by Chant, Zoe
“At five million, you can get bank people to blow you and thank you for the privilege. Any time. Give me this clown’s number. It’s time we had a face to face. I can be very persuasive, you know.”
Dennis said, “I could, but it’ll piss him off. He’s very exclusive—that’s part of our deal.”
Mindy could feel Haskell’s impatience shifting to suspicion. She got an idea, and reached out to Dennis. “Oh, darling,” she whined. “You promised to buy me a yacht!”
“I know, sweetie. And we’re going to.”
“I already picked it out!”
“You’ll be sailing to Catalina tomorrow. I promise.”
Haskell looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowing. Giving Mindy a murderous glance, he said, “So I’m taking second place, is that it?”
“No, Jerry, you got it all wrong,” Dennis said. Mindy could sense the strain in his voice. Then he turned to Mindy. “Didn’t you say you wanted to act in this picture?”
Mindy clapped her hands. “Oooh, can I? You can put a belly dancer in, can’t you? Vikings would love belly dancers!”
Haskell smiled. “You can give her as big a part as she wants if you’re an executive producer.”
Dennis ran his hand through his hair, then said, “Well, that’s a fact. I guess what I haveta do is write a personal check right here and now. Then I’ll call my guy, and, well, if he doesn’t get it through today, he can hit the street tomorrow, is all I’m sayin’.”
Haskell grinned with all his teeth, and chuckled as Dennis made a production of pulling out an expensive looking case with checks in it, and a fountain pen.
After he wrote the check and handed it over, suddenly Haskell was their best friend as he handed the check to the weedy fellow, saying, “Get that into the account.”
The guy with the laptop cast him a frightened glance and scuttled off to the back of the trailer.
Then Haskell turned his big fake smile onto Dennis and Mindy—while gently but inexorably herding them out of the trailer again. “Now, Danny, I’m going to assign you your own gofer, who will get you anything you need, and make sure you have the best seat to watch the action. And you, little lady, I want you to trot right over to Emma, and tell her from me she’s to write you in a good part. I think the two of you can work it up between you. What say?”
Mindy clapped her hands and cooed, while looking to Dennis for cues.
He nodded very slightly and flicked his eyes to the door. She interpreted that to mean, Go ahead, I’ve got this.
The thought occurred to her that they made a pretty good team, but she laughed at herself as she turned away. What did that really mean, when they both were on their first sting? It means I want to see him again, and again, and again, until something horrible happens to end it, she scolded herself. She shouldn’t fool herself into thinking it meant anything different.
She turned toward the umbrella with Emma and Kayli sitting under it, but she began mentally preparing questions for Haskell for when it was her turn to stick near the sleazeball. If he was like all the con men she’d dealt with so far, all she’d have to do is flatter him and ask him a lot of questions that would enable him to brag and lie, and she could keep him yapping all day while the real agents did whatever it was they were doing.
But try as she could to be professional and business-oriented and cool, the gigantic thing right behind her ribs reminded her inescapably that ending the sting meant saying goodbye to Dennis.
And saying goodbye to Dennis was Really. Going. To. Suck.
Chapter Nine
Dennis watched her walk away, Every step she took sharpening that gut-sinking sense of failure.
He’d ruined what he’d meant to be a last great morning fling. And it had been great, until he dropped his “subtle” question about keeping things going.
As Haskell yapped on his phone, and Hank stood arms crossed, scowling at the red-faced PAs running around under the harassed director’s last minute orders, Dennis shook his head in self-disgust.
Then there was his stupidity about the great-grandmother. Talk about being a numb-nuts. Halfway through that perfect breakfast he got this “brilliant” flash: what if the great-grandmother had been a shifter? Yeah, and what if Mindy was part of Los Angeles’s shifter community, which was so widespread nobody knew everyone else—unlike the tiny town of Sanluce—and his question would act as a hint that he was part of it too, and . . .
And?
That was when the first moment their great morning headed straight for the crapper. And it was all 100% on him. Even if she’d suddenly turned into a tiger in the middle of the bed? Not that he cared—she could be an octopus or a wasp shifter, for it was the humans who mated, not their inner animal—
‘Mate.’ There was his tiger again, front and center in the middle of his chest. Like he was going to stay there forever until Dennis manned up and admitted the truth.
This is so not the time. He grimaced, as in the background Haskell muttered, “Be here in ten minutes. I don’t give a fuck what Erik told you to do. You work for me, got it? And where the hell are they? They’re supposed to be here right now. We have to get this thing started—every minute costs a fortune, and I’m the guy with his dick hanging out.”
Erik? Dennis thought. Had to be Erik Torvaldsen. Dennis glanced outside, at the strengthening sunlight. Greg, an owl shifter, would not be tracking Torvaldsen in his owl shape, would he? Dennis was pretty sure owls only flew at night—or if they flew during daylight, they had to shut their eyes against the sun.
He kicked at his cane with the toe of his shoe, thoughts zapping back to Mindy.
And mates.
Even if by some magical convenience she turned out to be okay with the shifter world, that still left his lifestyle, her job (and how much was she losing, gallantly going along with this idiot sting anyway? He didn’t have the wherewithal to make it up to her, and he knew the department had no budget. Hell, he was working gratis, as a favor to Greg), and finally the Empty Bed Blues. He didn’t have a home in L.A. He was too restless ever to settle down in a city that took at least an hour in any direction to drive out of before one reached space in which one could breathe.
His phone vibrated. Dennis flicked glances at Haskell and Hank. The latter still stood with his back to the trailer, and Haskell had gone to the other end of the trailer, and judging by the number of fucks heating the air, he was reaming some poor bastard.
Dennis pulled out his own phone, muttering voicelessly, “Oh, shit,” when he saw Agent Sloane’s ID on the text message: Greg made. Attacked. Call?
Dennis glanced at the other two again, his thumbs working. Not safe. Now he wished he’d agreed to earbuds, though he found them hellishly distracting to his sensitive ears. Greg OK?
If he makes it through the next hour, will recover, doc says. At least he changed before he dropped unconscious.
Are owls blind in day?
No. But they lid their eyes to block sun. Raptor strike from above. His flight a vector on the studio, not your location. Know why?
H. expecting them right now. Studio closed Sundays?
Dennis stopped typing, and from the lack of response, he suspected that the same thought hit them both at the same time: if no one was at the studio, it would be a perfect time to go there for . . . what?
The cursor beat for two seconds, then Sloane’s curt On my way to studio appeared just as Haskell turned around.
Dennis slid his phone into his pocket, and forced a grin. “Payton can’t stop sending selfies.”
Haskell’s toothy, humorless grin flashed, but he clearly had zero interest in Payton. “Well, it’s time to give Michael the go-ahead, though it seems my other executive guests are stuck in traffic. We’re paying by the hour here—the animals alone could break the bank if we don’t get those cameras going.”
And he plunged down the steps, gesturing at waiting assistants.
Dennis stood at the top step of the trailer, his mind racing. Torval
dsen and his minions were shady and scary, from everything Dennis had heard. Dennis had not looked forward to playing Dan Moore in front of a bunch of international criminals, if they really were part of the picture’s backers. Only where were the other investors?
And why would Torvaldsen be going to the studio, clearly against Haskell’s wishes, when Haskell was the boss? Dennis caught sight of Haskell’s furious face, and cold trickled down his spine.
Haskell’s being screwed.
The idea became conviction—and either Haskell himself was beginning to realize it, or he soon would, but right now he had fifty thousand dollars an hour’s worth of talent, equipment, and subsidiaries milling around as the clock ticked forty minutes past the time they should have begun.
Meanwhile, Agent Sloan was heading straight for what might be a confrontation—alone. There were no more agents, except for Amanda, back at the office in charge of the tech, and a couple of backup people somewhere in the crowd here, who took orders from Sloane. They were there to pull Dennis and Mindy out only if things went south because their covers would be blown.
Dennis had no idea who they were, or how to reach them. Nor would he know what to do if he did.
He was used to acting alone.
So act.
He looked around. Caught sight of Mindy on the other side of a crowd of camera and sound crew moving into position. She was somewhere over in the direction of the screenwriter, safely out of sight of Haskell or Hank. And safely out of his sight. He needed to cause a distraction, fast, and there was only one way to do it.
He turned the other way, seeing the wranglers holding skittish horses as spectators pressed against the police tape barrier.
He ran down the trailer steps and slipped behind Hank, who loomed behind Haskell. Dennis looked both ways, and in a second, and spotted a rolling dumpster set up near the flimsy pavilion set up to keep the sun off the catering tables. No one was around, so Dennis slipped between the dumpster and the canvas wall of the tent, and stripped out of clothes and shoes.
He rolled them up with his wallet and watch, wedged them under the dumpster, and shifted. He crouched there, uncomfortably jammed between the canvas and the dumpster as his head adjusted to the slam of heightened vision and smell. He sniffed the wind. There was Haskell, his sweat sour with anger and spiking fear.
Yes, Dennis thought, as a growl began deep in his chest. Time to give you something else to think about.
And he padded out.
The first people who saw him stood stock still, faces pale as paper, mouths and eyes round. He showed his teeth, and laughed as the crowd recoiled about ten feet as if hit by a tsunami, the ones in front falling over some of those in back. The laugh came out as a roar.
“Hey, quit shoving!”
“There’s a tiger on the loose!”
“No fucking way!”
AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHUUUUUGGGGHHHH!”
He began to run, dodging in and around people, plunging horses, wranglers. Vikings and gangsters flung fake weapons as they scrambled to get away. To help things along, Dennis flexed his claws and swiped at a couple of tent supports that would not harm anyone, but in collapsing would cause a maximum of noise and confusion.
As he ran, chaos boiling in front of and around him, he swept the area for Mindy’s red dress. But he didn’t see her. Nor did he smell her—though would she smell as wonderful to his tiger?
He spotted Haskell surrounded by screaming people, laughed—an even louder roar—and raced around the trailers, running low as he made his way back to his hideout.
Now to shift back, dress, get to his car, and race over the hill to Sloane’s aid, where the real action was. Mindy would be safe here.
* * *
Everything had changed when Mindy got close enough to Emma and Kayli to hear the quiet sound of sobbing. Kayli was shielding Emma the best she could, but Emma had crossed her arms over her chest, knuckles pressed against her mouth.
Mindy slowed as Kayli looked around warily. Catching Mindy’s eye, she shook her head. Then seemed to change her mind, and bent to whisper something to Emma, who didn’t move.
Kayli came to Mindy, looking like a scared teenager. “It’s like they’ve all gone bonkers,” she said. “I don’t mean to say anything, because I know your boyfriend is going to become another producer, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” Mindy said, dropping Payton’s brassy tones. “What happened?”
Kayli shook her head. “This whole sequence—it wasn’t even supposed to be in the screenplay. But Mr. Haskell insisted. And he keeps telling her to add all this wild stuff to the second half—without reading any of the pages she’s already written. Like, the Vikings are now supposed to attack the Griffith Park Observatory, and take it over. Why? How would they even know about it?” Kayli spread her hands out, then her lips tightened. Mindy turned her head, and saw Hank and Haskell in a big crowd, as Kayli said in a lower voice, “And some people have turned into total assholes.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Mindy said, just to get away and leave the poor girls alone. The idea of playing Payton pestering Emma to write a part into the screenplay made her sick.
She turned around, then stopped when she caught sight of Dennis’s back a heartbeat before he rounded the trailer and vanished. She began to run a few steps, then slowed. She could always text him, if something was going on, but shouldn’t she stick by Haskell if Dennis had to be somewhere else?
They had agreed on their job, so Mindy grimly made herself walk toward Haskell. A few more steps brought his voice clearer. He was cussing a blue streak, and ordering Hank to keep everyone out of his fucking way. He had fucking calls to fucking make.
Mindy stopped where she was, and looked around for Dennis. Gone. Well, if a woman in lipstick red couldn’t listen to Haskell, maybe a dog could.
And there was the underside of the trailer, just the right size.
She backed up, backed up, backed up, watching in all directions. No one paid the least attention to a poodle-haired woman in Marilyn Monroe red.
She crouched down, rolled under the trailer, and in twenty seconds flat had wriggled out of her stuff. Another twenty seconds to roll it up and stash it in her purse, then she pressed her hands to her chest . . .
And her eyesight dimmed, but the world of smells lit up in all its fascinating complexity. She caught a faint whiff of Dennis, but it was dissipating fast, overpowered by the smell of angry, fearful horses and panicking humans.
She trotted out, homing on Haskell’s smell. His sweat stank of rage as he ran up into his trailer. He was cussing someone out, raving about traffic, and being late, and where exactly are you?
She was creeping past the one called Hank, who smelled of threat, when his phone rang. Mindy was only looking at him to make sure he didn’t see her, and she didn’t mean to listen, but her sharp hearing heard the voice on the other end: “Where’s Haskell?”
“In a panic.”
“The boss says to leave his ass to stew. We’ve got everything. Meet us at the house.”
“Roger that—shit!”
“What?”
“There’s a fucking tiger on the loose.”
“A what? Never mind. Torvaldsen says to get the fuck out of there. Let Haskell deal with that shitstorm. He’s history.”
Mindy’s brain raced. They’d had it all wrong! Haskell was not the boss. Further, it sounded like this creepy Hank was not Haskell’s protection, but someone else’s hireling. There to watch Haskell?
Mindy turned her head as Hank backed away, fumbling inside his coat pocket. He pulled out the pistol, and someone screamed, “He’s got a gun!”
At once ten—twenty—fifty people looked at Hank, who quickly shoved the gun back into his holster and held up his hands. And then everybody began screaming when a huge, glorious beast flowed in tawny, striped prowling grace past.
Oh, what a beautiful, graceful, powerful creature! Mindy trembled all over, unable to move as pure yearning possessed her.
Danger! Her rational brain underneath the dog demanded precedence and she pressed her belly flat to the ground beside the trailer steps as she tracked the giant cat, who vanished around one of the far trailers.
Mindy trotted out, sniffing—trying to catch the tiger’s scent, which seemed so familiar—
Hank caught sight of her, and snarled, “Where did you come from, you fucking mutt?” He kicked viciously at her.
She scrambled away, streaked around the side of the trailer, and dove under. She shifted back, and still trembling all over, pulled out her dress and shoes.
It took her almost a minute to get back into them. When she crawled out, she looked for Dennis. Still gone. She tried to call him, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely handle her phone. No answer. Haskell—
Did he matter anymore? All her instincts urged her to follow Hank, who was still visible as he dodged past panicking people. Styrofoam cups flew everywhere and people stampeded. A couple of horses galloped by, being chased by wranglers.
Mindy ran past them all, slowing only when she spotted Hank moving between cars on the street directly below where her car was parked.
He clicked, and the lights flickered on a black Mercedes with tinted windows. She whirled and began running for her car.
“Mindy?”
“Dennis!” She slowed to a fast walk. “Where were you?” And, not waiting for an answer, “I saw you gone, so I went to stick to Haskell, but I heard Hank—” She gave him a fast, succinct report of what she’d heard. “So I thought I’d better follow him.”
They reached her car right then, and she unlocked it.
“Mine is faster,” Dennis said.
“Actually, it’s not, because mine has been modified,” she said quickly. “And yours is farther away. But maybe two of us should follow him?”
Dennis looked both ways so uncertainly that she spoke the words before her mind could stop her: “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
