Coyote is always waiting, and Coyote is always hungry. (So my mother says to warn me from men. It doesn’t work, of course.)
I stand at the bar sipping my drink—faces diffused by copper liquid and glass. Peering over the rim, I assess the night’s prospects. Senses heightened, waiting for that perfect moment, I smile and dip my hips ever so slightly. Blood and heat fill the air.
I study Coyote, lying next to me. My fingers trace his spine before I run my tongue along the rough of his cheek. Salt and fire swirl together. I open my jaw.