Title: Ta Weezo's Blues
Author: Layla Dorine
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: December 24, 2018
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 24800
Genre: Paranormal, college, professor, student, shapeshifter, teacher’s pet, poet, author, ferret shifter
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Synopsis
Sabre never had any intentions of
becoming the teacher’s pet. In fact, most of his school years have been spent
trying to avoid attention. The scar that mars his cheek has made him wary of
strangers, their questions and prying eyes leave him feeling exposed in ways
he’s uncomfortable with. Accustomed to blending in, he lurks around the shadows
in the back of classrooms, turning in exemplary work but rarely taking part in
discussions.
Professor Locklear’s Native lit class is
different though. Sabre’s interest in the subject matter, coupled with a
dedicated scholar’s need to turn in the best work possible, leads him to seek
out a more advanced reading list, much to the delight of Professor Locklear.
When he comes across Sabre reading material beyond even the advanced list,
Professor Locklear invites on a fieldtrip to a nearby village. Along the way he
learns more than just the knowledge contained in the books. He learns about
trust and discovers that there are others out there just like him— shapeshifters.
What he believed was an individual
anomaly turns out to be something beyond legend and lore, a whole different
culture he’d never known existed. The only way he can move forward is to let
his shields down long enough to trust the man whose conversations he’s come to
enjoy, but to do that, he’ll have to stop distancing himself from everyone.
Excerpt
Ta Weezo’s Blues
Layla Dorine © 2018
All Rights Reserved
The hallway smelled of old dust and
coconut curry, setting Sabre’s stomach growling as he trudged the last few feet
to Professor Locklear’s door. Instinctively, he pulled his hood low, casting a
shadow over his eyes, and with practiced ease, he swept his hair forward. It
would have to do. Sucking in a deep breath, he counted to five before letting
it out slowly, then licked his lips, and knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
The voice was slightly muffled by the
wood that Sabre partially shoved open, only enough to poke his head in about
halfway.
“Excuse me, professor, do you have a
minute?”
Sabre kept his head angled, watching
Professor Locklear out of the corner of his eye. Several moments passed before
his professor stopped writing and placed the pen beside his notebook, raised
his head, adjusted his glasses, checked the clock, and then brushed a stray
strand of hair back from where it had fallen over one eye.
“I have a few, so you might as well come
in. No sense hovering half in and half out of the doorway.”
Sabre shuffled forward, carefully
keeping his eyes lowered as much as possible.
“So, what can I help you with? Are you
in one of my classes?”
“Yes sir, I’m in your ten o’clock
Introduction to Native Literature class.”
“Ahh, you must be the one who sits in
the corner by the emergency exit, where it’s nice and dark. I have to admit,
when you first chose that spot, I assumed you were looking for a place to nap,
but you’ve since proved me wrong. Whenever I look your way, you’re focused
intently on me or the power point.”
“Yes, sir. I enjoy the material and some
of the discussions are pretty fascinating.”
“Really? In that case, why is it that
you’ve never taken part in any of them?”
Shuffling from one foot to the other,
Sabre carefully contemplated the question before responding. “I try to let my
papers speak for me. I’m bad at public discourse. I get tongue-tied and trip
over words or end up being so hesitant that people talk over me. When I’m
writing, I can organize my thoughts and present a more complete analysis of
what I’ve read.”
“Sounds as if you are extremely
self-aware. Not a common trait these days, I’m afraid. Still, if you feel you
have something to add to a conversation, then I hope you won’t refrain from
doing so, er… I’m sorry. You’ll have to help me out with your name.”
“It’s Sabre.”
“Ahh, yes, one of the more unique ones
this year. You’re right; your papers are remarkably organized, well thought out
and quite complex in their reasoning. I must admit, you’ve had me rereading a
few things I haven’t gone through in years just to understand why you’ve
presented some of your comparisons in the manner in which you’ve organized
them.”
Sabre grinned, a surge of pride rushing
through him. “Thank you. That’s actually why I stopped by. I was wondering if
you had any books you could recommend, similar to the required material for the
course. I’ve finished reading everything on the syllabus, plus the referred
texts I came across when I was researching; killed a couple piles of sticky
notes and pens in the process, too, so now I’m hoping for more.”
The professor’s eyes went wide and he
steepled his hands on the desktop calendar, tapping his fingertips together as
he slowly scrutinized Sabre, making him shuffle more and tug at his hoodie to
ensure it shadowed his face.
“Try as you might, I don’t think you’re
going to change colors and blend into the woodwork. If you do, I think I’d have
to take a half day off and schedule an immediate exam with my optometrist,”
Professor Locklear remarked with a chuckle. “You can grab a seat, you know. I’m
not a fire-breathing dragon about to roast you for stepping into my lair,
though I wish I could singe a student or two when I catch them snoring.”
Sabre chuckled softly but didn’t come
any closer.
“I guess not. Well, I must say your
question caught me a bit off guard. It’s not one I’m used to, at least not from
someone who wasn’t required to take my class. Are you considering adding Native
Studies as a minor? You are a junior, correct?”
“No, sir. I’m a senior.”
“Ahh, okay. So are you looking for
something specific?”
“Well, I, umm, really enjoyed
Reservation Blues, so I found the other Sherman Alexie books and read them too.
I loved the myths and legends book you assigned, and Fools Crow and Love
Medicine were extremely fascinating. I read House Made of Dawn twice, not
because I didn’t understand it the first time, but because it resonated with
me, and I was compelled to reread it. I didn’t dislike any of the assigned
reading if that helps at all?”
A long, low whistle emanated from the
professor, who cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly impressed at all the reading
Sabre had already done in just the first five weeks of the semester.
“It does, though there was no reason to
finish the course load in a few weeks’ time; wouldn’t want you to burn yourself
out.”
“It was easy, though. I always work
ahead. My work-study job is in the library, shelving books and working at the
research center desk, answering phone calls and emails. I usually have a ton of
downtime and write most of my papers there. Plus, I’m carrying a light course
load, four classes, since that’s all I need for graduation.”
“Well then, let me see what I can do to
find you something.”
Rummaging around on his desk, Professor
Locklear began moving neat stacks of paper until he finally found something of
interest. Sabre watched as he perused the list before finally holding it out
for him to take.
“Try these; it’s the reading list for my
Native Literature 103 class, since I’m pretty sure between your papers and what
you just told me, you’ve read most of the books for the 102. See if any of
these interest you, and if you have any questions or would care to discuss
them, please feel free to come back, or you can stop in my Native Lit
discussion group. We meet in the atrium every Wednesday night at eight. Who
knows? Perhaps you’ll be inspired to participate.”
“Thanks, I’ll umm… I’ll think about it,”
Sabre said, still staring at the proffered paper. Reaching it meant he’d have
to move closer, into the brighter lights above Professor Locklear’s desk.
Biting his lip, Sabre took the three steps to the desk hesitantly, keeping his
eyes on the paper and not the man.
“Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
The concern in his voice was what made
Sabre raise his head, and the moment he realized what he’d done, he ducked it
again, took the paper, and backed away until he felt the door at his back.
Twisting around, he fumbled for the doorknob.
“Wait.”
Pausing, Sabre gripped the knob, never
turning back.
“If you’re hiding in the shadows because
of that scar, please know it isn’t necessary.”
Sabre touched his cheek, stroking his
fingertips along the rough edges of the raised, puckered skin as the memory of
moonlight striking glass from a busted bottle flashed through his mind. Almost
instantly, his breathing picked up, and his chest felt tight as the first
stirrings of panic surged through him.
“I’ve got to go,” Sabre muttered, nearly
smacking himself in the face with the door as he wrenched it open. “Thanks,
professor.”
“You’re welcome, but…”
Sabre took off before he heard the rest,
sprinting up the curry-scented hall, the stench making him gag. Bursting
through the outer door, the fall air hit him like a gut punch, carrying with it
the scent of dying leaves. He gagged, bile rising in his throat. Skidding to a
halt beside a bush, he vomited, grateful nothing but acid remained in his
stomach. By the time he finished, he’d broken out in a cold sweat and felt
gross and tired, wanting nothing more than to get back to his dorm room and
take a long, hot, shower and climb into bed with a movie.
Glancing at the slightly crumpled list
he gripped in his fist, Sabre sighed before smoothing it against his thigh,
folding it carefully, and tucking it into the pocket of his hoodie. Shoulders
slumped, he turned and trudged back toward his dorm, grateful the day was at an
end. All in all, it had been both a success and a disaster. Next time, he’d
just email his request, he decided, as a cold wind made him shiver and debate
what the hell he’d been thinking, going to see his professor in person.
“Stupid,” he muttered as his short walk
came to an end at his dorm.
For a so-called genius, he sure could be
an idiot sometimes.
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Meet the Author
Layla Dorine lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.Layla got hooked on writing as a child, starting with poetry and then branching out, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.
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