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March 22nd

The whole of next week, I find no time for excursions. School has finally returned, and the workload puts me in a sort of trance. I've almost forgotten about the wild sensation of the wolf and the bar encounter. Almost. Then, I learn that they are putting on a race down at the local track, and that there would be a new student rate for trackside seating. I've gotten most of the tough work done anyways, or at least some of it, so I feel justified in taking some time off. A bit of TLC. And for a casual fan of motorsports such as myself, what could be better than visiting a racetrack? It's already been so long that I can no longer recall the scent tire smoke and racing fuel. Though I can't remember clearly what the wolf smelled either, I figure that won't be hard to recall if, or when, I see him.

I'm seated on the bus with a few other students, none of whom I know by name. Most of them are from the various athletic branches of the university. Their slim builds look out of place on a football team, at least to me, but I don't know much about football. They do, however, look right at home among racing drivers. They look fast and sharp. Very focused. There's serious strength underneath a build like that, despite the narrow frame. And even fully clothed, you just know that there's a rocking body underneath. Oh, boy. There's no easy way to describe the sheer intense presence some of these students have. I catch myself staring at some of them. I should've gotten a quick session in before I left this morning. I can feel that I'm getting a bit worked up.

The racetrack is a surprise. I can't really believe I haven't been here before, but there's just never been a good time for it. It's a supremely complex, short track with a nice, and deceptively long, straight which begins at a banked last corner, and ends in a sharp ninety, right before a gravel trap. Woe to those who miss their braking spot here. There's plenty of complicated corners and bumps after this, which looks challenging. From where I'm sitting, I can't see the pit lane clearly, but I can see the where the black and gold cars of Whyllis Racing are parked, nearest the chequered line. Unfortunately, I only made it to the race proper, and missed the warmups, practices and shakedowns which run on the days leading up to races such as this. I never really cared about that, however. Race day is everything. What is lost in context is made up in atmosphere. The stands are blanketed in people, coats of every colour, manufacturer flags, and some international ones too. The green, white and red of Dalmatia draws my eyes, as it always has. Somewhere on the grid, there's some foreign racer or two. A rare thing. The series they race here is small and regional. The race cars are a mish mash of all kinds of brands, private entered or run by professional outfits. It's got enough money in it to make local TV stations interested, but not enough to gather really big crowds, so there's plenty of space in the grand stands for the few people who showed up today.

Between the amateurish sound quality on the overhead speakers, and the din of the crowd, I can't pick out what the race announcer says over the speaker system, so I tune it out. I notice an exited conversation going on right next to me. Some students, who I must have unconsciously followed into the stands, are talking animatedly about something.

One of the students next to me, a coyote in a black and gold branded T-shirt, points at one of the two cars on the front grid bearing the same colours. I couldn't say what kind they were from here, though I used to be good with brands and models back when I was younger. But these things don't ring a bell.

"That's the one," He says to his fellow students, gesturing enthusiastically, "The car that looks like a Chev SS. Those are the new cars they've gotten from Australia. Got some kind of deal with some old race team down there before they shut down, or something."

"Bet that's their star driver's influence," another one says, ferret with white fur and a sour look on his face. "He's probably practicing for the V8 supercars series even now. How are those cars legal here?"

"They've restricted them somewhat," the Coyote replies. "Different fuelling, and narrower tires, took out some suspension stuff and tampered with the rear axle. It's within the series regulations but only just."

I understand what they're saying, because dad talked more than enough about stuff like that, but I can't really get into their conversation. I keep my ears focused on them, while I study the cars in question on the grid below us. Sleek and black saloon cars with gold stripes and lettering down the sides. The company logo is draped across the hood, roof and the spoiler on the back. Then they bark to life, and I have to turn my ears away. All the cars line up at the start line and rev their engines. An explosion of noise reverberates in my midsection, increasing in intensity as the cars accelerate past us and away under the green flag. The coyote whoop and almost jump out of his seat. I have to clamp my paws over my ears, and notice that the others around me all seem to wear ear protection. That would account for their speaking volume at least. The roar is slowly dying down as the cars travel away from us.

"That was fucking wild!" he concludes from the spectacle, turning to his friends. "Did you see the launch on those Whyllis cars? I totally want to drive for them, so cool."

"Hey," I said, poking his shoulder, "are you some kind of racing driver?"

"Yeah," He barks happily. "We're on the university team."

He gestures to his teammates, a very small statured fox, and that ferret with shiny white fur.

"I watch some racing on the sports channels," I say, feeling that I can get a foot inside the door this way. "I mostly watch F1 and the FIA World championship, though. I guess I'm not as 'into' it as you guys. I knew the university had a student racing team initiative, but I've never seen you anywhere."

"That's to be expected," he says, and I don't think he realises that I can hear his prejudice under his voice. "We race under Group NR4 rules. A base line set of rules for racing specific cars, stock from the manufacturer with a weight and engine capacity limit, where factory teams compete with private teams, or privateers, in cups all around the world. You can race locally or internationally. There's very little TV and news coverage so we rarely make a career out of racing in this class, but you'd be surprised what wonders social media can do for a rookie's prospects."

The speech sounds only a little bit rehearsed, which I guess means he's annoyed that I've even asked the question. I'm sure he's had to explain that one more than once.

"Fascinating!" I say with a forced smile because, though it's kind of interesting, factory stock, unprepared cars sound a bit too boring and slow for my tastes. "I've only really watched racing on TV, so I guess I'm a bit lost here."

"It really is fascinating," he exclaims, but just then, the pack of racers on the track come back around. The noises drown out everything he has to say about the fascinating subject. He seems not to notice.

"Anyways, my name is Darren, this is Sweet, and that's Smokey." He points to himself, the fox, and the ferret in turn when I can hear him again. "We've got a similar pace, and that's more important than speed, or winning positions," he quickly adds, almost defensively. "If you want to get ahead in this world, you need to convince the guy on the other side of the contract that you intend to race the car responsibly and safely."

As he opens up, his friends start to pay more attention as well. This could be helpful. Darren sounds like a knowledgeable guy, for good or ill.

"Pleased to meet you!" I say, and I shake their paws in turn. "My name is Reece, I'm only a fan. Haven't been to any proper races for a long time. One time, I saw a round of the International Race of Champions which was taking place in my hometown, but that's the last time I stood in the grandstands."

I notice him perking up just a little.

"That must have been cool!" Darren replies. "They stopped doing those in 06'. I wish I could have seen that."

I wish I could've seen it again. It was my dad's idea, and of course, mom didn't like it. But he insisted, and since then, I've been smitten. I've always wanted to meet a racing driver. Never wanted to be one, strangely. Meeting one, however, has been something of a guilty desire of mine. Get one to myself for a night. When I grew a little older, I worked out that I wasn't just interested in racing drivers because they were cool hero figures. They had quite a lot going for them in the looks department, too. Though Darren is endearing and charming enough, he's not got the same effect on me. A bit too distant, socially, and he's way too young to have a proper physique on him. A weedy little kid, probably a freshman or something. But his tail is wagging. Score one to Reece and his social skills.

"You guys come here often?" I ask. "You probably know more about this track than I do."

"We're here every weekend," Sweet, the fox, chimes in, "There's always something going on. The various small leagues, the manufacturer's championships, the club sport racing, track days, drag racing, go-karts, you name it."

I can tell from his eyes that he has just the same fiery passion as the coyote, but he is much better at subduing it. "We've been following the Whyllis Racing team since he started sponsoring students from the university in the careers program." He jerks a thumb at Darren's black and gold shirt. "Everyone wants to work in his pit crew, or design stuff for them, or maybe even drive for them. That'd be the dream, I guess. But they already have a steady roster, and it doesn't seem like they're going to change that anytime soon."

That fox is really kind of cute, come to think of it. I let my imagination wander; he has the body of a somewhat undernourished model underneath that oversized team shirt. His fur is groomed and trimmed better than other foxes, but as with any other member of that group of people, he still has that unfortunate issue with his scent. Not an unpleasant one, mind. Scent doesn't translate to words very well, but for lack of a better expression, it's confronting. It doesn't tend to mix well with heat, or moisture, or any kind of known perfume for men. I've had exes who were foxes, and then there's my best friend Aiden, but it's not really something that attracts me. Not the fox scent at least.

"They're a local outfit, right?" I ask, pretending that I don't know, hurriedly brushing away the images of a naked fox in my mind, and politely perk my ears towards them.

"Surely you've heard of them?" Darren says, taking the lead somewhat abruptly. "His main driver is one of the best in the state, maybe even the country. He could probably get a spot in some national racing league if he wanted, but he's been with the team since he was a rookie. Definitely something strange about that."

The ferret next to them scoffs, his muzzle twisting into a sarcastic grin.

"The team only cares about their position on the board," He says. "Padding their stats, that's what they're doing, I'm sure. That way they can say they only win. They can tell their customers and shareholders that they're a winning company. I bet that guy is paid way more than any other drivers down there."

"That's just our resident cynic talking." Sweet explains with a ready smile for me.

"You know more about the local team?" I ask. "I'm very interested, I'm... eh, I'm writing an article." The lie comes easier than the thought of telling the truth.

"They're great," he exclaims at first, then he gives my question a bit more of his time. "There are four drivers in total. That there-" Sweet points to the lead car down on the track, the one with the number 31 on the side. "That's Courage. He's their main starter. Then you have Cartahena bringing up second place, right behind him. He's the cheetah. He's their number two. They both have a backup driver each, Coldstone and Riggazzo."

He pulls up his phone, scrolling through some pictures, before he leans across Darren's lap and shows me. I focus my attention on the two starters.

"In this picture you can see Courage and Cartahena, they're the two people on the top of that podium." He points needlessly to the main subjects of the photo; a striking looking cheetah is holding a paw around the shoulders of a white wolf. The wolf on top of the podium has to bend down to be in frame with the cheetah. Both are dressed in black and gold racing overalls with their fireproof balaclavas pulled up over their brows like tiny skull caps. The white wolf looks stunning in particular, and my eyes are immediately drawn towards him. He's got his racing suit zipped down to just below his pecks, and I can tell he's got nothing on underneath. He has cut his fur extremely close; he looks like a marble statue of some Greek deity. Far beyond the reaches of mere mortals.

The fox goes on explaining about something or other, but I catch sight of a figure in the crowd in the picture. Deep in the background, in the shade of their team's garage, he towers above the rest of the team. He is hunched over and stands out about as much as the furniture around him, somewhat overshadowed by the two really handsome guys on the podium in the foreground.

"That's one of their mechanics, right?" I ask, pointing to the dark shape in the photo. The fox stops for a second and looks at the picture again. He zooms in, until the blurry shape fills the screen, and studies it.

"I'm not... I'm not sure, why do you ask?" He scratches behind his ears and shows the phone to his teammates, echoing my question. Darren speaks up first

"How have you not noticed him before?" Darren asks rhetorically. "That looks like the head mechanic. Could only be, look at the size of him! You can tell from his overalls, right here, you see. It looks like it says mechanic on the chest name tag, though I can't read quite clearly."

"Yeah, that's him alright," Smokey chimes in. "Definitely. That's Mr. Whyllis son. I heard he had a fight with one of the drivers some time ago, and they demoted him from team principal to mechanic. It was only a miracle that the press didn't blow up because of it."

Smokey turns back to the race. The two race cars in the lead are opening a significant gap on third place. The car in front especially, the number 31 of this Courage guy, has a great pace. The cars shouldn't be that different in performance, as this series is run on a hp-per-ton limit, but the two black and gold cars are pulling away as if they raced in a different category to the others. Those guys sure know what they're doing, and between them, Courage is the one with the most knowledge. I should keep an eye on them in the future. Who knows where that wolf might end up, judging from the talk? He is definitely not difficult to keep an eye on, that's for sure.

"That sounds interesting," I say with a distance voice, before remembering my cover. "In that, it'd make a great story. How can I get down there and talk to him?"

Of course, if I had actually been some sort of journalist, I'd have gotten a press pass. But I have to play the role of an inexperienced journalism major. I hope they're more inexperienced with press than I am.

"I don't think you can just go down there and talk to him, Smokey says, flicking his left eyebrow at me. "Whyllis doesn't want reporters down there anymore. We got this whole write-up in the mail when we started racing." His voice adapts a more suspicious tone and he tilts his head curiously. "Who did you say you wrote for again?"

I quickly turn to the fox who, for some reason, I imagine knows these things.

"I mean, is there any chance of running into him in town? Perhaps they go somewhere after the race? It looks like they're winning, do you think they celebrate somewhere?"

"A hotel in town. Fans won't get access of course, and definitely not the media, so I guess you're out of luck." Sweet casually plays with the tip of his tail, and snickers to himself. "Unless you're a nice-looking girl, I guess. I've heard the talk of what goes on in there."

"Really? I mean... Jesus... isn't that kind of misogynistic?" I ask, pretending to take mental notes like a reporter would, chasing a story.

"I don't know," Sweet says, shrugging and splaying his ears. "I mean... it's a party full of testosterone crazy guys with big raging egos, go figure."

"Any chance of seeing that big wolf there?" I ask him "I mean... not that I'm trying to get in or whatever. I just want to see if I can catch him outside before the event. I have a few questions I'd like to ask him."

"I suppose... I don't actually know; I've only heard talk about it. They say it gets crazy whenever that team wins its home race. It's in the Reynard hotel, if you're wondering, and the party usually starts sometime in the early evenings after race day. Uhm... don't write that I said that though, please."

I want to keep asking him questions because he's kind of cute. But that's not why I'm here. He could perhaps be another project like this one, provided it doesn't go too badly. I excuse myself and make my exit. I have to get home to change.

My closet is not like yours, probably, unless you are particularly interested in fashion, with an emphasis on particular. It looks like a regular couple's closet, complete with outfits, not just for the discerning man but also for his very discerning wife. Casual, semi-formal and black tie. Most of the stuff I've gotten from garage sales, clearance sales and eBay. It's the result of a long fascination I've had with crossdressing. I have garish clothes, and I have elegant clothes. I'm so deep into this, I've got an outfit for every occasion, not just the most formal ones. But I have those too. Dresses, short and long, skirts with frills, halter necks, sheer slips, even frumpy librarian clothes, because sometimes blending in means not drawing attention to yourself. I spend my spare time, whenever I can find the cash, obsessively scouring for new outfits, I can never have enough.

There was a time when I'd spend a disproportionate amount of my student loan on my clothes, only to strut around in my apartment and look at myself in the mirror. But as I got better at it, and watched some make up tutorials online, I grew bolder. I started collecting looks and passing comments from other guys. It was exhilarating, yes, but from a distance. I've never had to confront them. Before I let myself be talked out of this little project of mine, by myself, I disrobe and pour myself a scented bath.

The water adds a deep scent to my fur. This is my favourite part of the ritual of getting ready. Argan oil and lavender. I've got a large collection of bath oils for fur and skin. I shampoo my fur, then condition it. As I get out of the bath, I rub my fur dry with a towel. I break my golden rule about fur dryers because I don't have time to dry off before early evening.

After my fur is dry, I brush it with a mild, soft haired nylon brush. Its static electricity draws additional loose strands out of my coat. My bathroom is already coated in most of my loose fur, but I still take a lot of care with the brush. Shedding will look embarrassing against the black dress I've got planned. I take some time to get really clean. And I mean really clean. Down there, and everything. Better safe than sorry, am I right, even if it's just a chat. You'd be surprised where 'just a chat' has led me before. Or perhaps you wouldn't.

I've got a picture of a dalmatian lady which I found online pinned to my mirror. She's posing for the photo at some red-carpet event with the white wolf racing driver. It didn't say who she was, so I can't be sure if she's his wife, or someone he knows, or a prostitute even. All I know is that I can pass for her. She's only described with a first name, Regina, in the picture caption. Damn tabloids and their sourcing. She is a nice-looking girl though. Regina might be able to gain access to this party.

Regina is about my height but have broader hips and a smaller neck than me. I can't mask that, but you'd be surprised how close I can come. In the picture she's wearing a black mid-thigh cocktail dress. I own a real BCBG Max Azira cocktail dress, which I picked up second paw from a lady who didn't know what she had. It should do the trick and be suitably fashionable. I can pair it well with a Dior handbag I found used online. It's probably fake, but I can't tell, and I'm unlikely to mention that it cost fifty bucks instead of two thousand. It's a pretty decent copy, and if I don't push it into people's faces, I'm sure nobody will notice. It's a small, black leather handbag, barely large enough for my phone slash wallet, and my keys.

There's some adjustment to be done to my patterns, which requires me to break out my fur colouring and makeup. I'm not going to bother with much, because I don't think anyone but another dalmatian would be able to tell, and the likelihood of running into those are probably as slim there as they are in real life. However, she does clearly have a milder clustering of spots than I have. I have particularly thick clustering around my ears, and my paws and feet.

My shoulders are narrow and my hips are very shapely for a boy, so I can actually rock my dress pretty confidently. Some silver earrings go well with the black, but not so strong that they draw attention away from my eyes. I've always been told my eyes are my nicest feature, pale and light blue. With the right amount of makeup, in the right places, I can make them really stand out.

Now for the difficult part. I've got to wear heels for this disguise to work. Not just any heels. Manolo designed heels with closed toes. I honestly can't stand them, because even if my feet are small for a boy, it's like none of my women's shoes are made for feet of that size. Even after I've trimmed my claws. I mean, they have size seven printed on them, but it feels like a size five and a half. It's absurd. But damn, they're gorgeous, and I am willing to suffer a little to make this outfit stand out. With some unsteady laps of my apartment in my second paw shoes, which I stumbled across at a garage sale some months back, I should be able to stay on my feet.

I check myself in the mirror while I order a cab on my phone. I'm met by a rather lightly dressed dalmatian who seems to be lost and have somehow stepped straight out from the top gallery at the Bolshoi and into some ratty student's apartment. I wonder if the other students ever stopped to question why there are two dalmatians at the school who haven't immediately hooked up. I've made sure via my breedr app, and assured my mom several times, that there aren't any other dalmatians in Safewell Springs, so I feel pretty confident as I step outside.

I can only guess as to when the party starts, but at a conservative estimate, I've got my eyes set on 6PM. Hopefully it's one of those parties that run on into the late hours, so that I have plenty of time to talk.

I've always felt safe crossdressing on campus, because it is a controlled environment. Familiar and close to the safety of my apartment. But now I am going off campus. I realise the scale and risk of my operation only as I get in the taxi that afternoon.

I mentally prepare my statement for whoever stands between me and the inside of that party. I've got a risky strategy in mind, and I hope it'll work. I catch the eyes of the taxi driver in the rear-view mirror. A fennec fox sitting on a sofa cushion strapped to the driver's seat. He looks at me for a long time, which makes me slightly uncomfortable.

"You really should have gotten a limo," he says. "That place is really fancy I hear."

"I simply hadn't the time, darling," I say, putting on my softer femme voice, which I'm told is pretty convincing. With the voice comes a certain attitude which I could control if I wanted, honest. That might serve me well tonight, or it may not. I take some time to check my makeup in the reflection of my phone. My driver is silent but keeps looking at me in his rear-view mirror. Maybe he thinks I'm a prostitute, I don't know. I've made a real effort to look classy tonight, and I'd actually be offended if he suggested I was some skank, even if he liked that sort of stuff. I flatter myself to think I'm a bit subtler than that.

The taxi driver parks away from the hotel on my request, so that the concierge, or maître d' or whatever they are called, doesn't see me arrive in a lowly cab. It's mild outside, but I'm shivering as I get to the front door of the hotel, despite the short half a block I walked. This is the most daring I have ever felt when it comes to dressing up like I do. It's usually been innocent fun, harmless and personal. I feel like I'm getting way over my head, but I'm in it now. I couldn't describe the feeling in mere words, but something about that wolf made me want to chase him.

There's a doorman, who stands aside and allows the automatic doors to slide open. He's clearly landed a cushy gig. He lets me in with a sideways look at my butt as I pass which he thinks I don't notice, but I give him a cheeky flick of the tail. My heart calms a little. At the end, the security measures are strictly biological. Fallible and susceptible to being charmed. I find my smile shaping up on my muzzle when I realise, I'm inside.

A faint smell of excellent cooking drifts through the lobby. It emerges from a pair of glass doors opposite to the doors I just came through, bearing the legend 'restaurant' written in narrow, serif letters. On my left, there's a pleasant nook, only slightly larger than my apartment. A few tables, some comfortable chairs, none of which are occupied. On my right, I spy a large monogrammed wood counter with the stylised hotel logo, and an array of pigeonhole shelves on the wall behind it, each carrying a brass plaque with a corresponding room number.

I try to act confident as I walk up to the clerk, an attentive looking cervine who has shed his antlers for the summer. Most of them appreciate the lightness, and being able to wear t-shirts, but I know a few guys who get self-conscious about it. This clerk is not one of them. He carries himself as if he had fourteen-point antlers on him. He seems to look down on me, which I'm used to, given my diminutive height, but his look is not one of physical necessity.

"Good evening madam, how may I be of assistance." He asks with a southern drawl which betrays a hint of that old-fashioned western chivalry which I hate to admit I find rather charming. I put on a winning smile. Here goes nothing.

"Hi, I'm here for the party, you know... the race car drivers?"

For a heartbeat I see confusion flicker across his face. As if I was speaking a different language. Then suddenly he lights up.

"You must mean the Whyllis event. Naturally!" He smiles earnestly, "May I have your name, please?"

"My name is Regina," I mask my hesitation as an assumption that this should be enough for him to go on. The cervine gentleman looks down at a piece of paper he's got on the desk next to himself, mumbling the name I gave him repeatedly as he scans the list. My fur stands on end. I really hope he can't smell how tense I am.

"I'm with Paul Courage," I say desperately, flicking my ears uneasily. I hadn't meant to say that. What if Paul's wife or date or whatever is on that list.

His brow furrows and his eyes trail over a select part of his list more cautiously. He smiles amiably as he recognizes the last name. "Oh, Mr. Courage must have neglected to inform us of his plus one. I'm afraid this is not the first time, my apologies, miss."

You can tell much of a hotel, judging by how the front desk employees deal with a hiccup, and how keenly they study their customers. He called me miss without a heartbeat, and I hadn't even shown my paws off or anything. This hotel is clearly a bit extra.

"The team will arrive shortly; my colleague will escort you to the room where they will be meeting."

He waves me on, and another sharply dressed cervine with a waistcoat, also without antlers, leads me down a corridor away from the lobby. I somehow guessed the time of the party correctly, and it makes me more worried. The smoother this goes, the fewer options I have to bail out without admitting that I'm scared. I should have known they'd have a guest list. The fact that I skirted it, and the fact that I managed to get the time and place, and even existence of this party right, makes me feel like I'm slowly using up my luck. I'm no great believer in fate, but I believe in luck. If it were the other way around, I'd feel much more confident right about now. I really hope Regina is someone Paul doesn't know or whatever, or that she doesn't plan to come to this party as well. It'd make things very awkward. I'm stuck with the irrational, but somehow persistent fear that Regina might be someone mom knows, with her nose buried in the ancestry blogs from Dalmatia. God, just kill me now, if things conspire to go that badly.

The cervine escorting me stops in front of a pair of anonymous double doors. He opens them to reveal a large conference room with a stage down one end. The smell of dozens of different small dishes and bits of food and drink hit my nostrils all at once. It's a wonderful cocktail of smells. Any good chef can make several nice meals. But only a great chef can make a hundred different meals, with a hundred different smells combine into a heavenly atmosphere that won't make us dogs woozy or overstimulated. There's a lot of time and money in the catering here, which means a lot of money flows through all of this, the racing, the team and the venue. I grab one of the omnipresent champagne flutes that are offered by the dozen or so staff. Judging by the food, the event must be planned to become pretty big, because there's way more food here than is necessary for four racing drivers and a pawful of mechanics and crew.

At around half past six, sounds come through the double doors from a large crowd outside. They swing up dramatically, and in charges the wolf of the day, Paul Courage, in a tuxedo cut so finely to his shapely torso that it looks painted on. He is at the head of a procession of various people in similar looking tuxedos, as well as a brace of ladies, none of which have spots. I can't help but slip into the background, as he insinuates himself into the centre of the room, and of everyone's attention. His short-cropped fur looks manageable, and his tail, though comparatively bushy, doesn't seem shed at all. There's not a strand of loose fur on his black suit or pants.

The group of people are preoccupied with bantering about their own victory. I hear snippets of conversation, but I am hovering on the outside, sniffing out for that big wolf. There's no room for any scent to become strong or overpowering, however. I search for traces of wolf, but there's at least four different ones, and even Paul's scent is barely noticeable under the background noise of fuel and oil, tyre smoke and exhaust. Which means I can think clearly, and focus on my goal for a little while longer at least.

The last people flock into the room and gather around the catering table, and the doors behind them close. I check the time on my phone. It's nearing seven, and my feet are starting to get sore. The champagne disappears quickly. A door on the far side of the wall opens, and more waiters bring in one of those rolling trays, along with more champagne. It's got a big cake on it, with something written on it, and a bunch of new smells layer the ones I only just got used to.

I still haven't seen traces of him after half an hour of hanging back by the edge of the room. What if he's not coming tonight? I came here to talk to him, or rather, 'talk' to him. I'll set up a meeting, that's what I'll say. 'How about you meet my colleague for lunch and a chat?' Then I'll have him, But I have to convince him I'm a reporter, for that to work. But man, I'm getting tense. What if I just left it here, and went and hit on someone else instead? I came fully prepared; in case I did score. Who's to say I couldn't score with someone here? It'd be really exciting to try it in this outfit, it has gotten me this far already. Perhaps I could hit on that Paul guy instead? Or would that be too much all at once? He's been pictured with girls before and there's a lot of people around him. Probably a dumb idea.

As I go back and forth in my mind, trying to decide what I really want, I suddenly smell it. There it is. A small hint of it. Not at all like what I first experienced, but it's the same smell. It's so faint it takes me some time to register it fully.

As I'm studying the scent I just rediscovered, the room grows completely dark. Up on stage, the spotlight picks out two figures which I had trouble seeing earlier. A stocky wolf with nicely groomed grey and white fur stands in front of the microphone. He is too large for his dinner jacket, which hangs open, and his waistcoat is not far from going as well. His legs look more normal sized. That's the sort of build one gets from sitting at a desk all day and eating too much. Probably drinks too much as well. Next to him, in the background and out of the main spotlight but clearly visible against the white walls, is a massive figure of a wolf.

His son, the head mechanic. I recognize him clear as day as soon as I notice him. I can tell from here that his son has had his fur groomed since last I saw him. It's not bushy and bursting with tufts of winter coat, and it doesn't smell very strongly, but the scent is unmistakable. Mr. Whyllis, the senior, clears his throat.

"Can I have your attention for a second or two?" the stocky wolf calls out across the room, and the din of conversation dies down in the large room. "Before we black out tonight, I'd like to take some time to give my thanks." He beams a large wolf smile across the room.

"Thank you, first of all, to our wonderful drivers, Paul, Remy, Adrian and Sal. They've all given their best and made sure we've kept our lead as the most successful team in the state. I feel like the luckiest team owner in the world today. Never once have I felt disappointed or angry, I've never heard anything bad said of anyone in the team. Here's to them! A TOAST!" He shouts the last word.

There's applause in the room, the four drivers are joking around with the people around them.

"Next up, I need to thank our team principal, who has made sure I never hear about any of the bad stuff!" He smiles and winks to an unknown person in the crowd, an even shorter, stockier rodent of some description. The applause starts up again.

"And of course, all the mechanics, the engineers, R&D, Catering and staff of the Reynard. Everyone who made it possible for us to live out our dreams, you who built and maintained our cars, you made them go and made them stop. You who fed us and made sure we had clothes. You are all precious to me, you are all part of my family! Give yourself an applause!"

He sweeps the room with a grand arm gesture, and the room erupts into applause again. He then wanders calmly off stage, down the stairs, and over to the awaiting cake tray where he makes the first cut.

Now that people are no longer distracted, some eyes fall back on me. Several guys are staring openly at me, checking me out. I try to ignore them, but I still get that little flutter of excitement I feel whenever my outfit is working.

Mr. Whyllis, the junior, has retreated to a quiet corner of the room, where he's standing by himself. I draw a deep breath and straighten my dress, my heart pounding as I focus all my concentration on keeping my legs straight, perched on top of my heels. This feels a bit more serious than what I gave Aiden cause to believe. I can see the wolf's eyes clearly as I approach. They look lonesome, but then again, all wolves look lonesome, it's just a thing they do. With his height, he can look out across the entire room above the ears of everyone else. But I am shorter than everyone else, and he doesn't see me before I'm right next to him.

"Hi," I begin timidly. One has to begin somewhere. I hope my voice can carry the level of confidence I want to project for this to work.

"Do I know you?" he asks, looking me up and down. I can practically feel his eyes resting on my chest. I've padded it out a little, but it's still small. I really hope he doesn't notice. Perhaps he likes small chests. He's not shooed me off yet. "Are you with the press? The drivers are all over there." He gestures disinterestedly somewhere towards the middle of the room, where indeed, there seems to be a greater concentration of people.

"No actually, I came to talk to you," I can tell that he's not used to the attention. I stretch out a dainty paw and offer it up to him. "My name is Regina; I'm write for the Gazette; I have a few questions."

"As I said, the race car drivers are-"

"I'd rather talk to you, please."

"I'm not cleared to talk to the press. Let me get father."

He starts to leave, but I touch his arm lightly as he moves off, and he hesitates. He's got bulging muscles under that anonymous suit, and I lose my concentration for a bit.

"No, please, just a few questions." I look into his eyes. They're hard, yellow, and expressionless. I flatter myself that I can put on some pretty potent puppy eyes if needed, and I don't usually have a difficult time convincing people to listen to me. I give him the full force. "A minute of your time, that's all I ask. I promise, it's just a light-hearted piece for college students, you know... kids considering the profession. Not everyone wants to become racing drivers, you know." I pluck a drink from a passing tray and offer it to him.

"Alright, a few questions." He tries to seem like he doesn't care, but I notice that he's tense under the surface, and his expression is hard and dark. I hope he doesn't suspect me of being some sort of investigative journalist. I have to soften him up, but that's something I'm sure I can do.

"Alright, first of all, your name?" I ask. He looks at me questioningly for a second, like I seriously didn't know.

"Uhm... I'm Walter Whyllis, Head mechanic." He mumbles. "I thought you reporter types knew already."

"Sorry, I'm new here. That means you're related to Mr. Whyllis then?"

"That's right, he's my father."

"And what is it a head mechanic has to do?" I apply some more puppy eyes, "May I call you Walt?"

"Sure. Uh... I'm the boss of the mechanics in our team, so I order parts, deal with suppliers and hire and fire mechanics. The engineers talk to me when there's something wrong with the car, and I interpret that into tasks which the mechanics understand."

"That must be quite an important job, yes?" I smile at him, he seems taken aback, like nobody has ever asked about something like that before. "Do you enjoy working with your father's race team?"

"It's great."

"You don't like it?"

It's getting hard to maintain soft journalism act, but I really don't want to be pushed away with laconic answers like that. I need to sound professional so that he doesn't get suspicious. Just then, the music starts up. A loud pop song comes on the speakers, accompanying a montage of the last years races projected to the white wall behind the stage. The level of volume in the room means it's going to be difficult to maintain a conversation. I feel brave, and grab this as my chance.

"Please, if can continue in the hallway," I half speak, half shout over the din of the people, who have all raised their volume to overcome the music. Before the big wolf can answer, I take him gently by his arm and guide him to the doors which I came through. Some people look at me as we walk by, but nobody looks at the big wolf. Nobody comments on our departure. As the doors close behind us, the sound of the music is muffled to a point where we could keep the conversation going.

"Sorry about that, just a few more questions," I take another deep breath, and come a bit closer to the wolf. I know he can smell the perfume I use. He's a wolf, he could probably smell it from across the room. I can tell his nose is working, it's twitching and sniffing. Perfect.

"So, you don't like the work?"

"It's not exactly the one I applied for, but it has served me well and I believe I'm man enough to do what this job takes of me."

Man enough he certainly is. But it's another muted, media-friendly response. I know there's more underneath it. It's time to reel him in.

It's always difficult to ask someone if they're gay, or what they think about it. But over the years, several entryways have been honed and polished by countless hopefuls. I draw from the inherited knowledge of a thousand gay guys before me, passed onto me through the sheer force of intent, as well as the magic of internet forums.

"Another question, and this is why I came here, so please take your time in answering. Would you say the track is a good place for LGBT+ students?"

He looks at me for a long time, there's no warmth in his eyes. I have to crane my neck to meet them. I look at his eyes, look away, and then find he's still staring at me when I look back. That's the first sign that something isn't quite right. The next one comes just after

"What's your game here?" His voice rumbles like boiling water, the sound of his subtle, throaty growl sends chills down my spine.

"I- I'm not sure what you mean," I say, hesitating for a moment. "I'm writing for the newspapers' inclusivity section."

"Drop the act boy," he spits, venom thick in his voice.

I freeze. Coldness grips my chest, and I feel like I can't breathe. I am completely lost for words. Quick, how can I get out? I can't run, not in heels. I don't dare to look at him, I don't dare to continue talking. We're alone in the hallway.

"You almost had me fooled, with all those scents in there." He snorts at me. This is really, really bad. When he speaks again, he's not making any efforts to hide his anger. "You fucking journalists. Dressing up like that just to get a story. Trying to scandalise me again? This is a private event!"

He is snarling at me now. My fur stands on edge, and my eyes are fixed down and away. My tail is tucked between my legs and I'm damn near wetting myself, I've never been so scared. At once, the magic, the desire, even the slightest curiosity is washed away. The mask falls, and I see how childish and irresponsible I've been. How stupid. We always talked about this. Never ever away from public spaces. Never in places where you're on your own. Don't try to hit on them. I broke the golden rule.

"I'm sorry sir. I'll go now," I mumble, I can barely put any energy into my words. I work up my courage enough to turn away before he can respond, but I can feel his eyes on me. The rest happens too quickly for me to process. As I turn, he grabs me by my shoulder. Maybe he isn't done talking or maybe he has other things than words to exchange. I never find out. His massive paw on my shoulder throw me off balance and my right ankle slips sideways, twisting painfully.

There's nothing to grab onto. I feel a powerful shunt to my head, and the next thing I know I'm staring a ceiling which is drifting in and out of focus.

There's a dripping. Something wet is hitting my forehead. I feel my head spinning, and I can hear voices in the background. The dripping comes somewhere above me. I half open my eyes, but the light is too bright. It makes my eyes swim. My ankle hurts, but my head is worse. I manage to focus on the door handle. There's the dripping again. The door handle is red, but I'm sure it was brass when I touched it last.

Time blurs, but at one point I feel my arms being lifted up, and I'm held up between two large people. This is it; I'm being thrown out. Onto the cold street. How will I get home? Did I get my purse? I must have hit my head pretty badly. All I can think about is the purse. What if they look at it? What if they see that it's fake and laugh at me? What if they check its contents, and rob me? I can feel something cold pressed up against my head. The throbbing stops and the pain dulls slightly, and I sink into the blackness.