EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2017 J.J. Collins
ISBN: 978-1-77339-438-1
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Carmine Infantino
Not just a Flash in the pan
SPEED DATING
Romance on the Go ®
J.J. Collins
Copyright © 2017
Chapter One
After several years of hunting men, and things that passed for men, Dillon Royce’s instincts had been honed to razor points. He felt their warning now—watching eyes, focused on him like the sun’s rays through a magnifying glass, as if someone were judging where best to slam the knife. Or, if the body at his feet was any indication, where best to aim its claws.
He forced himself not to run his gaze over the landscape. All the shrubs, scrawny bushes, small trees, and of course the varieties of cactus, some with bright, jaunty flowers. When he thought “desert” he thought dunes and camels. Welcome to the American Southwest.
So much plant life. So thick in too many places. So many places to hide.
Stay cool. Lull the arrogant fucker into a sense of complacency. There were four cops and two Wildlife Managers out here with him. He couldn’t put their lives at risk.
Twin wheeling shadows passed over him and the victim. A pair of vultures, cheated of their breakfast. It might be their morose regard that had him on edge, but he doubted it. Turning his back on his unseen audience, he knelt beside the corpse.
Even this early in the morning, the unforgiving Arizona sun wasn’t doing the naked body any favors. Now that they’d taken their photos and swept the scene for evidence, the cops were glad enough to back off with their hands over their noses and, in two cases, slightly green faces. Dillon felt a brief twinge of sympathy for them when the smell hit his own nostrils. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. Too many times before.
The man had been killed by a shifter, Dillon had no doubts about that. Belly ripped clean open, guts spilled, but all organs present and accounted for. Bite marks on the legs, scratches from claws on the torso. The shifter had stripped his prey and chased him down. Hunted him. With no entrails eaten, it could only be for sport.
Which left the final touch all that more appalling. Dillon moved his gaze lower, between the victim’s legs. What remained of the penis had been mangled beyond recognition. By teeth, unless Dillon missed his guess. The balls were the only body part missing. He wouldn’t be surprised if at least one hardened cop had puked upon finding the body.
A larger, wingless shadow fell across him and the corpse. “Animal attack,” Detective Barrows said loudly, although his eyes proclaimed that he, like Dillon, knew better. “Think it could be the same one?”
Dillon hid his sour smile. “Almost positive. Same sitch as the other two—naked human male, remote location, probably chased for a while before he was run down and gutted. And, of course, the—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Barrows said tersely. Like the others, he kept his eyes averted from the mess between the victim’s legs. “What kind of animal are we talking here?”
“One that doesn’t like men, that’s for damn sure.” Dillon stood and readjusted his cowboy hat against the angle of the sun. “Educated guess? I’d say a dog or cat. What’s the major predator situation out here?”
“Coyotes,” one of the game rangers said. In spite of his hat, his face was ruddy with sunburn, and he was already sweating from the heat. “Maybe feral dogs. Or a puma, but they run shy of humans. Whatever it is, it’s not afraid of people. I’d say javelina, but they’re usually not so…” His eyes flicked toward the victim’s crotch, then hastily away again. “Specific.”
“Any tracks?”
The man shook his head. “Ground’s too hard.”
Dillon nodded. With his hat’s brim low and his face hidden, he scoured the surrounding land. His eye caught a flash of movement off to the right. He held still, as if lost in thought, and kept a peripheral stare on the spot, but no other action occurred.
“Who found the body?” he asked.
“We got an anonymous tip,” Barrows said. “Just after dawn. Body hasn’t had a chance to cook. He was probably killed overnight. We’ll know for sure once the coroner gets his ass out here.”
“And you called Game and Fish?”
“No.” The other ranger tentatively raised his hand. With big brown puppy eyes and brindle-black hair spilling out from under his hat, he looked about twelve years old. He seemed much more at ease out here, his skin well tanned and hardly sweating at all. “I was out on patrol and spotted the cops. Thought I’d check it out.” The way he squinched up his face at the corpse told Dillon the kid regretted that decision. “If it was an animal attack, we’d need to be called in anyway.”
“It was an animal,” Barrows said firmly. “I don’t know what else could—”
“Jaguar,” the kid broke in.
“Excuse me?” Dillon said.
“Big cat. Loves the desert.” The kid jerked his hand at the body. “A jaguar could do that to a man with no trouble.”
“It’s not a jaguar,” the other game ranger said, a bit shortly. “We haven’t had a jaguar sighting in these parts in close to a hundred years.”
“Then what about the reports? We’ve been getting calls,” the kid told Dillon and Barrows. “People saying they saw a spotted cat out here. Something’s been spooking the pronghorns. We’ve got a small herd we’re trying to encourage. They’re usually all over the place. When I drove through here this morning I didn’t see a single one.”
Dillon and Barrows exchanged a look. Barrows raised an eyebrow that said this was news to him. Dillon glanced at the corpse again. A big cat could do that, sure. They liked to go for the belly. Though no one had reported any cat sightings, spotted or otherwise, at the other two locations.
“It’s not a jaguar,” the older ranger insisted.
“Leopard, then. We’re, what, a day’s drive away from Las Vegas? Even closer to Mexico. Gamblers, businessmen, drug dealers, movie stars. People with lots of money keep weird pets. It might be a leopard. Plenty of parts of the Southwest could pass for Africa any day of the week.”
True. All of it. Especially the leopard part. Evisceration was standard leopard shifter MO. Absently, Dillon rubbed his right hip, and the four thin, long-healed scars that marked it. Too close to the vulnerable belly.
I hate the shifter cases.
He spotted movement again, this time out on the highway. The coroner had finally shown up. While Barrows oversaw the official examination and disposition of the body, Dillon drifted toward where he’d noticed the hints of action earlier. He kept one hand poised to grab for the gun hidden at the small of his back. A real animal would have slunk away at the first appearance of humans. A shifter might hang around to watch, and laugh at, the investigation. Cats were notorious for such egotism. Especially the big cats.
He reached the spot. Nothing. No cat or sign that any had been there. Dillon relaxed his hand, and sighed. Damn shifters never made anything easy.
When he turned back to the crime scene, the medical personnel were loading the body into the meat wagon. Noticing Dillon’s regard, Barrows detached from the group and strode
over to join him. “Anything?”
“Thought I saw something. Just leaves in the breeze.” Even though there was no breeze. He nodded toward the police activity. “We’re still going with animal attack?”
“It’s safer that way. Your average Joe doesn’t know what’s really out there. That includes cops. You believe it’s a shifter for sure?”
“All signs point to yes. Grown men don’t normally strip off their clothes to run naked through the desert at night, and then just happen to run into some large predator. Certainly not three in a row, in the same general area.”
“That’s pretty much what I figured. I told the men you’re a private consultant. Former cop and big-game hunter. They’ll be happy enough to let you handle this.” Barrows looked at the ground. “I’m sorry I roped you into this. But you’ve got the knowledge and the expertise. You stand a better chance of bagging this bastard than any of my men do, and a better chance of coming out alive.”
So far. Dillon rubbed his hip again.
“So now,” Barrows continued, “the question becomes, who was this poor sucker, and what was he doing in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?”
“Probably kidnapped, or lured out here for a personal hunt.” Typical MO for a predator with frustrated animal instincts coupled with a twisted human brain. I really, really hate the shifter cases.
Barrows grunted. “The second vic was reported missing the day before we found the body.” He looked up, toward where the WMs were climbing into their respective jeeps. “So far we haven’t found any connection between the first two. Let’s see if unlucky number three can shed any light on the subject.” Finally, he looked directly at Dillon. “I’ll even call Vegas, see if Siegfried and Roy reported one of their kitties missing. Who knows, we might all get lucky. Buy you breakfast?”
“Free food? You’re on.” He made a joke of it. No need to remind Barrows of what they both knew, that when shifters got involved with murder, any meal could be a hunter’s last.
Or that Dillon had never had luck with spotted cats.
The meat wagon pulled away with its grisly cargo. The game rangers followed it out to the highway. The cops moved in to comb the crime scene for any last speck of a clue. Dillon didn’t think they’d find anything. The other two sites had been cleaner than any wild animal kill. Cat shifters especially had a rep for fastidiousness. And cruelty, and no mercy.
Dillon adjusted his hat again and tailed Barrows back to the others.
Chapter Two
Between testimony, questions, statements and the usual mountains of paperwork, the promised free breakfast ended up as lunch. Barrows knew a little hole in the wall luncheonette that featured chicken fried steak and biscuits in sausage gravy—best in Bedloe, according to the menu. Barrows had the biscuits and Dillon had the steak, both washed down with above-average coffee. “I shouldn’t eat this shit,” Barrows said. “The wife says it’s bad for me.” Which didn’t prevent him from forking in a generous bite of drippy biscuit. Dillon followed suit with his steak.
“Thanks again for coming out,” Barrows said abruptly. “God’s honest truth? I didn’t think you’d still be in the game. Not after—” He downed a slug of coffee and started over. “Thought you would have quit by now. Found yourself a nice guy and settled down.”
“Can’t afford to quit. You yourself called it. People don’t know what’s out there. The motherfuckers take advantage. Somebody’s got to even the score.”
“Won’t argue there. As long as—”
“Hey,” Dillon said with a forced grin. “I’m still here, aren’t I? And a lot of killer shifters aren’t.” Shit. His hand was inching toward his hip. Barrows’s eyes tracked the movement. “I was a kid,” Dillon growled. “New to the game. I’ve got mileage now. I know what I’m doing.”
“If you say so.” Barrows pretended renewed interest in his biscuits.
Dillon turned to his steak to do the same when he got that sensation again, of something watching him. Something dangerous. Careful not to look too obvious about it, he took a peek around.
There. Not even a question. The guy was staring right at him, with a big, happy grin to beat the band. A real cutie, too. Dillon had to stomp down on the urge to stare, and grin, back at him. Instead he catalogued the guy’s features and ran his first impressions through his suspicion filter, out of force of habit.
Nice face. Brown-skinned, lean, a bit bony. A thin attempt at a moustache graced his upper lip. Black hair that looked like it had initially been cut short as spiny bristles curled over his high forehead in its quest to grow out. Hard to tell eye color at a distance, but that piercing, steadfast stare looked like it might be amber.
Instantly, Dillon went on the alert. A lot of shifter breeds tended toward yellowish eyes. Especially the cats.
He flicked a careful glance at Smiley’s plate. Double-decker burger, no fries. Lettuce and tomato picked off and set aside. A carnivore.
Dillon sliced off another bite of steak. “That guy over there,” he murmured to Barrows. “In the corner, to your left. Skinny, dark skin, scarfing down a burger. Know him?”
“The one who’s been eying you since we came in?” Barrows replied in the same low tone. “Never seen him before.” He chuckled softly. “I think he likes you.”
Dillon was getting that same vibe. Smiley had gone back to demolishing his burger, but continued to shoot significant glances Dillon’s way. His easy grin and careless posture did nothing to mitigate the sense of dangerous allure he conveyed.
Their stares collided briefly, and Dillon felt a jolt. That wasn’t an I want to kill you glower. That was a definite I want to lick every square inch of you look. The man took a huge bite of his burger, chewed deliberately and swallowed down his slender throat. His tongue washed lazily over his lower lip, lingered there, and withdrew.
Under different circumstances, Dillon might have responded. Got the guy’s name and number, maybe even left the luncheonette with him. Worked off a little on-the-job stress. He was certainly lovely to look at and clearly up for a tumble. Opportunities this good didn’t often land in Dillon’s lap. A life of hunting killers didn’t leave room for love, and it had been a long time.
But not if the potential hookup was a shifter. Especially a cat. A spotted cat.
His hip gave a twinge. Or maybe he only imagined it.
“You okay?” Barrows said. “Want me to tell him yeah, you’ll go to the dance with him?”
“Screw you.” Dillon turned his back on grinning temptation. “What’s he doing?”
“Eating his lunch and making goo-goo eyes at you. Oh shit, he just winked at me. I’m wearing a ring, bub. Pay attention.” Barrows returned to his meal. So, eventually, did Dillon. He attacked his steak in small, quick bites, and kept his hand ready to go for his gun.
“Heads up,” Barrows whispered suddenly. “He’s making a move.”
Dillon heard Smiley’s chair scrape back over the linoleum. He shot a peek over his shoulder. The possible-shifter’s plate was empty, save for the discarded veggies. He circled around so his route to the register would take him past their table.
As he neared Dillon’s seat he suddenly swerved, bumping his leg up against Dillon’s hip and thigh. The move was quick, and executed with a smooth finesse that spoke of inhuman agility. Dillon jerked away. “Hey.”
“Sorry.” His eyes said just the opposite. They bored into Dillon’s, a deep yellow, rich with desire. A sudden burst of recognition hit Dillon in the gut. Somewhere in the recent past he’d seen this man before.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Barrows said, leaning back so his thin jacket fell open and his badge showed. “And neither do you.”
“Oh.” The man frowned, but at the ring on Barrows’s left hand, not the badge. “He’s yours?”
“Nah. The wife won’t let me fool around. This cowboy’s up for grabs.”
Dillon shot him a poisonous glare. Not helping.
“Open season, eh?” A wide sm
ile transformed the man’s face into a thing of beauty. “Then I’m laying claim. He’s mine. You want to come home with me?” He rubbed up against Dillon’s chair.
He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t go for his gun. Too many civilians around. If this really was a leopard, it would lead to a bloodbath, probably starting with Barrows. He gritted his teeth and held still.
The man shrugged carelessly. “Later, then. I’ll see you around.” He strolled to the register and paid for his meal. At the door, he paused to purse his lips and blow Dillon a kiss. Two young guys in baseball caps seated at the window tittered loudly.
Fighting the distraction of the man’s delightful ass, Dillon tried to focus on his other moving parts. After that near-disaster with the leopard, following his hospital stay, he’d taken time off from the hunt to do a comprehensive study of his targets. Shifters didn’t move like regular humans. Their inner beast got in the way. Wolves prowled, bears shambled, deer minced, horses trotted. Cats stalked. As the man walked out the door and up the sidewalk, he placed each foot deliberately, all parts in perfect coordination and operating with a purpose. That tight ass swayed suggestively. Instead of an invitation, Dillon’s trained eye saw the swing of an invisible tail.
Definite shifter. Definite cat.
His body exploded off his chair and dashed for the door before his brain had a clear plan in mind. Behind him, Barrows sputtered. “Suspect!” Dillon shot over his shoulder, and was outside before Barrows could even get out of his seat.
He stared up and down the street. Foot traffic was thin in the heat of early afternoon, but those out and about all walked like human beings. No sign of the shifter. Damn, he was fast. He took off in the direction the cat had been headed, all senses alert.
Speed Dating Page 1
