by Tina Gower
“Stop what?” I sit straight. “You can’t even say it. How am I supposed to understand what’s happening? I have no idea if you want it.”
He shakes his head. Resisting. Eyes closed again. His chest flushes red.
“It’s natural, right? These urges.” It becomes important that he admit it to me first. That he explain it in his own words. I don’t want this and I do. I want the conditions. The rules as to how this is supposed to play out.
“Urges? I’ve never felt anything like this before.” His eyelids open a fraction, he watches my mouth, closes them again. The look on his face is same one he had right before he had his first hamburger after being vegetarian for so long.
“It’s only physical, right?”
He doesn’t answer, he presses his forehead to mine. Still battling with some decision in his mind.
“Is this temporary? The book said—”
“The book?” His eyes snap open, he frowns.
All the blood drains from my extremities. Becker’s hand that was grazing my side and flirting with my breast grasps my arm.
“Book?” he asks again with a little shake to get my attention.
I blink, unable to come up with a lie. Becker would see right through it anyway. I motion to the nightstand where the book has fallen. He releases me to reach between the space. When his fingers make contact with the book, his brows knit and he holds it out.
The paper cover is worn around the seams. The corners are smashed from being carried around in my bag. There is a small tear at the spine and Becker hooks his index finger into the imperfection and rips the paper off. There’s a strip exposing the part of the title, but it’s enough. Lone Wolf.
Becker inspects it with a what-in-the-fuck face. He flips through a few pages. Reading a few that I’ve marked with sticky notes, his expression a bland, bleak mask. He points to the cover. “This is bullshit.”
“It’s not accurate?”
He shakes his head and sets it on the nightstand. “How the fuck would I know? I’ve never read it.” He rubs his eyes, his palms rest over his cheeks, fingers curled into his hairline. He lets out one long breath from his nostrils.
“Ian?”
He doesn’t respond.
I lick my lips. “Becker?”
He shifts, leaning back against his hands on the edge of the bed. He keeps his gaze straight ahead. His eyes still glowing embers.
“Becker, I didn’t know what to do and I had questions.”
“Questions that you didn’t think I could answer?”
“It’s not that. I was unsure you’d want to get personal. I—”
He slams his fist into the mattress. “Too the fuck bad there isn’t a ‘how to figure out a human’ book, because I could use one right now.” He finally turns to me. “Maybe then I could pretend to be an expert on you.”
His words hit right in the chest. My heart skips a beat from the impact. “I’m not an expert. I had no intention…I was just—”
“You were what?” He fishes for the book and when he’s got a hold of it he flips through the pages again, skimming. For Becker, reading in the dark isn’t a problem. His night vision would kick in, making the passages clear as day. My cheeks burn as he chooses a red-sticky-noted page. That was the color I chose for the passages that detailed sex drive. He clears his throat. “I should go. I should really, really go.”
My stomach falls. Maybe he’s disgusted that he almost gave in to his urges, that he didn’t have any real attraction to me beyond physical. It would ease that part of him that needed it for this stage of his transition to being in a pack again. This moment was conditional. He’d been under the influence of some strong werewolf hormones. Now he was thinking clearly.
“That’s not necessary. Maybe I can go over to Ali’s—”
“And tell her what? That I kicked you out of your own home? That’s not going to raise any suspicions.” He stands and paces the room, picking up any belongings of his he sees and tossing them into his open bag.
“Maybe we should tell her. Maybe she’ll know what’s happening. What’s going on.”
“No. I don’t want anyone else involved. I’ll figure it out.” He shoves the Lone Wolf book into his bag and zips it closed. He opens my bedroom window and waits for a second, taking in the surroundings. Shirtless, shoeless, he steps out onto the faux balcony and proceeds to climb down the apartment trellis.
I scramble to the window. “What are you doing?”
He glares up at me like a very pissed off anti-Romeo. “Lock the window, damn it.”
“Where are you going? I thought I was in danger?”
He murmurs something I don’t catch.
“What?!” I whisper-yell.
“I said,” he hisses, then shakes his head. “Never mind.” And he pops off into the bushes and slinks around the corner.
I roll the window closed, tempted to not lock it, just to spite him. But common sense prevails. I’m mad, not stupid. I stomp over to my bed, throw the comforter over me and stare at the ceiling. Can’t sleep. Won’t sleep. Fuck that damn werewolf.
Hours go by, but actually it’s about ten minutes, when there’s a knock at the door. Three quick taps. Becker’s secret knock. I shoot from my bed and throw the door open. “Thank gods, you stupid animal. Get back in bed and we can talk about this like adults.”
I’m mid-rant before it registers that it’s not Becker at the door. Lipski smiles and waves. “Hey, Ms. Hale. I’m here as your guard for the rest of the evening. I can see you’ve had an interesting night. Trouble in paradise?”
I let out a long sigh and slam the door. Lock it. And sulk back to the couch and fire up my laptop. Might as well get some work done.
Chapter 12
The morning morphs into afternoon that sneaks into evening. I spend the entire day on the Match Message boards eating crap-for-me snacks and promising myself a shower that never happens.
If anyone had told me most of my sleuthing would take place in my pajamas surrounded by a pile of peanut butter cup wrappers and an unidentifiable smell, I would have looked into other careers. What happened to the organized, clean, efficient Kate Hale? I’d like to know her whereabouts, so she can come clean this mess.
I manage to stay alive, thanks to the vast quantities of leftover lasagna. Although Becker put a huge dent in it the night before, there’s enough for my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I supplement chocolate for any calorie deficit, real or imagined.
I skim through another discussion about the best way to approach your destined match once found. Each person shares their meet-cute kinda bordering stalker but-hey-it-all-worked-out-when-I-explained-we-were-destined stories.
So far there are three major posters who retell their stories and offer advice. PepperFindingHerSalt, HalfHeart, and Potato. PepperFindingHerSalt should write a book; her posts are engrossing and I’m a bumbling mess by the end of each of her stories. HalfHeart re-tells horror match stories from other posters, to the point I wouldn’t trust him with a story about my latest hangnail. The guy is a gossip. Potato has a sense of humor. I sort of wonder if s/he’s there for the laughs. Reminds me of the troll currently guarding my door.
After a while, four hours exactly, the posts all melted into the same story, sort of like how crayons in the sun become a big blobby mess. I crumble another foil wrapper into a ball and attempt to see how many it will take to sculpt a snowman. The rims of my eyelids burn with lack of sleep. Becker’s absence has officially driven me crazy.
The hardest part about Becker leaving without any further discussion is that I didn’t have a chance to work out my conflicting feelings. Maybe if I knew where Becker stood in all this I’d move on a heck of a lot faster. If there was no real affection or romantic feelings, then I’d lick my wounds and be done with it. If he was attracted to me, attracted in more than just a werewolf impulse-fuck-anything-that-moves kind of way, then we’d deal with that and what that would mean for our work relationship moving forward.
What I couldn’t deal with was the unknowing, the unpredictability of what he would do with this mess of emotions he obviously didn’t know what to do with.
And the guilt that gnawed at my gut over reading about werewolves, like he was some secret fetish. He wasn’t, but it must have looked like that to Becker.
The three-knock password interrupts my pretend work session. “Yeah, what?” I yell through the crack in the living room window, breathing in some fresh air. Gods, the smell is annoying. I can’t seem to find its source. It’s like a mix of coffee grounds, body odor, and ammonia.
Lipski’s face appears through the screen. My apartment, being on the end of the block wraps around the front walkway. Giving me a clear shot from the window above my couch of the stairwell and anyone who lurks outside my door.
He glances at my pajamas and chocolate stains and throws me a pitying look. “My wife called. I’m going to split a little early. Don’t tattle to your boyfriend.”
“Whatever, Lipski. I’m not going anywhere. There are three other cops circling the complex. You can knock on the door next to mine and get my cousin to come over.”
“So we’ll have two unprotected, helpless civilians. Come on, Hale, you’re a statistician. How exactly does increasing your odds of attack help you?”
I slam my computer shut. “She’s a druid and a witch.”
“Well, shit, why didn’t you say so? I’d have gone home a lot sooner.” Can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.
I hear him knock on Ali’s door, then the clunk and release of the lock and door. “Well, hello, sexy.” My cousin greets Lipski with her sultry purr. She calls it her man-ho catcher voice. “You’re a major improvement to Ian. Much more muscle.”
I cover my face, shaking my head. I twist around and pull back the blinds. “He’s married, Ali.”
She glares at him. “Whatever, Oni.” And shoves him hard in the chest, moving past him to my door. “You can go now.”
“Gremlin and troll, actually.”
Ali rolls her eyes. “Same difference.”
Lipski laughs with one short grunt. “I have no idea why Beck is so keen on you both.” He turns to me. “Well, mostly you.”
Ali ignores Lipski’s taunts, already dismissing him in favor of what I hope is something fattening and bad for us. As soon as she’s inside my apartment, Ali sets out bowls and ingredients with military precision.
“Later, Lipski.” I half wave. “Sorry Becker abandoned his post and made you miss what was probably a well-earned day off with your wife.” I cross my arms, nose in the air. I hope he gives Becker seven hells of endless teasing. I hope Becker burns in one of those seven hells and his balls freeze off in another. And only because the internet has rotted my brain out of thinking of a more creative punishment.
“Abandoned?” Lipski quirks one eyebrow up and flicks his gaze out into the parking lot. He recovers just as quickly, but it’s enough for me to realize. Becker you little…
My veins fill with fire that I didn’t realize I’d been pouring gasoline on all day. It erupts into a full-out explosion. He made me believe it was insulting—and probing—for researching werewolves. I wanted to know what I’d gotten myself into. What was wrong with that? And now he was punishing me for wanting to educate myself. To know what to expect. To prevent unforeseeable problems. And while I’m stewing he’s monitoring my guilt from a distance?
Maybe it’s the way he left without letting me explain. Maybe it’s the stress from keeping our secret and stressing that HR would find out. Maybe it’s that god-awful stench. It’s like someone spilled their mocha on a homeless person and then used a cheap public school-grade window wash to dab it clean.
I sprint down the steps toward the direction he looked. “Becker! Becker! Get your coward ass back over here and talk to me face-to-face. You had no right leaving like that—” Lipski clotheslines my stomach with his arm and swings me over the railing. I claw at his chest. “Let me go. Let go of me!” I struggle to wiggle out of his hold.
Lipski growls harshly in my ear. “He can’t hear me. Quiet for a minute.”
I stop screaming but remain tense, waiting for an opportunity to free myself and find Becker to give him those hells I’d promised earlier.
Lipski waits for me to settle. “This accomplishes nothing.” His voice is low, like sandpaper against rock. Just like when we spoke in the precinct. It must be how he camouflages it from Becker. “All it does is work him up even more. Last thing we need is a pissed off, emotionally unstable wolf wrecking this parking lot.”
“He’s already pissed off.” I leave out the emotionally unstable part. Becker has been stable since he’s been sleeping with me. He’d not done the glowing thing until recently, but I wanted Lipski to believe the instability was due to him being a lone wolf even though he’s technically not anymore. We couldn’t afford that secret out.
Lipski loosens his grip. “Oh, believe me, Hale, you’ve not seen Beck at his worst, but you’re encroaching into some hazy territory here. Just give him a few hours to realize he’s being an ass. Trust me. Ian never leaves loose ends. He’ll apologize.”
“How do you know it was his fault?” My guilt slinks back in—it’s not all on Becker. At least he had the excuse of pheromones or hormones. Becker might have shoved the train off the rails, but I was driving straight for the mountainside.
“Oh please, it’s always the guy’s fault.” Lipski uses his normal voice and eases away from me and I realize my fight is gone. “I’d never admit otherwise in front of a woman.”
I think he might laugh as though that’s some kind of joke, but he remains serious. He checks his phone. “I should get going. Call me if there’s anything.” He waits for my attention. “Anything.”
I nod, not really sure what kind of Hallmark commercial just happened here and slowly go back up the stairs. He watches me until I’m in my apartment. I lock the door.
Ali whips something white and creamy. She points with her thumb, which is covered in cream, into the bowl. “Divinity.” She motions at my yoga pants and tank top. “Go take a shower, Kate.”
I hang my head and go to the shower, painfully aware of the stench that followed me outside. That unidentifiable smell must have been me.
Chapter 13
At midnight I wake up expecting Becker to be at my side, but he’s not. Instead it’s Ali, who’s passed out with a plate of divinity and crumbs all around us like fallen soldiers. I almost wake her up and make her leave. There’s no way Becker will come back if she’s here, but then a rush of anger replaces that worry. Let him stew for a few more hours. Why am I letting my life revolve around his comfort?
I drag my feet into the living room where my computer has refused to go into sleep mode. Must have frozen on a screen. I re-read PepperFindingHerSalt’s latest recounting of the first date of her ForeverMatch. PepperFindingHerSalt. Pepper. Pepper.
I flip through all the notes looking for that name. It’s familiar. I’ve heard it in reference to the case. Ah, here. Pepper Amore. Ginger, Timothy’s wife’s sister. How many Peppers could there be in the area who’ve used Ever After in the last three years? It’s not a common name. Pepper the programmer. The straight A student.
I tap my finger to my chin.
Every post is praising Ever After. Every. Post. Yet Mia said the sister was angry about Ginger’s situation—the possibly inaccurate match that led to Ginger and Timothy’s divorce.
Becker sent me her profile, so I pull the email and read. Pepper works for Hickman’s Software and Hardware Solutions. I visit the webpage. Read her bio. Lots of credentials. Lots of certificates. Love for all things nerdy. Even her math-head joke warms my heart. Security specialist.
I take a gander at their client list, which is extensive. It includes Ever After. Huh.
Okay, it’s not damning evidence. Pepper is online praising Ever After; her company has worked for Ever After. Her sister is currently involved in a lawsuit with Ever After and she’s report
edly not happy with Ever After, but it doesn’t mean she’s done anything or was a part of anything that could have led to the Ever After death matching issue.
And she’s a security specialist. She’d be ethically bound to uphold the security of her clients’ sites. Right?
Debating and checking the time, it’d be late, but not midnight late on the other coast, I dial my brother Louis.
He answers without a Hi-how-are-ya. “What the hells, Kate? I haven’t heard from you in months and you call now? The kids are in bed. Asleep. If you had any idea how long it takes to achieve that miracle—”
“Louis, I have a programming question for a case.”
He pauses his tirade, sighs. I know I’ve got him. He can’t resist geeking out talking about computers.
“You’re a security specialist for a major hardware and software company.”
“No actually I’m a game program—”
“Not actually you. We’re pretending you. Keep up.”
“What’s wrong with you? You’re not making any sense. It’s like Ali’s infested you.”
I squeeze the phone in frustration. “Shush. Answer my question.”
“What question?”
I press my thumb into the bridge of my nose. “As a security specialist do you have access to a company website after you’ve completed a contract with them?”
“Depends. There are a lot of ways to rot a security system. If I were a hacker I’d install a root kit, but the security specialist would have immediate access to whatever they’ve installed. Company policy would be to hand over the passwords to the company in question and then the client would be advised to change all passwords. But sometimes programmers will either leave a back door, or know how to get in through other means.”
“A back door?”
“Yeah, the client might call and have an issue. And oops, nobody remembers the password. It happens a lot. That’s why I hate working with corporate. Gaming is better, much better.”
