I'm Just A Small Town Shifter Read online

  I’m Just A Small Town Shifter

  By G.S. D’Moore

  Copyright © 2022 by G.S. D’Moore

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission, contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-7377036-3-1

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Order up!” I yelled, hitting the bell in the small window that was my only view out into civilization.

  I ran my forearm across my forehead, removed the built-up sweat, and successfully snagged the black hairnet. Why I had to wear it, when my sandy-blonde hair was in a traditional high-and-tight, was anyone’s best guess. Instinctually, I wiped my hands on the chest-to-knee length apron tightened securely around my waist. It was a waist that could have been a little slimmer, but genetics were a tough bastard to beat.

  The movement stained the formerly-white apron an even more unflattering shade of yellow, but I didn’t really care. I was just glad I could finally breathe for a second. For the last six months, my life had been the back of a sweltering kitchen in a popular diner. I had no training as a short-order cook, so I had to learn everything on-the-job. I was okay with that. I was willing to put in the work.

  The tag attached to the shirt under my apron said Kirk Jensen, and if you thought my life’s dream was to be a preparer of culinary delicacies like grilled cheese, a Reuben sandwich, or our signature, famous Warf Burger; you’re dead fucking wrong. Life’s a bitch like that. If your mommy and daddy told you that you could be anything you wanted when you grew up, they were lying to you. Like most kids from my generation, I fell for it; hook, line, and sinker.

  My dream had always been to work for the FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigation, not Female Body Inspectors. That joke got old before I was born, and I never thought it was particularly funny.

  I’d been glued to the TV as a kid; watching shows like JAG, Criminal Minds, CSI – whichever city they were on at the time – Quantico, NCIS, and even the new appley-named FBI franchise. I wanted to have access to those high-tech, crime-solving systems. I wanted to serve and protect my community. I wanted to catch serial killers. I wanted to live those adventures.

  So . . . fuck you Hollywood for putting all that shit in my head, because whoever wrote those shows knew jackshit about what it took to become a real FBI agent.

  You couldn’t just graduate high school, call up the FBI, and tell them to save you a place in their next class. You needed degrees, which meant college. So, four years and fifty grand later, yours truly had a shiny new Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice that was worth . . . dog shit. Actually, less than dog shit. The plastic bag I used to scoop up the family pup’s doo doo got me closer to the FBI than my BA.

  If you hadn’t realized it by now, it’s fucking hard to get into the FBI; and despite what TV told me, no one was the scientist-prodigy kid, who was socially awkward, but had an eidetic memory so that made him qualified to be in the BAU at twenty. That’s just a nice little plot device those Hollywood assholes used to capture my imagination.

  If you wanted to go straight from school to the Bureau, you needed a doctorate. You needed to have mastered the psychological mind, or be a lawyer. Most people forget lawyers have a doctorate too, a juris doctorate. Let’s just say I wasn’t the most gifted student. I graduated with a three-point-two GPA. Respectable, but the local university wasn’t exactly a paragon of academic excellence. Grad school was a no-go for me.

  The other track available to me was to join the police force, be awesome, and then apply to the Bureau. That involved a host of its own problems, and none of those involved COVID. Like everyone else in the country, COVID shat on my dreams too.

  As I stared out of my little window into the world, I pulled down my mask and took a deep breath. It wasn’t exactly fresh air, but it diluted the permanent funk of meat and potatoes that every iota of the kitchen was saturated in.

  “Kid. Mask,” a voice barked behind me.

  “Sorry, Mac,” I apologized, and pulled the cheap, blue surgical mask back over my nose and mouth. The thing might be the bane of my existence, but I wasn’t going to lose my job over it.

  After being closed for weeks, Mac wasn’t about to take any chances.

  I didn’t know Mac. I’d only met him for the first time six months ago when I wandered into town, applied to the local PD, and looked for something to make enough money to afford rent in the meantime. People weren’t exactly lining up to cook burgers all day, so the diner’s owner begrudgingly welcomed me into his little fiefdom.

  From what I’d experienced, Mac made a medieval lord look like a saint. The guy was anal, obsessive compulsive, and had to have things done his way. Since it was his joint, it was his way or the highway. I chose his way. I didn’t have much of a choice. I’d been on the highway too long.

  I was originally from a little town in southern Pennsylvania. It was the type of place everyone wanted to get out of, but few ever did. You either got an athletic scholarship to college, joined the Army, or went to work at the mill. I was one of the rare few who tried door number four, but that was only available because of tragedy. My parents died when I was fifteen. It sucked, but I’d accepted enough condolences from people to last a lifetime.

  What money they’d left me had been taken by the bank to pay their debt, but I had enough to get out of that town. I’d made it to college thanks to student loans, with murderous interest rates, and I never looked back.

  “Not that I landed anywhere much different,” I sighed as one of the waitresses approached.

  Charlene was in her forties, but she looked older. Life in my new home was hard, and a deadbeat dad and three kids hadn’t done the veteran server any favors. Still, she was always kind, quick with a smile, and would only bitch about you in private.

  “This is for table nine,” she stuck a slip on the little turntable and spun it to face me. “I’m going to take my break in twenty, so you can deliver.”

  I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push it. We were short-staffed, so we all filled in where we were needed. Plus, she tossed me a bit of her tip on those occasions, and I was too poor to say no to some extra cash.

  “Good boy,” she smiled and walked away.

  I took a deep breath, turned back to the grill, and got to work. There might be a small lull right now, but the work never really ceased. Whenever Mac had opened his joint, he’d picked the best spot on the island. That’s right, I live on an island now. Kodiak Island, Alaska.

  A lot of people would ask, why in the hell would I move from a place like Pennsylvania to Alaska? The answer was simple. There were never enough cops in Alaska. It was a different world up here. The lower forty-eight had largely been tamed by man. Not up here. Kodiak Island was the second largest island in the US, second only to Hawaii. To put that into perspective, the island of Oahu, where Honolulu was located, was just under six-hundred square miles
. Kodiak was thirty-five hundred. To police all that space, Kodiak had less than forty officers.

  This was where civilization met the wilds. There weren’t many white-collar jobs or office buildings full of cubicles and drones. People up here worked for a living. The major industries were fishing and logging. In that respect, it wasn’t too different from where I’d grown up, but I was determined to achieve my goals in this place.

  “If only I’d known the department wasn’t hiring,” the thought was like pouring a bucket of acid on my good mood.

  The department planned to hire again in six months when an officer was scheduled to retire, and then I’d have a chance to prove myself. The only problem with that was I was an unknown among a dozen, local men who’d applied. I was an outsider. Not only would I have to show I could do the job, but I’d have to earn the trust and respect of people who’d known each other their entire lives. That meant I had to train harder, and be better, than any other candidates; because the police chief made it abundantly clear there was only one open slot.

  So, I settled into life at the diner, and in my off-time, I trained, studied, and prepared for my future. I wouldn’t allow myself to even think I wouldn’t get the slot. I didn’t play video games after my twelve hours shifts, or get together with friends and play D&D. I’d have to actually have friends for that. When I got done, I hit the gym, I hit the books, and put in the extra effort that would set me apart from the other candidates. Then, I’d do it all over again. Rinse and repeat. For six months. That was enough to test anyone’s metal.

  I finished up the order Charlene had delivered to me, and used my hip to open the old saloon-style doors that separated the kitchen from the main dining area. We were between dinner and second dinner; when the ships finally arrived back in port and all the fishermen came in around nine. Still, we had our regulars.

  Old Sue was sitting on a stool nursing a sundae. I shit you not, every day the old woman had her banana split with extra chocolate sprinkles. Since she looked like a gnarled, old tree root someone had ripped from the ground, I was sure those sundaes would be the death of her. Whatever. To each their own. At least she’d die happy.

  Then there was Charlie the harbor master. He came in for a cup of coffee, and slipped a decent amount of whiskey in it. He tried to hide the flask, but no one was fooled. I greeted them both as I rounded the first booth and headed for table nine.

  Mac’s place looked like a fifties diner, because it was a fifties diner. All the waitresses looked the part, and even my own cooking uniform was a throwback to the good-old days. If it was trying to be nostalgic, it would have been cool. But it wasn’t. This was just what Mac was comfortable with, so that’s the way things stayed.

  The group of kids sitting at table nine clashed horribly with the seventy-year-old décor. I’d learned pretty quick that no matter where you went, there were always cliques. There were always the cool kids, and the not so cool kids. Historically, I’d fallen somewhere between the two groups. I wasn’t particularly smart – unless you counted my love of history – so no nerd group for me. I was athletic, and played football; but was only second string. So, I never got to sit with the starters and hit on the cheerleaders. I, and a few others, had settled into the no-man’s-land between the rich, popular, poor, and weird.

  Technically, the group at table nine weren’t really kids. That was just me picking up on Mac’s idiosyncrasies. The four people at the table were in their late teens, and early twenties. That was only a few years younger than me, but those few years gave me a lot of experience these people didn’t have. Thus, kids. They were all dressed in L.L. Bean, or some other trendy outdoor brand. That was like Prada up here, because if someone actually showed up in six-inch heels and a mini skirt, like they were out for a night of clubbing in Manhattan, they’d freeze to death; or get eaten by the local wildlife. Like I’d said, Alaska was just different.

  As I continued my approach, juggling the plates on a tray, I saw why Charlene decided to take her break.

  “Brianna Ahnah,” I gulped, and nearly tripped over my own feet.

  To say she was gorgeous was an understatement. She was the daughter of the local Inuit leader, who also just happened to own the biggest logging company on the island. Her mom was the chief of surgery at the local hospital. If that wasn’t a power couple on the island, nothing was.

  She was the perfect blend of her parents. She had the flawless, tanned skin of her father’s people, but it was her hair that really set her apart. First, it was pure white; and not the dyed type. I figured there must be something genetic to make her go white at twenty, but it only made her more exotic. That, and her hair fell in a waterfall of thin braids down to her mid-back. She was smaller than most women I’d run into, maybe five-three, but she was strong. She had the lean, athletic body of someone who’d competed in high school sports, while swinging an axe after school at the family business.

  I’m ashamed to say my eyes automatically gravitated toward her chest. But honestly, I’d been virtually alone up here for six months. What did you expect was going to happen?

  She’d shrugged out of her jacket, and was in a tasteful cashmere sweater to ward off the spring chill. She wasn’t stacked, but things definitely looked respectable on her small frame; and like most women in the prime of their life, she could forgo a bra if she wanted. They were perky enough all on their own.

  “Can we help you?” one of Brianna’s girlfriends glared at me.

  “Shit,” I’d been staring at her chest for a little too long.

  “Um . . . meatloaf,” was my suave response.

  “Here,” Brianna answered, and turned her thousand-watt smile on me.

  I practically melted into a puddle right in front of her, and would have descended into gibbering madness if I’d opened my mouth. I was smart enough to keep it shut, and placed the platters of food in front of the proper recipients.

  “Thanks, Kirk,” she said as I started to back away.

  “She knows my name!” I knew I sounded pathetic in my own head, but fuck it. Today was a good day. Any day with Brianna in it was a winner.

  “Enjoy,” my second attempt at speech was better, and I even tried a smile as I retreated.

  “Move!” a voice snarled as something hard hit me in the back.

  I pitched forward and would have smashed my forehead into the table if Brianna hadn’t caught me.

  “Fuck, she’s hot,” I wasn’t just talking about her looks.

  Her skin felt like it was on fire. Maybe she had a fever? Maybe she had COVID? She quickly released me, like nothing was the matter. Her group was busy looking back and forth between me and whoever had checked me like I weighed ninety pounds. At six foot, two-ten, I wasn’t exactly a small guy.

  Now that I’d recovered my footing, I turned around to tell whoever pushed me to watch it. I thought I’d find myself looking into some douche nozzles eyes. Instead, I found myself looking into a pair of sculpted, bulging pecs highlighted by a too-tight, long-sleeved Under Armor shirt. I had to crane my head back to look up at the guy I knew for a fact would eat me for lunch and ask for seconds. I’d seen him around, and heard through the grapevine he was the frontrunner to get the next PD opening. He was my competition, but that didn’t stop me from involuntarily gulping as I looked up at a guy who should clearly be on track to play in the NFL.

  “Come on, Trevor,” a second voice called, and my throat went dry. I felt my hands grow sweaty, as I turned to look at the leader of this second group of diners. Most people would think it was Trevor, and most people would be wrong.

  “Serena McCoy,” I mentally stammered.

  What were the odds the two hottest girls on the island would end up sitting in booths right next to each other? Mathematically speaking, they were actually decent in a place with such a small population, and limited dining options; but I didn’t care. I was so completely overwhelmed by the women around me. I totally forgot about Trevor.

  Where Brianna was tan, Serena w
as pale. As she removed her winter hat, her vibrant red hair cascaded down her back, and it looked like a fiery halo around her head when she shook out her crimson locks. Her face was covered in cute freckles that made everyone want to say, “awe”. At least until they saw her eyes. They were a cold green to Brianna’s warm amber. Serena was also tall and statuesque. Where Brianna’s frame was smaller and lithe, Serena looked like she should be on the cover of the Sport’s Illustrated swimsuit edition. Even through the bulky clothes necessary to survive in Alaska, you could see her ridiculous curves. I didn’t even need to stare at her chest to see she was stacked. Those things had a gravitational pull to them.

  While Brianna’s family worked the land. Serena’s worked the sea. Her family owned at least half of the ships in the harbor, and employed a good amount of the town. I’d observed the two groups interacting over the last six months, and there was no lost love between the two hotties.

  It was something straight out of West Side Story. The McCoy’s and the Ahnah’s. I didn’t know why every time they were around each other the air suddenly grew thick with tension; to the point of violence. You had to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to feel it. Even Old Sue looked up from her sundae, and Charlie his Irish coffee as the two groups glared at one another. Unfortunately, I was literally stuck right in the middle.

  “Your server will be right with you,” I blabbed, tiptoed around Trevor, and beat a hasty retreat.

  “Nice job, Kirk. Real smooth,” I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. I didn’t want to appear like I was running away. Even though I was.

  I needed to keep my head down. Get my application in, and wow the chief with my technical and practical proficiency. One word from either of those girls’ fathers, and I’d be shoveling fish guts into the Pacific for the rest of my days.

  As I rounded the booth at the end of the counter, I saw Charlene standing there waiting for me. “Sorry, honey,” she gave me a pat on the shoulder.

  I appreciated her trying to set me up with the kind, gorgeous, just plain awesome Brianna; but I had no chance in hell of landing a girl like that.