Dedication
Dedication
To Matthew Vandrew, without whom I might never have
known of the existence of these fearsome critters.
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 3
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here
“B
E VEWWY
, vewwy quiet, we’re hunting—” Ethan broke off
as a shotgun, held in a pair of unusually beefy hands, swung
toward him and took up position about three inches from his
left nostril. “Joke, okay?” He swallowed and tried to ignore
the chill tap-dancing down his spine. “Sense of humor
failure, much?”
His heavy black brows casting his dark eyes in even
darker shadow, Logan very noticeably didn’t move the gun
away. “Joking like that is what gets guys killed out in the
bush.” His voice, with its American twang, was a low rumble
that reminded Ethan equally of Clint Eastwood at his
meanest and the roaring of the tigers in the local zoo. Ethan
had always liked to lie in bed and listen to them on a
summer’s evening. Apparently Logan had spent so long in
the company of dangerous animals he’d started to sound like
one. Not to mention behave like one.
Ethan found himself wondering what it would be like to
lie in bed listening to Logan. If he’d been asked to describe
his companion’s physical appearance, the word “tiger” would
probably not have sprung to mind. “Bear,” on the other
hand—that would do nicely. Well over six feet tall, Logan
seemed to lumber rather than walk. He was not so much
hirsute as full-on furry, and if he fancied a snack, Ethan
could all too easily imagine him scooping up live salmon in
those great paws of his and swallowing them whole. Talking
of swallowing things whole…. Ah. The barrel of the shotgun
was still glaring coldly in Ethan’s general direction. It
probably wasn’t the time to get distracted.
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Judging discretion to be the better part of valor,
particularly when he was a foot shorter and around a
hundred pounds lighter than the other guy, Ethan put his
hands up in mock surrender and smiled ingratiatingly.
“We’re not in the bush, though, are we? This is Parkhurst
Forest on the Isle of Wight, not the African Serengeti. On a
global scale, it barely qualifies as a shrubbery.” He paused
significantly. “And right now, I’m thinking it’s more likely to
be that gun of yours that gets me killed. Do you think you
could point it somewhere else?”
“You call this a gun?” Logan’s lip curled around his
cigar. “My three-year-old daughter has toys that could out-
shoot this piece of shit. The gun laws in this country are
crazy. How the hell is a man supposed to protect himself and
his family?”
Damn. Logan had a daughter. That probably meant he
had sex with girls. Or at least a girl. Well, had done once,
unless it was some test-tube, turkey-baster baby…. Ethan
wrenched his thoughts to more immediate matters. “You’re
seriously telling me you think that giving a gun to every nut-
job who can come up with the money makes a country
safer?”
Logan took the stub of his cigar out of his mouth, glared
at it for a moment, then ground it out beneath one size-
fourteen heel. “You got a nuclear deterrent, don’t you?”
“Not personally, no.”
“But you get my drift, right?” All credit to Logan: for a
big guy who was trying to get a point across, he used
minimal looming.
Actually, Ethan wouldn’t have minded a bit more
looming. Possibly even some menacing, as long as the
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shotgun wasn’t involved. There was a difference, in his
opinion, between hey, that’s kinky, do it again and shit, call
the police now, and the use of shotguns was so far on the
other side of the line it had probably fallen off the edge of the
island.
“I suppose so,” Ethan conceded. “But—oh, I don’t know.
Do we really need all the firepower in this particular
instance? This isn’t the full might of communist Russia we’re
up against. Wouldn’t a carrot on a stick do just as well?”
“This ain’t some fluffy bunny we’re up against, kid,”
Logan snarled. “This is your worst nightmare come to life.
This is the Jackalope.” The capital J was clearly audible, and
it remained hanging in the air between them for a moment
like the trail left by a sparkler on Bonfire Night.
Ethan laughed. “Hey, if it was my worst nightmare, I’d
be naked and up in front of my old maths class, with Mr.
Frogmore beating me with a blackboard rubber for being too
thick to understand calculus.”
Logan’s surly expression seemed to soften as he nodded
his dark, shaggy head at Ethan. “Yeah, I heard all about the
kind of shit that goes on in your English schools. Wouldn’t
be allowed to happen in the US of A, that’s for sure!”
“Uh, I didn’t—oh, never mind.” Ethan unclipped his lens
cap. “Listen, why don’t I get a couple of shots before we get
into it? You want to get into hunter pose? Aim that gun of
yours at something that’s not me?”
“You can put that thing away. I’ll pose for pictures when
I got the jackalope. Not before. You think I want you
snapping pictures, flashing your little light-bulbs and
scaring away anything in a half mile range?” He strode off
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into the forest, and Ethan scurried to keep up with his long
stride.
“Hey, you want to make your mind up about these
things? One minute they’re the creature from the Black
Lagoon, only not so cuddly, and the next you’re telling me
they’re scared of a little flash of light?” The more Ethan
thought about it, the more convinced he was that Logan had
brought him on a wild goose chase. Wild rabbit chase.
Whatever. After all, seriously, whoever heard of killer rabbits
with antlers?
But if jackalopes were real, and Ethan was on hand to
take the first ever authenticated photographs of the furry
little freaks… well, he could kiss goodbye to photographing
dodgy Victoria sponges at village cake competitions for the
Isle of Wight County Press. He’d have it made! Besides, it
wasn’t like there were any other well-built, good-looking guys
queuing up to take him on walks in the forest on a Saturday
afternoon. Even if this one was straight, Ethan might as well
make the most of it.
He supposed he’d better try and get a bit of a story out
of the guy. “So what makes you think the jackalopes are
here? I mean, you’re not suggesting they’re native to the Isle
of Wight, are you? I think people would have noticed by now
if the place were overrun with horny rabbits. Uh, rabbits
with horns. You know what I mean.”
Logan paused in the act of examining a frond of bracken
that looked exactly like every other frond of bracken, as far
as Ethan could tell. “You ever hear of a guy named Drew Van
Matthews?”
Ethan shook his head. “Nice name, though. Kind of
reminds me of an author I once heard of—”
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“Guy’s a fanatic. Breeds the little fuckers in his top-
secret base in Indiana. Wants to spread the jackalope
throughout the world.”
“And he’s starting with the Isle of Wight?” Ethan didn’t
even try to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Logan laughed, a short, harsh bark without humor.
“You think he’s never tried this kind of crap before? Places
like this make him cream his panties—self-contained
ecosystems. It’s the perfect way to see how the critters adapt
to the climate, local food sources, what-the-fuck-ever.” He
sat back on his haunches, the bracken seemingly forgotten.
“I’ve been tracking this asshole forever. Almost had him in
Sicily, but he jumped ship and made it to Gibraltar.” Logan
laughed again, this time like he meant it. “Hell, he won’t be
going there again. The monkeys ran him and his jackalopes
right outta town.”
Ethan shuddered. “Yeah, I’ve met those monkeys. Went
to Gibraltar when I was a kid.” Sometimes he still had
nightmares about the one who’d stolen his ice cream and
run off, shrieking defiance. It’d had chocolate sauce on it
and everything. The ice cream, not the monkey. Well, the
monkey probably did too, but Ethan had been too upset to
notice. He did sometimes have dreams about people covered
in chocolate sauce, but those were generally a lot more
pleasant.
“This place, though—it’s perfect for him,” Logan went
on. “Britain in microcosm.”
“Well, most Brits think of it more as the 1950s in
microcosm, but pretty much, yeah,” Ethan agreed. He
frowned. “Hey, these jackalopes of yours—they don’t eat
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squirrels, do they? We’re very protective of our squirrels
round here.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. One of the last remaining
habitats of the British Red Squirrel, right?”
“Now the rest of the country’s been invaded by American
grays, yes.” Ethan couldn’t stop himself glaring at Logan,
although the big man probably hadn’t been personally
responsible. Ethan was hazy on the details, but he was fairly
sure even rabbits couldn’t have bred their way up through
six hundred miles of country in Logan’s lifetime. Okay, the
guy was kind of weathered, but Ethan put him at twenty-
eight, maybe thirty, tops.
Logan shrugged and puffed out his chest a little, not
that it needed it. “Hey, is it our squirrels’ fault they’re bigger
and tougher than the little red guys? It’s survival of the
fittest out here in the wild. Now get your skinny British ass
in gear, we got jackalopes to hunt.”
Ethan bristled. “My ass—sod it, arse—is not skinny. I’m
just lean and well-toned,” he added in a lower tone, worried
Logan might take exception and point the gun at him again.
Logan’s gaze roamed over Ethan’s body. “My three-year
old daughter’s got a bigger—”
“Yes, all right!” Ethan snapped. “I get the picture.” He
stomped off across the bracken, taking vicious pleasure in
flattening as many fronds as he could.
They crept deeper into the forest, Logan occasionally
stopping to examine the bracken, the bark of certain types of
tree, and once, a small pile of animal droppings. To Ethan’s
disgust, Logan picked some up, rubbed it between his
fingers, and gave it a good sniff.
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“I hope you’re not planning on tasting that,” Ethan
muttered, having been mentally scarred by watching Due
South when he was younger.
Whatever Logan might have said—and from his
expression, it wouldn’t have been anything complimentary to
Ethan—was interrupted by the thucka-thucka-thucka of a
helicopter
sounding
overhead.
Ethan
looked
up
automatically, but he could see nothing through the thick
forest canopy.
“What the hell’s that all about?” Logan’s bushy black
brows huddled together like cats in a basket as he frowned
and looked up.
“At a guess, I’d say there’s been an escape from
Parkhurst Prison.” Ethan flicked open his phone and opened
up the Internet browser.
Logan stared at him. “So you have to tell all your
Facebook friends about it?”
“No,” Ethan said with exaggerated patience, “but it
might be nice to know if there’s a homicidal maniac running
round the forest with us.”
Mutely, Logan raised the gun.
Ethan rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes. How silly of me. Another
homicidal maniac, then.” He looked back down at the screen.
“Uh-oh, this isn’t good. Breaking news: Reggie Carter,
gangland killer, escaped from Parkhurst just over an hour
ago. Says here he used a ladder he’d built in the prison
workshop to scale the prison wall—what the bloody hell did
they think he was building a twenty-five-foot ladder for?
Anyway, we’d better clear out until he’s found.”
“No way.” Logan turned and stomped off, as if the
discussion was over.
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“Um, way,” Ethan protested, scurrying after him. “I
didn’t sign up for any hostage situations. And anyway, we’d
only be getting in the way of the police search.”
“Anyone gets in my way, they’re going to regret it,”
Logan snarled. “Now move it or lose it. I’m not waiting
around here all day for you to grow a pair.”
“I’ve got a pair,” Ethan muttered, but he looked around
fearfully as he hastened after Logan.
A
FTER
what seemed like hours of trudging through bracken
and getting scratched by identical thorny trees, a whisper
came to Ethan like the rustling of the leaves. “Grow a pair.”
“Will you stop going on about that?” Ethan’s nerves
were bad enough, what with escaped murderers on the
loose—he didn’t need Logan sniping at him all the time.
“About what?” Logan stopped and turned. “I didn’t say a
word.”
“Yes, you did. I heard you. You told me to grow a pair.
Again.”
“That wasn’t me,” Logan murmured. His voice was so
low Ethan had to strain to hear it, but the excitement in his
tone was unmistakable. “It means we’re close. Real close.
That was the jackalope.”
Bloody brilliant. Even the bunnies had no respect for
Ethan. “Wait a minute. These things can talk?”
“They’re mimics,” Logan whispered. “Cunning little
bastards. They do it to confuse hunters. Throw them off the
scent.”
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“Couldn’t they do it in a less insulting fashion?” Ethan
muttered. “Also, not working very well, is it?”
Logan ignored him. “You wait here—I’m going on alone.
Less chance of scaring the jackalope off that way.”
“What?” Ethan snapped. Not only was this turning out
to be a wild goose chase, he apparently wasn’t even to be
allowed a gander at any wild geese that might, against all
odds, be there. “How the hell am I supposed to get any
pictures of them from here?”
Logan hefted his gun. “You think I brought this along
just to look pretty? I’ll bag those critters and lay them out at
your dainty little feet. All you got to do is wait here.”
Ethan stepped back in disbelief, his arms flung wide.
“So when you said you wanted to find the jackalope, you
actually meant you want to kill them?” he hissed. “Bloody
terrific! I thought you wanted me to take pictures of them in
the wild—romping in their unnatural habitat, that sort of
thing. If you just want photos of little furry corpses, we could
have done that back in Newport. Was there any point to me
coming along and risking life and limb?”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You’re my witness,
you got that? I turn up at the newspaper office with a bunch
of dead jackalopes, they could have come from anywhere.
You gotta testify to where I found them.”
“Does it matter where you found them? Isn’t the whole
point of the thing the jackalope itself?”
“Listen, Eth, if I’m gonna nail this asshole Van
Matthews, I need to prove he’s been importing dangerous
animals. Even a backwater country like this has laws against
that kind of shit. Now you just stay put where you’ll be safe
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and don’t go worrying that pretty head of yours over the
whys and wherefores, you got it?”
Logan stalked out of the clearing and left Ethan to kick
his dainty little heels. Sighing, he sat down on a fallen tree,
hoping that if it was infested with termites, he wasn’t about
to be. It was quite clear how Logan viewed him, he thought
bitterly. A lightweight. A liability. Just a necessary evil to
help gain the recognition the big man so obviously craved.
It would serve Logan right if Ethan just got up and left
right now. In fact, that was just what he ought to do. Take
his cameras and his journalistic witness credentials and get
straight out of this fugitive-infested forest.
Except….
What if there was something in what Logan said? Ethan
would be kicking himself if he missed the opportunity of his
career. Then there was Logan himself. Okay, the man was
annoying, infuriating, and overbearing. And those were just
his good points. But something in Ethan couldn’t shake the
feeling it might be rather nice to show Logan that Ethan did,
in fact, possess a pair. Plus, obviously, the usual
accompaniment—the meat between the two veg, as it were.
Ethan wondered idly which two veg they were supposed to
resemble. Brussels sprouts, from the shape, he supposed—
although anyone whose family jewels were that particular
shade of grayish green was probably in urgent need of
medical attention….
There was a flurry of movement in the corner of Ethan’s
field of vision, and he raised his head in mild curiosity—and
froze. It couldn’t be!
There, not six feet away from him, was a small white
rabbit.
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With horns.
Actually, they looked more like antlers. As if someone
had taken a little girl’s pet bunny and put some Christmas
reindeer antlers on it. Ethan’s eyes narrowed. He’d been had.
No wonder Logan had insisted on going on alone. That lying
bastard must have planted a cage somewhere up ahead
earlier in the day, and had simply gone off to ready the
animal and release it.
He’d probably hand-picked Ethan: the photographer
most likely, in his crass, conceited judgment, to fall for the
hoax and run off to the papers with photos, claiming they’d
found the mythical jackalope.
Well, Ethan would take the pictures, right enough, but
the headlines would be very different to what Logan was
hoping for. He’d expose that bastard for the fraud he was!
Taking off his lens cap, Ethan started to creep toward the
rabbit. “Who’s a horny bunny, then?” he crooned. “My, what
big horns you’ve got!”
The rabbit twitched its nose at him, then turned to
nibble at some bracken. Clearly it shared Logan’s opinion of
Ethan as non-threatening. Ethan lay down on his belly to
snap a couple of shots, using natural light and a long
exposure so as not to startle the creature. “Oh, you’re a
sweetie,” he singsonged to it. “You’re not a dangerous, man-
eating jackalope, are you? No, you’re not.”
Tiring of its bracken, the bunny hopped over to sniff at
Ethan’s camera. Although his gut still burned with anger at
Logan for the hoax, Ethan had to smile. He was a sucker for
cute furry creatures. “Next time we’ll bring you some carrots,
yes we will.” As he spoke, another horned rabbit hopped up
beside the first—and behind it, a whole cuteness of baby
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bunnies, each adorned with stubby little antlers. Ethan
grinned as he snapped shot after shot. You had to hand it to
Logan—hoax it might be, but he’d really gone to town on it.
The babies were shy at first, but Ethan carried on with
his impersonation of a rather boring hillock with a baby-talk
fixation, and they soon grew bolder—one of them even
hopping right up to him and nibbling at his hair.
Just as Ethan was starting to worry that too much hair
gel might be bad for bunny tummies, they scattered. Ethan
blinked. What on earth? Had Logan called them, or
something? Some kind of bunny whistle? He imagined it as
being like a dog whistle, only smaller and softer, and
possibly carrot-shaped—
“Get up!” The voice was rough, British, and very
definitely didn’t belong to Logan. Ethan scrambled to his feet
to find himself facing a very large man holding a very large
knife. “Drop that bloody camera!” the man rasped.
“Um, right. Camera. Dropping.” With unsteady fingers,
Ethan unhooked the camera from around his neck and
placed it slowly on the ground, his eyes not moving from the
bloodshot ones confronting him.
“Now get your shirt off.”
“What?” Ethan squeaked. All right, Logan had promised
him his worst nightmare, but this was going too far! For a
crazy moment he half-expected the man with the knife to
turn into Mr. Frogmore, puffing on his pipe and predicting
dire things for Ethan’s future.
Unfortunately, it seemed the old maths teacher hadn’t
been so far wrong. The fugitive was stripping off his prison-
issue shirt. This was rapidly turning into Ethan’s second-
worst nightmare, the one that started with unpaid library
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fines and a judge with a grudge and went seriously downhill
from there.
“Um, couldn’t we just talk a bit first?” Ethan pleaded.
Didn’t these guys get enough gay sex in prison? “You have
noticed I’m not a girl, right?”
“Stop trying to be funny and hand over that bloody
shirt!” the man snarled.
Ethan felt weak-kneed with relief. “Oh, the shirt. Here
you go, then.” He’d never liked the orange-and-green plaid
anyway. He only wore it because it had been a present from
his auntie. He held it out to the convict, who reached for it—
and then all hell broke loose.
There was a shout of “What the fuck?” in Logan’s deep,
menacing tones, and suddenly Ethan found himself in the
convict’s arms, plastered against a soft belly in a greasy vest
that reeked of sweat and cabbage. If this was real life, Ethan
reflected with mounting hysteria, he really needed to get
himself some scarier nightmares.
“Drop that gun or your boyfriend gets it!” the convict
snapped.
Logan stood at the edge of the clearing like an overlarge
militaristic statue from a Communist dictatorship. He didn’t
appear to be making any move toward dropping his shotgun,
Ethan couldn’t help but notice.
The arm across Ethan’s windpipe was cutting off his
breathing as the point of the knife menaced his right eyeball.
Black spots danced in Ethan’s vision as he tried to
communicate wordlessly, “Just do what he says!”
The statue didn’t move.
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“I said drop it, you bastard!” The fugitive’s voice was
harsh with nerves, the hand holding the knife trembling
alarmingly. No such luck with the one currently occupied in
squeezing the life out of Ethan. The black spots were turning
into blobs, and Ethan’s head felt tight. He wondered how
pissed off his captor would be if he passed out and slumped
to the ground, and if he’d ever wake up again to find out.
Logan started to lower the gun at a pace that made
continental drift seem a bit on the quick side. Ethan was
almost grateful he didn’t have enough breath left to
whimper. That knife was getting nearer and nearer to
ballsing up his depth perception for good….
“Aaaaargh!”
The arm around Ethan’s neck tightened convulsively,
then slackened, and the knife disappeared from his field of
view as Ethan slumped to his knees.
“What the fuck…?” Logan had Ethan under the armpits
and was dragging him clear.
The screaming hadn’t stopped. As Ethan’s vision
cleared, he could see the fugitive thrashing around, the knife
stabbing blindly at about a dozen furry creatures that
seemed to have attached themselves to the man’s body.
Blood streamed over the unshaven face and down the grimy
vest, and Ethan winced as he saw one of the animals
hanging by its teeth from the convict’s groin.
It was the friendly bunnies from earlier. “Bloody hell,
Logan!” Ethan croaked, his gullet feeling like he’d been trying
to deep-throat a Coke can. “Are those things part Rottweiler?
Did you train them to do that?”
“I told you the jackalope was a killer,” Logan rumbled in
Ethan’s ear. As the vibrations resonated through him, Ethan
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was suddenly very conscious he still had his shirt off and
was clutched to Logan’s breast like the big man didn’t ever
intend to let go. Finally, the day was looking up. He let
himself sag back against that warm, solid chest. After all, his
knees were trembling like Gene Wilder’s shooting hand in
Blazing Saddles.
“Um, do you think we ought to, you know, help him?”
Ethan rasped out after a moment as the screams continued
unabated. “It seems a bit mean not to. I’d like to do it
without hurting the bunnies, though.”
“Those ain’t bunnies,” Logan growled. “You ever see a
bunny do that?”
“Not since Monty Python, no.” Ethan winced as the
blood-soaked bunny magnet crashed to the ground, still
screaming.
The biggest of the bunnies—jackalopes, Ethan corrected
himself—left the gory scene and hopped over to where Ethan
stood. He could feel Logan’s arm tighten protectively around
him. “Don’t shoot it!” Ethan gasped.
“Dammit, Ethan….”
Raising itself on its hind legs, the jackalope regarded
them for a moment, its bloodied nose twitching. Then it
turned and hopped away, the other jackalopes following in
its wake.
“Thanks,” Ethan breathed, not sure if he was talking to
Logan or to the bunnies.
“Don’t mention it,” Logan said gruffly, his breath hot on
Ethan’s bare shoulder.
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The convict was lying on the forest floor, whimpering
and twitching. “I s’pose we’d better call the police,” Ethan
said after a moment.
“Yeah,” Logan growled. He didn’t move, unless you
counted his hand, which had started to rub in slow circles
over Ethan’s chest. What with all the calluses, it was a little
like being rubbed down with fine-grade sandpaper. Ethan
hoped he wasn’t about to lose a nipple but couldn’t seem to
bring himself to care about it overmuch.
“You know,” Ethan rasped, his maltreatment by the
convict meaning he didn’t even have to try for a husky tone,
“if it hadn’t been for you and the bunnies—”
And then a dozen policemen burst into the clearing,
weapons trained on them.
Weapons? In Britain? On the Isle of Wight? Was that
even allowed? Surely there had to be something in the
constitution expressly forbidding it? Wait, did Britain even
have a constitution? His mind a whirl, Ethan squeaked
reflexively, pleased when Logan’s arm around him tightened
protectively once more.
“We caught your prisoner,” Logan snarled, nodding to
the pathetic, blood-soaked heap still moaning pitifully on the
ground.
The weapons, thankfully, were lowered. “Bloody hell,
what did you do to him?” One of the policemen knelt by the
side of the prisoner, who clung to him, presumably in
gratitude for the rescue.
“It was the squirrels!” Ethan burst out. “Red squirrels!
They’re vicious little buggers when they’re provoked!”
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Two of the policemen exchanged worried glances, while
the kneeling one pulled out his radio and started calling for
medical assistance.
“Just ignore him. He’s kind of highly strung,” Logan
rumbled. “It was a dog. Or a fox, maybe. We didn’t see much.
It ran off when it saw us.” Ethan stifled a pleased gasp at
Logan’s lies on behalf of his furry little friends.
“Yeah? Imagine that.” The policeman’s tone was
sarcastic, and Ethan bristled as a pointed look was cast at
his bare chest. “What were you two doing in here, anyway?”
“Taking photographs,” Ethan said, just as Logan snarled
out, “Hunting rabbits.”
“It’s an article for Shooting Times,” Ethan added quickly.
“Hunting rabbits in the forest. With photographs.”
“Yeah? So what are you—the page three pinup?” The
policeman looked Ethan up and down in a way that strongly
suggested that if so, he personally would be canceling his
subscription.
“I, ah, had to lie down to take some pictures and didn’t
want to get my shirt dirty?” Ethan hazarded, wrapping his
arms defensively around himself.
The policeman raised an eyebrow but didn’t say
anything.
“You know, Eth, it’s getting kind of cold,” Logan put in.
“We should probably go look for your shirt now.”
“Would this be it?” The kneeling policeman held up a
rather gruesome rag which, on closer inspection, Ethan
recognized as having once been his rather gruesome shirt. It
looked like the escaped convict had been using it to staunch
his wounds.
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If anything, the addition of crimson to the pattern was
an improvement, but still, Ethan couldn’t quite see himself
wearing the thing home. “He can keep it,” he said
generously.
Logan took off his padded camouflage jacket and
gallantly draped it around Ethan’s bare shoulders. “Thanks,”
said Ethan, staggering slightly under the weight. He
wondered what on earth was in the pockets. Knowing Logan,
it was likely to be hand grenades and dynamite. Probably not
the best time to have a look, what with the police casting
suspicious looks at them apparently on principle.
“This yours too?” The policeman held up Ethan’s
camera.
“Yes!” Ethan stepped forward to grab it. “Um, would you
mind if I took some pictures?”
“For Shooting Times?” The policeman seemed a lot
happier about it than Ethan had expected. “With our guns
and all? My mum’s never seen me with my gun. They don’t
let us take them anywhere.”
“Absolutely!” Relieved, Ethan snapped shot after shot of
the policemen posing happily by the bloodstained convict.
It was worth wasting a roll of film or two to keep the
police in a good mood.
Plus, he’d always had a bit of a thing for a man in
uniform.
“Y
OU
’
RE
not going to go back and kill them, are you?” Ethan
asked anxiously as they made their way back through the
darkening forest, the police having finally taken their
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 21
statements and left with what remained of their prisoner.
“The bunnies, I mean.”
He was wondering whether he should invite Logan out
to dinner but had a nasty feeling Logan might want to shoot
something and cook it over an open fire—or worse, insist
they eat it raw. Probably garnished with grubs like
something off one of those torture-the-celebrity reality TV
shows.
Logan smiled. “I guess you’ve gotten kind of fond of
those little guys.”
“Well, they did save us from the homicidal maniac,”
Ethan pointed out.
Logan’s smile twisted. “The other homicidal maniac,” he
rumbled ruefully. A meaty hand clapped Ethan painfully on
the shoulder. Ethan tried not to flinch too forcefully. “I don’t
know what it is about you, Eth, but you brought out a side
of those critters I’ve never seen before. It’s kinda made me
think about the whole business. Maybe Van Matthews has
the right idea—maybe the jackalopes deserve a chance of life
just like everybody else.”
Ethan beamed. “So you’re going to leave them in peace?”
“Well, you can bet your sweet British ass those guys in
prison will think twice about escaping after they hear what
happened to that asshole back there.” Logan sighed. “Listen,
Eth, when I saw you with that knife in your face—hell, if it
hadn’t been for the jackalopes jumping the bastard, I figure
I’d have been looking at a homicide charge right around
now.”
“You’d have killed him? For me?” Ethan squeaked.
“That’s….” He wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 22
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” didn’t
seem quite right, somehow. “Does that mean you’re, er….”
“Interested?” Logan gave a slow smile, and his voice,
already practically infrasonic, dropped another couple of
octaves. “You bet. Hell, the sight of you tippy-toeing through
the forest on those dainty little feet of yours has had me
busting out of my pants all day.”
All Ethan’s breath went out of him in a huff as Logan
put a gorilla-sized arm around him and squeezed. He felt
deliriously happy and light-headed, although it was possibly
just due to lack of oxygen.
Then a thought occurred. “Um, your daughter?”
“Lives with her mom. We broke up a year and a half ago.
She’s cute as a button, my little Clancy—you’re going to love
her. Say, why don’t we grab something to eat and, uh, get to
know each other a little better?”
Ethan felt warmth spread up through his body, starting
at his toes and spreading on upwards until he felt hornier
than a jackalope. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems a bit early for
dinner,” he said in his huskiest voice.
Logan’s smile broadened. “Oh, yeah? You got something
else in mind?”
Ethan’s fingers played coyly down the buttons of
Logan’s shirt. “Well, we could get straight to the getting to
know each other better.”
“Here? Now?” Logan chuckled, a deep, low rumble that
spoke straight to Ethan’s libido. And it liked what it heard.
“Damn, you’ve got balls, that’s for sure.”
“Would you like me to prove it to you?” Without waiting
for an answer, Ethan nuzzled into Logan’s neck. There was a
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 23
hefty flump, and cold air hit Ethan’s back as Logan pushed
the heavy jacket off his shoulders. Ethan drew in a deep
breath.
“I can tell that ain’t all you got,” Logan growled, his
hand cupping Ethan’s groin. Ethan felt a frisson of danger at
the thought that those meaty fingers could quite easily have
him singing soprano for the rest of his days. Fortunately that
didn’t seem to be in Logan’s game plan, as he just gave a
gentle caress before moving up to the button of Ethan’s
jeans.
Oh, God. They were really going to Do It, here in the
forest. Suddenly Ethan couldn’t wait for Logan to rip all that
ridiculously restricting denim off him. “You know,” Logan
was saying, “I wasn’t sure you’d go in for, uh, outdoor
encounters.”
“Oh, I’m starting to see the advantages in the alfresco
lifestyle.” Fumbling wildly, Ethan managed to wrench open
Logan’s trousers. “Oh my God, you’re so… well-
proportioned,” he gasped.
“Is that going to be a problem? I wouldn’t want to hurt
you,” Logan said, concern creasing his brow.
“Oh, no—” Ethan broke off in surprised delight. About
to sink to his knees and worship this incredible specimen of
manhood in front of him, he found Logan had beaten him to
it. The kneeling, that was. Not the worshipping bit—or was
it? There was an expression very like reverence on Logan’s
hirsute features as the big man gently lifted Ethan’s right
foot off the ground and slipped it out of its trainer. “That
tickles,” Ethan protested weakly, as a whiskery kiss was
pressed to his newly sockless instep. His eyes opened wider
than his camera lens as a hot, wet tongue rasped its way
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 24
down to his toes. “That’s… no one’s ever done that before,”
he gasped as sensation tingled all the way up his spine.
“Their loss,” Logan grunted. “Damn, you’ve got soft skin.
And the prettiest feet I’ve seen this side of the Atlantic.” He
pressed a kiss to the top of each toe in turn.
“I exfoliate,” Ethan admitted, only a very small part of
his mind on his words. Most of his attention was focused on
the incredibly erotic sight of the fearsome hunter, apparently
tamed by Ethan’s size sevens. “And use foot lotion. Oh, God!”
he added, as Logan sucked on his big toe like it was
something else entirely. Was it possible to come from having
your toes sucked? Ethan could feel every sweep of that
tongue in his cock and balls. There were clearly some very
strange cross-circuits in his nervous system.
Not that he was complaining. Oh, dear God, no.
“Mmm, peppermint.” Logan hummed with approval
around the favored digit, and Ethan abandoned all attempts
at speech and settled for just whimpering with pleasure.
His whimpers turned plaintive as Logan pulled off with a
pop. “Don’t stop.”
Logan grinned. “I got something better in mind. If you’re
sure about this,” he added, stroking his massive erection
with an understandably smug air.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Ethan sighed happily. “I’ll just bend over
and think of England.”
“England, shmengland. By the time I’m finished with
you, you’ll be whistling Dixie and singing The Star-Spangled
Banner,” Logan growled.
“As long as you stand up when I follow it with God Save
the Queen,” Ethan teased, letting himself be manhandled
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 25
around and leaned against a sturdy oak tree. The rough
bark was exquisite torture on his bare chest as his jeans
were yanked down to his ankles. He heard Logan spit, then
felt himself breached by one improbably thick finger. Or…
toe? Ethan risked a look over his shoulder. No, that was
definitely a finger.
Ah, well, there was always next time. Meanwhile, in the
here and now—Ethan yelped as that questing finger found
his prostate. “I always get what I’m after,” Logan rumbled in
his ear. After teasing him mercilessly for what seemed like
decades—Ethan half expected to see the trees cycling
through the seasons, shedding their leaves like confetti and
sprouting them again like little green hard-ons—the finger
retreated. Ethan heard the rip of a condom packet.
Naturally. Logan was very much the Boy Scout type;
obviously he would have come prepared.
Strong hands kneaded his buttocks, and Ethan yelped
again as his jutting cock rubbed against the bark of the tree
that supported him. He wasn’t sure if it was pain or
pleasure, but either seemed equally good right now. “You…
I…,” he stuttered incoherently.
“Want me to take care of that?” A beefy hand wrapped
around Ethan’s cock, just as something much, much larger
than a finger nudged at his entrance.
Ethan tried to whimper in an affirmative fashion. He’d
have nodded, but in his current state of total lack of
coordination he’d probably have brained himself against the
tree trunk. Fortunately Logan seemed to understand, as with
a care belying his size, he eased into Ethan’s welcoming
body. Ethan felt himself filled, taken, possessed by this hulk
of a man. Logan’s thick thatch of pubic hair tickled his
buttocks just as that bushy beard scratched his neck. When
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here | JL Merrow | 26
Logan pressed a kiss to his shoulder, Ethan was once more
overwhelmed by the gentleness of it.
Then Logan started to move.
Ethan clung onto the tree trunk for support as Logan
slammed in and out of him, hitting his gland with every
thrust. His vision was blurring and he barely knew which
way was up, lost in a forest of sensation. Rough fingers
worked his cock expertly, bringing him to the edge of climax
faster than a speeding rabbit. “Wait—going to—ahhh!”
Logan’s mouth was Ethan’s undoing. That wicked
tongue rasped once along Ethan’s neck—and then Logan bit
down, just hard enough to send Ethan rocketing over the
edge, his orgasm shooting out over the bark in front of him.
Ethan shivered—and with a shudder that must have
registered on the Richter scale, Logan roared and followed
him down the rabbit hole.
U
NSEEN
behind a tree, the jackalope nibbled thoughtfully on
a frond of bracken as it watched them. It had been unsure
whether to act, at first—had the furry one been hurting the
smaller human? But no—it seemed they were merely mating.
The jackalope’s ears twitched in approval, and its heartbeat
quickened as its thoughts turned to its own doe.
It would be safe to leave the humans. The one some
instinct had prompted it to dub “The Bunny Whisperer” was
in no danger.
But if ever he was again, the jackalope would be
waiting.
About the Author
JL
M
ERROW
is that rare beast, an English person who
refuses to drink tea. She read natural sciences at
Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst
which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab
again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of
punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.
She has had over thirty short stories and novellas published
by Dreamspinner Press, Torquere Press, and Samhain
Publishing, among others. Camwolf, a paranormal romance,
is her first novel, and her second, Wight Mischief, a romantic
thriller, will be published in November 2011.
Visit JL’s web site at
Copyright
Hairy, Horny, and Over Here ©Copyright JL Merrow, 2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Catt Ford
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
June 2011
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-027-1
