Chapter 2

“Lets me treat my clients like people,” his aunt said. “Once it’s down in them computer programs, ain’t no way to give someone a break on the rate.”

Brandon was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue it logically. Especially since Aunt Ginny would just accuse him of trying to get out of doing the math in the first place.

But at least the final number was in black, and in black enough that…yeah, he could actually get a bonus this month. His boyfriend, Scott, had actually helped their business, quite a lot. Not that his aunt wanted to be grateful to an article about the Lake Champlain monster, but even she had to admit that their find, late in the summer, had brought out-of-staters all the way up to her tiny little Self-Store facility for the auctions of delinquent units.

Brandon hummed happily to himself, doing the math. He hated the math, but he was willing, even, to use percentages, to figure up his bonus.

He stared at the figure. “That can’t be right.”

He added, subtracted, took out the overhead and taxes, put half in the business fund, and then divided out thirty percent. His bonus.

With shaking hands, he punched in his boyfriend’s cell number. The phone dropped him straight to voice mail. Scott was at a shoot—wedding photography might not be the most fun in the world, but it paid the bills.

“Hey babe,” Brandon said to the phone, “about that vacation you wanted to do…”

* * * *

Ten days ago

Scott flipped through the photo files, selecting, adding filters, cropping. He was not assisted in the slightest by Brandon, who made crude or ridiculous suggestions. The shoot, nothing special, just some wildlife for one of the local magazines, hadn’t been difficult, but had entailed quite a lot of hiking through pathless woods and waiting. He’d gotten a few good shots of a nest of birds, and a picture of a kestrel snatching up a mole. The dive-shot might actually be worth submitting to National Geographic, Scott figured.

“So, Rhonda called earlier,” he said casually. “While you were at work.”

“Who?” Brandon had grown bored looking over Scott’s shoulder and had rolled over on their narrow shared bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Rhonda Farr. The editor of Farr Crymagazine,” Scott reminded him. “You’ve met her twice now.”

“The chick with the orange hair?”

“That’s the one,” Scott said.

“What’d she want?”

“I don’t suppose you’d want to do a working vacation,” Scott hedged.

“Are we seeking the chupacabra?”

“Um, no,” Scott said. “Why? Did you want to vacation in Puerto Rico?”

Brandon rolled over, kicking his legs up. “Not really. I burn easily. Besides, I don’t got a current passport.”

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eventually,” Scott said. “But no, Farr Crydoesn’t really have enough incentives to pay for me to fly out there. Not yet. The Champie article did well. Nah, this is West Virginia. We can drive there in a day, stay for about a week, and then drive home.”

“You want to drive. To West Virginia.”

“Yeah. Bigfoot territory, the Appalachians.”

“Bigfoot. You think he’s out there?” Brandon shook his head. Brandon was not, Scott knew, a believer. “You buy into that crap?”

“I do the jobs for which I get paid,” Scott said, firmly. “If Rhonda wants me to tromp around in the mountains for a few days with a Sasquatcher team, I’m delighted to assist.”

“A Sass-watcher?”

“Sasquatch is one of the other words for the Bigfoot, as well as Wendigo, Yeti, and a couple of others. Giant man-like creatures, covered with fur.”

“She expects you to photograph that?”

“A few people have,” Scott said. “I’d be happy with a footprint or two, or maybe a suggestive looking cave-lair. Sasquatches are shy. And they have excellent hearing and a good sense of smell. Very hard to sneak up on one. And even if we get close enough to take a picture, that means we’re easily within attack range.”

“You’re trying to sell me on a vacation where we’re likely to be eaten by a giant monster?”

“Have I ever gotten you eaten by a monster?”

“Not yet,” Brandon admitted. “I’d prefer to get eaten by something else.” He glanced at Scott with overly suggestive eyebrows wiggling.

Scott widened his eyes innocently. “I’m afraid the landshark’s not native to Vermont.”

Brandon abandoned his not-so-subtle hints and dragged Scott onto the bed. “Come here, you,” he demanded. “You’ve been working all day. Gimme some kisses.”

Gladly, Scott submitted to his boyfriend’s request, tasting the traces of soda and chips on Brandon’s mouth. Brandon’s mouth was lush and wet and welcome and Scott plundered it with abandon, his hands wrapping tight around Brandon’s waist.