“Yeah. Don’t poke at it. It’ll never get better.”
“I’ll poke whatever I like, thank you.”
“I feel like I should come up with a sexual double entendre, but I’m really tired.”
“Good instinct.” And then, out of nowhere: “I was thinking about Lund in the bathroom.”
He grimaced. “Why?”
“I never met a sport before,” she admitted. “That I know of. It’s not something people brag about.”
“I went to high school with one. Most of the teachers treated him like a short-bus kid, y’know?”
“Ugh, not okay, David… All right, so Lund couldn’t shift, but my understanding is that he enjoyed all other aspects of our paralogical physiology. The metabolism, the reflexes…”
“Yeah. Remember the Olympics scandal in ’05? Guy was a werewolf who broke too many records, but he couldn’t shift, so he got away with it.” Until the twenty-two-year-old track star in perfect health had a fatal heart attack out of nowhere. To this day, conspiracy theories abounded. David wasn’t sure he was ready to assume a secret Shifter cabal randomly poisoned the guy. On the other hand, heart attacks at that age were pretty rare…
“Right, so Lund had our metabolism… It’s why he was able to leave the hospital so soon.” She shook her head. “Too bad it wasn’t enough for him.”
“He got his.”
“Yes, his downfall was almost biblical in nature. Or soap opera-ish. And that’s enough talking about him. You slept here last night.”
“Yeah.” I should prob’ly get used to these abrupt subject changes.
“And the night before, and the night before that. You didn’t have to.”
“Disagree.”
“Which is the other reason I want to get out of here. You’re hindering your own recovery by sleeping in terrible hospital chairs,” she said seriously, taking his hand in hers. “Also, you snore.”
“I do not.” Wait. Did he? He honestly had no idea. Most of his bed partners didn’t spend the night.
“David, I guarantee you snore. I noticed as much the other night at your friends’ house, and last night I thought someone had parked a cement mixer beside my bed.”
“Nope. Just me. And while my snoring hasn’t been proven—”
“It has one hundred percent been proven.”
“—you talk in your sleep. Actually, you order food in your sleep.”
“I know,” she said glumly. “Pat overheard me once and took far too much delight in it. Speaking of that devil in disguise, he’s gotten our charges safely back into the smothering arms of IPA?”
“Yeah, and everyone there has been brought up to speed. It helps that Gomph was there for the cleanup. He’s pushing a lot of stuff through that would normally take days or weeks. He came to visit us, but you were too busy ordering prime rib in your sleep to notice.”
“Ohhhhh…don’t say prime rib…” she moaned.
“And Caro Daniels gave a two-hour statement.”
“Au jus with creamy horseradish on the… She did? Wonderful! Who knew she’d be so voluble? No one,” Annette answered herself. “Which was her point, I guess. It speaks to her strength of will that she was silent for so long.” She sighed and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “I want to go and I want to eat and I want to shower and I want to sleep. In that order.”
“Sounds like a plan. Y’know, when you do that, it just sticks up more.”
“Something we have in common” was the wry reply. “Weird, yes?”
“Yes.” He reached out, tugged a white-tipped lock. “In all the best ways. So. Are you going out with me or am I getting on my knees?”
“Both of those things will happen. Just…maybe not today.”
He laughed. It was hard to remember they’d worked this case together less than a week. And that three days ago he didn’t want to enter into a relationship because he assumed he had to protect her from his pro-Stable…leanings? Whatever the word, the thought of having to protect Annette Garsea from anything was ridiculous. Not that he wouldn’t try, if things went messy.
Maybe the biggest irony was that his mother would have been delighted. He could almost hear her: She’ll keep you and yours safe, at least. Despite yourself. You must know I only ever wanted your safety.
Not that that was a factor in his decision. Or at least not a major one.
“Annette, I’ve gotta ask you something weird.”
“Ooooh. Sounds promising.”
“Do you ever hear your mom in your head?”
“Yes, but only when Mama Mac leaves me a blistering voicemail. The woman simply will not text, which… Oh. You mean do I hear dead people in my head.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “No, never, but I occasionally attend a death banquet in my sleep.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes, it’s pretty grim. And as upsetting as it likely is for you to hear your dead mother, at least your dead talk to you. Mine sit around a big dining room table—the one in my parents’ old house, which I haven’t seen since my training bra days—and stare at me while I eat. And I try to warn them away from their deaths and they keep staring and the food starts to taste like mud but I keep eating it and they keep…staring…at…me.”
“Jesus.”
“Feel better?”
“Kind of,” he admitted, ducking his head to try to hide the smile.
She reached out, took his hand. He squeezed gently, careful not to nudge the IV line. “Why are you asking, David? Are you worried you’re losing your mind?”
“Annette…”
“Daaaaaaaavid…”
“God, you’re like a therapist.”
“Thanks! Tell me more about your mother.” When he snorted, she added, “And you didn’t answer my question. Are you worried you’re losing your mind?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly I wonder why she’s the only one I hear.”
“Because she’s the one you have unfinished business with,” Annette replied promptly. “You and I haven’t been close for long—”
He snorted. “Understatement.”
“—but even so, I know about your mother’s hopes and fears and stressors, because they were important enough to you to share with me when we were in bed. But never a word about your dad. Not one thing. I don’t even know what he looked like, or what you miss about him, or what you regret about his passing. Because he’s not the one on your mind, the one haunting you.” She paused and considered. “For lack of a more psychologically accurate term.”
He just looked at her, processing.
“You don’t hear his voice because you don’t feel guilty about him. It’s her.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. And it’s not even her, you know. Despite what I said two seconds ago. It’s a way for your subconscious to poke at you until you make a breakthrough.” Pause. “Or you’re quietly going clinically insane. Or a third option that I’m too tired to think about. Hell, I’m not a therapist, even if you think I sound like one. I majored in English, for God’s sake.”
“None of that should’ve made me feel better,” he confessed, “but all of it did.”
“Excellent. And before my seventeenth nap, I wanted to remind you that I didn’t brush my teeth just to clean them,” she said, taking her hand back to flirtatiously shove a matted clump of hair out of her eyes. “Well, I did, but there’s an upside to my newly cleaned teeth.” She reached out a pale hand
(they pumped six pints of blood into her; he wouldn’t let them touch him until she stabilized)
and tugged on his shirt until he leaned forward and kissed her. He’d meant to go for a chaste “looking forward to dating and intimate relations sometime in the future at a time and place of your choosing” peck, but she wasn’t having any of that (thank God). Her mouth bloomed beneath his and she tu
gged him closer and her fingers were touching him everywhere she could reach and it was outstanding, so much so that he was amazed how such a simple act should be devastating in the best—
“Ouch!”
“Sorry! I’m so sorry. Here, just… There you go.”
And it was fine and better than fine, and he drew her closer to him and oh, it was intoxicating, she was the predator he was and perhaps even the greater danger, which…
“Shoulder!”
“Sorry.”
Was equal parts arousing and frightening and she smelled like everything good in the world, like plums and cotton and betadine and plastic tubing…
“IV! IV!”
“Wait… There, I got the kink out.”
And he slipped a hand under her hospital gown, gently feeling his way up, fingertips skating past bandages and stitches and
“Ow!”
“Sorry! I’m so sorry. Let me just—”
“Enough,” she gasped, and gently pushed him away. “To be continued when we won’t hurt and/or accidentally strangle each other.”
“Good call.” They both looked; Sharon had come into the room, and they’d been so tangled in each other (heh) neither of them had noticed. “I’m serious. You wouldn’t believe what some patients get up to, and in worse state than you two are.”
“Tell us over lunch. I’d love to be regaled. Can we get prime rib? Gimme.”
“You really shouldn’t go home today.” Sharon gave her a kind-yet-thorough once-over as she handed Annette the werecub. “Multiple GSWs and internal bleeding, for heaven’s sake.”
“One was just a graze, though,” David pointed out with a grin.
“Yeah, not buying it.” And then, to Annette: “Thank you for what you did. Tilly came down to see you when you were admitted, but you were a bit out of it.”
“A bit out of it? Is that a medical term?” Annette teased, cuddling the Spencer cub, who was fat and bright-eyed and warm and smelled like milk and pureed chicken. “I don’t remember. That was nice of her.”
“How are you feeling, David?”
“Not shot, so no complaints. Annette took all the bullets, which was emasculating but also awesome. And in case you were wondering, giving us Brennan’s business card along with confidential patient files worked out pretty well for people who weren’t named Brennan.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Sharon smiled, flashing her rogue dimple. “We hoped you’d do something. We didn’t know what.”
“That’s okay,” David said. “We didn’t know, either. We’ve basically ad-libbed the last four days.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised to hear that. Anyway, we didn’t expect…whatever it was that you did. So thanks again. For whatever it was that you did. Which everyone’s talking about, but not officially.”
Some of the details were never going to be made public, not least because at least one IPA staff member had been in the syndicate. Annette’s boss, her boss’s boss, Judge Gomph (now in need of a new court clerk), and a number of others were heavily invested in damage control, and as a result, the rumor mill had cranked up almost immediately and likely wouldn’t stop anytime soon. And as David had foreseen, though their bosses were determined to get to the bottom of all the awful, remaining hidden from the Stable world was still a top priority and would color every aspect of the investigation.
And that wasn’t even considering the fact that, somehow, Stables had helped Shifters build their very own secret hospital wing, all without exposing their secrets. Were there more than one such hospital? Was it national? Were those Stables their own secret group? Were they formal allies that, somehow, no one knew about? How many? For how long? She needed to dig, and David’s assistance would be invaluable. She suspected he would be able to show her a hidden world of Stable allies. Why else would he be so keen on their species finally coming forward?
“This one’s getting fostered out today,” Sharon added, indicting the cub, who was sucking on one of the ties of Annette’s hospital gown and making little rumbling sounds of contentment. “We would have been scared to discharge him a few days ago. Tilly and I thought you should know.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “And thank Dr. Tilbury for taking the time to visit.”
“I will. I need to get back to the ward; my break’s almost up. And then you guys can get back to your incredibly ill-advised make-out session.”
“It was ill-advised,” Annette admitted.
David laughed. “I think the operative word is ‘incredible.’”
“You’re both deeply nuts,” Sharon said, and pried the cub away from Annette. “But it appears to be working for you. So long as you discount the whole ‘ending up in the hospital’ aspect.”
“Could you do me a quick favor?” she asked. “Would you peek in the fridge for me?”
“Sure.” Sharon slung the cub over one shoulder, crossed the room, knelt, and opened the small half-fridge beside the window. “Huh. It’s all takeout containers.” They could hear Sharon rummaging, and then she was reading aloud. “Potstickers from Big Bowl, spicy peanut noodles from same, here’s a turkey wrap, and…let’s see, there’s also burrata cheese from Cossetta’s, some macaroons, and half of a French Silk pie. Jeez.”
“And the contents are written on the containers in loopy, girlie cursive handwriting?”
“Yep.”
Oz, you sneaky devil. “Thanks, Sharon.”
“Should’ve had lunch up here. Cripes, look at all this.” She shook her head and began patting the cub on the back. “Try not to tear each other’s stitches, nutjobs.” Exit Sharon.
“Aw, what does she know?” David asked, settling back into the uncomfortable chair.
“She was a psychiatric nurse for ten years before she switched to peds.”
“Oh. So, an educated opinion.”
“One we should take seriously.”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to kiss me again now.”
“Of course.”
“And we’re going out. To put the rumors to rest at the very least.”
“I’m in,” David replied. “Who knows? We might end up enjoying each other’s company.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Chapter 37
“Dear God. Mama Mac has learned to, as you would put it, text like a motherfucker.” Annette’s phone had come back to life like a tiny Frankenstein’s monster, buzzing and shaking in her hand. “And I have a text from…Jenn? Of Jim and Jenn Griffith?”
“They might’ve heard we got hurt.”
“Might have, huh?” Annette was scrolling through a river of texts. “Did they also ‘might have’ my phone number from an old friend?”
“Don’t know anything about that,” David replied. “Nope. Also you might be invited to Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t. Mama Mac’s vengeance would be immense and far-reaching. I was hoping you’d come to our Thanksgiving, provided we can still stand each other come November.”
“That’s the spirit. And did I mention that Jim is the range chef for Loon River? He can spatchcock a turkey like a motherfucker.”
“On the other hand, it’s smart to cultivate goodwill with Stable allies.” Annette kept scrolling past the minutia, pausing now and again to fire off a quick retort. “Thanks for bringing a charger, by the way. Though I did enjoy the screen vacation. Maybe I should get shot every few months or so.”
“Sure. Way easier than just shutting off your phone, right?”
“Is that you being subtle? Because that wasn’t s—left, left, left! What’s that noise?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard something, David. Coming from the driver’s side. Where you are currently perched. As you drive us.”
“I’m not grinding my teeth,” he growled, “if that’s what you’re wondering.
”
“You did that before, too. Do you do that every time you drive?”
“Not every time.”
Annette chortled as she raided the car’s ashtray for another handful of Skittles. “You should mix it up a little. Less red. More everything else.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” David pulled into her driveway, parked, shut the car off, unbuckled his seat belt. “Sit right there. I’m coming around to help you.”
“David, you’re the one with the limp. If anyone is helping anyone, it’s bound to be the other way around.”
“What did I say?” David cried as he speed-hobbled around the car, getting to Annette just in time for her to stand and close the passenger door. They reached for each other, but Annette was a bit faster as she slung an arm around his waist and started tugging him toward the front door. Her home had never looked so good, and that included the time that Pat had it painted “Homage Eggplant,” as he dubbed it, after one of Mama Mac’s visits.
It didn’t feel like she’d only been gone a few days. It felt longer, like the house should have looked run-down and abandoned, with peeling paint, weeds in the driveway, broken windows, and an abandoned mailbox.
She fumbled with her keys, dropped them twice…
“Wanna shift? Then tear it down with claws and teeth? I’ll help.”
“Good God, no. Is that really your go-to if you don’t get a door unlocked in twenty seconds?”
“Not…all the time.”
…and finally got the front door unlocked. They shuffled their way past the foyer and living room, Annette dumping David onto one of the kitchen stools as she went to the fridge for an ice-cold bottle of water. Midchug, she waved another bottle at David.
“Yeah, thanks. That’d be great.”
“Ahhhhhh!” Another swallow, then she slid a bottle down the counter to him. “Remember, Dr. Tilbury said we have to push fluids.”
“It was an hour ago, Annette. I remember. And she said you have to push fluids.”
Bears Behaving Badly Page 27
