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taken away. Why don’t you just put yourself out of your misery and call her, you sorry SOB. You know you want to. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s anything like Jenny.”
    Andy’s quietly sincere statement made Tim stare at his cousin. “Did you not read that article in the Journal ?” He picked up the offending tabloid and shook it in the vicinity of Andy’s face. Or at least, what he thought was the vicinity of Andy’s face since he was seeing two of them at the moment. “She practically foamed at the mouth about how Bigfoot saved her from a car crash and nursed her back to health.”
    “Dude, the woman has a job, which she does amazingly well, if you didn’t happen to notice. I laughed out loud reading it. That’s some skill there. But only a complete idiot would believe that story was true.”
    “The article was rather humorous,” Fry added. “I must admit I found the entire edition amusing.”
    Tim just shook his head. “Have you both gone off the deep end? She used me. Just like Jenny.”
    Andy snorted. “Carrie is nothing like that crazy bitch. She made you out to be her knight in furry armor, for chrissake. She’s practically begging you to call her.” 62

    Size Matters
    He really wished that were true. He wanted to call her. He’d picked up the phone so many times Tuesday, he’d actually forgotten he had it in his hand and fell asleep with it that night. But he’d never had the balls to complete the call.
    Not even when he’d recalled the look on her face just before he’d left her at her house. She’d been hurt. Not pissed off that he wouldn’t sleep with her again.
    Just…hurt. Like he’d rejected her.
    He’d wanted to grab her close and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
    Then he wanted to spread her out on a bed and screw her brains out.
    They’d connected in the short period of time they’d spent together, shared something special.
    “Ah hell.”
    “Yeah, that about sums it up, cuz.” Andy motioned for another beer from the bartender. The German troll, four-feet-nothing and not as ugly as the name would suggest, nodded and drew another draft. “So what are you going to do about it?”
    “I have to go to her.” He jumped off the stool, barely noticing the wobble in his knees. “I have to tell her—”
    Tim’s knees gave out on him. Just buckled and dropped him to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
    He barely heard the laughter from the other bar patrons and the last thing he remembered seeing was the Weekly News Journal fluttering down to cover his face before he passed out.
    * * * * *
    Friday morning, Carrie stared at her computer screen at the best non-fiction article she might ever write in her life.
    All week, she’d cranked out stories for the Journal during the day and spent her nights researching. And writing.
    After she had all her facts in order, she’d agonized over every word of the article.
    63

    Stephanie Julian
    Her father would have been proud. Hell, he might’ve even considered running the piece.
    If he ever saw it.
    Which he wouldn’t.
    If the piece was published, Tim would have to leave the area. Hell, he might have to leave the country.
    Characters with way fewer scruples than she had would crawl all over his property trying to take his picture, get hair samples, maybe even capture him and take him in for tests. Yes, the members of the Society of Paranormal Abnormalities were that nuts.
    SPAz was a group of lunatics who believed Jason and Grant from Syfy Channel’s Ghost Hunters were messiahs. They constantly called the newsroom to provide “tips” or berate the staff for screwing up a story—most of which were half-baked to begin with while the other half were thought up by the staff in alcohol-soaked roundtable discussions, sometimes at the bar down the street.
    Who would’ve believed those idiots actually knew what they were talking about?
    But the main reason she didn’t want to publish the story remained the