

Come to think of it though, I try to convince myself, what's the worst thing that could happen to me? I could become rich, get favored for helping the Luna! Or I could become dead, get the alpha pissed enough to send assassins at me, of course, for holding his woman alone with me in a deadbeat car.

With the options available before me, I decide to chicken out.

The rain intensifies. Thunders rumble in the sky. They get so loud I can hear them through my wound-up windows. The moment I’m about reversing my car, Celine, who’s now probably acutely aware that someone may’ve been following her, looks back and holds her palm over her face to filter out raindrops for clearer vision.

I'm staring at her and she's staring right back at me.

Seconds pass. For lack for what to do, I throw an awkward wave and bare my teeth, hopefully signaling that I'm not a serial killer or something. And that I’ve been stupid so far. And that, see, never mind Celine, I don't want any troubles with you. I'm currently reversing the car, can you see?

Although, technically speaking, the car remains unmoving.

I may’ve gotten myself into trouble, I suppose. Palace memories aren’t particularly favorable to me. My dad was invited once to attend a meeting at the palace when I was nine. He returned home at dusk vomiting blood, falling on his stomach and dying. He was an activist who the palace hadn’t really liked.

Nothing, absolutely nothing should connect me or my household to that palace ever again, and I hope this ends right here with Celine.

I stop waving at her and decide to reverse my car for real and for good.

But she does what shocks me to my spine. She walks directly towards the car, scuttles around toward the passenger side and tries forcing the door open. My car is rickety. The outer door handle won't give way, so I lean over from my driver seat to tug on the inner handle of the door she’s trying to open.

She practically jumps into the car.

She feels like a cannon launched accidentally into my life. I get dizzy from the truth of it. Of all the people in the world, of all the people she could choose, the Luna is here with me. In my car. She and I. Alone. Her scent wastes no time filling up everywhere. She smells like roses and mountainsides and menthol all at once. My brain feels confused. The experience is indescribable and otherworldly.

"Have you been following me?" she asks without looking up, bending over to unbuckle her shoe straps.

I’m now more startled than the lightning had made me. Such confidence she's got, though, I think to myself. I mean I could pull out a penknife from nowhere and stab her on the back. This is how they train palace women? To be this regal and bold? To be this careless? Or perhaps it's just something with me. I must look too innocent and harmless, with my boyish face and all.

My car remains unmoving. The rain falls like liquid bullets, drumming noisily on the car's roof above as I watch Celine working her shoes. She's completely drenched. The car seats are made from leather, of course, so her wetness is totally okay. Although, truthfully speaking, if they hadn't been made from leather, who cares? They could as well be made from an absorbent that collects every drop of water off her body. I want Celine to wet my seats. I want Celine to wet my life. I want her to... Celine, without warning, straightens up and stares at me, flipping her wet hair sideways until I inadvertently have few water drops on my face. "I asked you a question."

Oh, the question. What was it? Her hair sits like dead grass on her forehead as she looks at me. The rain has combed her eyelashes into tiny distinct collections. I realize I am stupidly engrossed, now noticing how her earth-brown pupils are browner than I had thought. "I'm sorry," I stammer softly to her. "What was your question again?"