I'm in a fog. Literally. I don't know how it's possible for the fog to creep inside a limo, but there it is. Almost like a supernatural force is toying with my brain. Making me see things that don't exist.   I cannot see outside the windows, so I have no clue when we'll hit the barrier.

In anticipation of impact, I clench everything I can—fists, teeth, jaw, pelvic floor, and all other clenchable body parts, as I await certain death. But through the mist, I swear a giant auburn wolf leaps over my creamy pale thighs with something large and intriguing swinging between its legs.

My first thought? Did I remember to wax?

I know that's illogical since everyone knows wolves prefer a lush garden to romp in, but as a student of veterinary medicine, it's my professional obligation to understand what I'm dealing with even if I'm asleep or dead.

I grab the wolf's furry leg. "Slow down, giant wolf!" I command, but it's like trying to hold back a stampede of Target shoppers on Black Friday. I'm left clutching a clump of silky fur—a scream roiling in my throat—as he tears the limo door off its hinges letting in a rush of chill air. In one motion, he jumps out in the limo's path, bang! Something massive kicks the front door and sets us spinning straight into traffic. Horns blare. Brakes squeal. I release the scream. My body slides across the seat, and my head cracks against twisted metal.

I'm in another fog. This one, more internal. Like maybe something you'd have after experiencing a massive brain injury.

There's no pain.

Have I died?

I cannot feel my body. 

I'm pretty sure I am dead.

Don't feel sorry for me, though. So far death isn't that bad. Still, if you want to hold a small gathering celebrating my brief life at say Oracle Park with a performance by Lizzo and maybe Billie Eilish, and a lineup of hot shirtless backup dancers, I wouldn't say no.

The blazing white light of the afterlife bright light beckons from the distance.

As I journey toward it, a stunning sequence of outfits flashes before my eyes. Hey, some people's lives flash before their eyes, and other people experience a couture montage. No judging! In the last outfit, I'm draped in oceans of white tulle wearing a dramatic Monique Lhuillier Daydream wedding gown. (Is this blatant foreshadowing or mere coincidence? I'll leave that for you to decide.)

Just know, I look amazing!

Even my inner goddess nods her head in approval.

There's a jagged shudder beneath me but not the good kind.

It's more of a "get under a doorframe because we're having a massive earthquake" shudder that jolts me upward into yet another type of fog.

If you're thinking, 'hasn't there been enough fog in this chapter?' keep in mind, that it's San Francisco, a place where there's no shortage of fog. Where the fog is so famous, it has not only a name—Karl—it has an agent, a first-look Hollywood movie deal, and 256,000 Instagram followers.

Also, it appears death has as many levels as a seven-layer bean dip and is populated by giant wolves.

A mesmerizing voice rumbles through the haze. "You saw no giant wolf."

"Huh? I hundred percent saw a giant wolf," I say, trying to peer through the thick gray mist and identify the owner of the voice.

"It was a dream," the voice insists.

"Are you trying to gaslight me?"

"No, just saying you cannot always believe your eyes."

"That's totally like the definition of gaslighting. Who are you? Reveal yourself, devilish fiend of the afterlife!"

***

The fog recedes, and my new afterlife consists of me sitting across from Crispin atop a red and white checked tablecloth, on a knoll of bright summer grass. Below lies the San Francisco Bay, ships and sailboats silently chugging beneath the Golden Gate bridge, as a coiling mass of gray fog lingers in the distance. Champagne chills in a silver bucket, its sides sweating with moisture. A magnificent platter of exotic pungent cheeses, a crispy baguette, and fat, crimson strawberries, beckons. The afterlife landscape is surreal, like someone coated the world in an iridescent film.

Crispin plucks a strawberry from the platter and extends it toward me, smirking as if he can read my thoughts, which maybe he can. Crispin isn't your garden variety, run-of-the-mill, tortured billionaire with a secret past, a helicopter, limo, and a penis building bearing his name.

I'm going to have to write my afterlife congressperson about the poor conditions, however. A picnic? Ugh. I despise outdoor dining. The bugs! The dirt! Plastic utensils! Rocks digging into your butt. Plus, I'm still in the stunning gown—which is an unforgivable crime against fashion. Let me reiterate that I. Am. On. The. Ground! Also, strawberries are the worst. What kind of a decent berry has a seed exterior? I will tell you—not the good kind. Give me a blueberry, people!

On the other hand, my afterlife selection does come with an adorable Crispin, in a crisp white dress shirt, with a crooked grin, so mouthwatering, my womanly regions want him to take me here. On the ground. In Monique Lullhier! Shut up womanly regions. Respect the couture!

My inner goddess shakes her head and sighs. I'm sure they have dry cleaning in the afterlife.

Some inner goddesses are so basic!

Still, I bat his hand away, sending the strawberry flying into the grass. "Strawberries are disgusting. This is the worst afterlife. Don't they have better fruit? Can you ask around?"

Crispin's eyebrows arch, his forehead wrinkles, and he draws back, giving me the 'are you seeing a professional about your issues?' look. Then he cocks his head and pops a strawberry into his mouth as if trying to illustrate their deliciousness. "You're not dead, Anesthesia  but I can see how you've mistaken a picnic for a crime scene. First, I get you drunk on a $1,000 bottle of vintage Dom Perignon. Then I stab you with a plastic knife. And once you're dead, I wrap your body in this convenient tablecloth."

I raise one brow and bite my lip. "How do you know I'm not dead?"

"Don't bite your lip, Anesthesia. It makes me want to bite it."

Wow, even Afterlife Crispin has a biting problem. 

"Again, I don't have a biting problem."

"Stop eavesdropping inside my head!"

"Right now I can't help myself, because I'm controlling your thoughts so you don't see anything supernatural that humans aren't allowed to know about while I try to prevent us from careening into the bay. None of this is real. I mean, did you think I could set up a picnic and transport us to the park with the snap of a finger?"

"Let me see if I understand. You're controlling my mind so I don't suspect anything supernatural is going on, but then you outright tell me that something supernatural is going on?"

"Don't worry, Anesthesia. You won't remember anything. It'll be like ... well ... like you've been given Anesthesia."

Out of the corner of my eye, the fog creeps closer, but when I try looking at it directly, it stops. I do a quick double take to test my theory, but the fog ceases when I try to catch it in the act. Crispin takes my chin between his calloused fingers, forcing me to stare into his beautiful eyes. "Anesthesia, would you like a grape?" he says, his voice rumbling with a strange power. I'm hypnotized by his voice, his eyes, and mostly by the bulge in his tight jeans. Wait, when did we switch to grapes?

Ugh, my mind is full of cobwebs. "I seem to have lost my train of thought. What were we saying?"

"I wondered if you'd like a grape?" I nod, and Crispin parts my lips using the grape. I allow it inside and  bite down, the sweet and tart juices bursting inside my mouth like a ... well ... you know the metaphor by now! "Mmmmm," I moan, my body snuggling closer to his, feeling the heat radiating from him in waves. "Death isn't half bad," I drawl.

"Still not dead," Crispin says, tossing a grape into his gorgeous mouth.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're dreaming, Anesthesia."

I roll my eyes. "If I'm going to be your bad-ass mate/dog-sitter/future bride in an amazing dress, the lying needs to stop."

"Why do you think I'm lying?"

"Because if I was dreaming, we wouldn't be having a picnic on a gingham blanket in Golden Gate Park. We'd be having sex on a gingham blanket in Golden Gate Park."

"We just had actual mind-blowing car sex. Give a guy a chance to recharge."

"Hey, if this is my dream, I get to make the rules, buddy."

"It's not that simple."

"What are you?"

"A hot billionaire bad boy with a complicated past and a need for control."

"I mean, what kind of creature? Because I know you're not human."

"And how do you know this?"

"I felt your canines when we kissed. And because I am a veterinary student, I know dog teeth when I encounter them. Not to mention, you're impossibly fast. Your skin is boiling hot. And your penis is enormous."

Crispin grins. "My penis is enormous?" I slap his shoulder playfully.

Suddenly, I realize that my head is throbbing, and something hot and wet runs down my face. I reach up and touch it, my fingers coming away, sticky with blood.

"It's dream blood," Crispin insists. "You are feeling very sleepy." He sounds like a cheap hypnotist.

Crispin rips off his white shirt revealing a glistening, tan chest.

"Are you trying to distract me, dream Crispin Shades?"

Shut up! Shut up, my internal goddess pleads. Let's have sex with him instead of trying to wake up.

I'm in charge, I remind my goddess. She stomps off, holding her finger behind her back. You know which finger! Nothing in life compares to being majorly flipped off by your own internal goddess. 

Crispen comes closer. Closer. His shiny abs are blinding. "Are you distracted?" he breathes into my ear, and I feel that delicious tightening in my lady parts again. The world starts to recede once again.

Yes, we are! Yes, we are! My inner goddess has returned to shake her pom-poms and execute a few consecutive cartwheels without using her hands or mussing her hair.

One thing I've learned in studying animals is not to give attention to undesireable behavior. This only encourages it. So I try to ignore my inner goddess, and focus on what the hell is going on here. I taste the metallic tang of blood. I'm bleeding. I open my fist; inside is a clump of auburn fur.

This is when all the memories come crashing down—the bridge, the actual crash, my head slamming into metal. For a moment, the real world shimmers into view. "We were in a car accident on the bridge. I remember now." I plunge my fist downward and punch a leather seat, not grass. "You, you jumped over me. But you weren't you. You were ..." 

"You're feeling very sleepy," Crispin insists.

I shiver. "I know what you are," I say.

"You're not supposed to remember any of this. What are you?"

"I'm human. But you're totally not."

"What do you think I am, woman? Say it. Out loud," he whispers in my ear. Oddly, his breath smells a little like steak tartare. My stomach growls. Shut up stomach! I'm having a moment here! "Hello, Anesthesia? Earth to Anesthesia. I commanded you to say what I am. Out loud."

I roll my eyes. "Commanded? Sorry, I don't do commands."

Crispin growls, as if that's going to make me obey. Hasn't this guy heard of Tiffanys? Whatever. Fine. I'll humor him. "Werewolf," I say hoping he'll reward me later with a pair of Tiffany's Victoria mixed cluster diamond drop earrings in platinum.

And there you have it, friends. Another National Book Award-quality chapter of "50 Degrees of Shade." If you giggled, even once, smash that "vote" button and leave me a comment or a hundred! Thanks for reading!