Trained to Protect

by Lynn Hagen

  While still seated, Dillon rolled his chair over to Vince’s desk. “First he’s all cuddled up in your truck, and now you’ve brought him for a job interview? What gives?”

  Vince scowled at his best friend and partner. “Can’t a guy just be nice?”

  “Sure.” Dillon nodded. “But you’re going above and beyond.”

  Vince hesitated, his gaze wandering back to Maltese. He didn’t want to tell anyone that the little demon was his until he’d told Maltese, but Vince still hadn’t found the right moment. Maltese still wasn’t receptive to him, not enough that Vince couldn’t be sure his mate wouldn’t call him a liar and walk out of his life.

  He had to handle this situation delicately. “I thought Pat was the gossip around here.”

  “Fine, keep your secrets.” Dillon rolled himself back to his desk.

  Sheriff Werth looked like a giant sitting behind his desk compared to Maltese’s small frame seated in front of it. His boss was speaking, and Maltese was nodding like his head was on a loaded spring, bobbing up and down at a slow pace.

  Werth glanced Vince’s way before he gave his attention back to Maltese. His mate’s shoulders sagged as he got up and shook Werth’s hand and then exited the office. Vince’s stomach dropped. From the expression on Maltese’s face, he hadn’t gotten the job.

  “I’ll be back. Cover for me,” he said to Dillon as he made his way to the front door. Maltese was making a beeline for it, and Vince wanted to catch up to him before his mate escaped.

  “Maltese, wait.” Vince caught up to him outside on the front walkway.

  Maltese stopped and spun, glaring at him. “Thanks a lot!”

  Vince held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Look, I’m sorry you didn’t get the job, but I’m sure someone else in town is hiring. After I get off duty, we can go around town putting in job applications.”

  Maltese paced the sidewalk in front of the station, his hands tucked behind his back. “Is that what…” He shook his head and kept manically pacing. He looked like a wind-up toy as he walked a few feet, turned, walked a few feet, and then turned. Vince was getting dizzy just watching him.

  “Talk to me.” Vince stepped in front of Maltese, making his mate come to a hard stop.

  “I got the damn job.” Maltese ground his teeth. “The sheriff gave me a trial basis to see how I do.”

  Vince’s brows shot up as he grinned. “Then what are you so upset about?”

  “What am I upset about?” Maltese squawked. He tugged at his collar as though his T-shirt had become too tight. Vince noticed beads of sweat over his mate’s brow. “It’s a legitimate job. I’ve never punched a clock before. I don’t have any clothes except what’s on my back. My social skills suck.” He glanced up at Vince. “And whether you know it or not, I’m not the brightest crayon in the box.”

  Vince placed his hands on Maltese’s shoulders. “Stop, okay? You’ll do just fine. Clearly the sheriff thought so, too. And as far as clothes, I can help you with that.”

  Relief flooded Maltese’s eyes, and then they filled with stubbornness. “You’ve already helped me enough. I can’t ask you to spend your hard-earned paycheck on me.”

  “You’re not asking,” Vince pointed out. “I’m offering. This is a great opportunity for you, and I won’t let you pass it up because you’re too proud to let me help.”

  Vince had yet to drop his hands, and Maltese hadn’t backed away. He wanted to pull his mate into his arms, wanted to hug him closely and inhale his warm fragrance, the scent of butterscotch filling his lungs. He stopped himself from pulling Maltese into his arms on the simple fact that Maltese had finally calmed down and he didn’t want the little demon accusing him of wanting sex in exchange for his help.

  “Okay, but I’m paying you back every cent you spend on me.”

  Vince wasn’t going to take Maltese’s money, but he nodded to avoid an argument. “Let’s go get you some clothes for your new job.” He grinned. “I’m proud of you, Maltese.”

  Something moved behind his mate’s eyes that appeared so dark they almost looked black, and before Maltese looked away, Vince could have sworn he saw unshed tears in them.

  “Aren’t you going to get into trouble for leaving work?” Maltese turned his back to Vince and cleared his throat.

  “Dillon is covering for me.” He took Maltese’s hand, uncaring if his mate thought holding his hand was odd, and led him to his cruiser. They got in, and Vince drove them to the local clothing store.

  “I was thinking more on the lines of Goodwill,” Maltese said when Vince parked. “I can’t afford this place.”

  Fine Threads was a fancy clothing store, but Maltese deserved to be splurged on. For getting the job, Vince planned on taking him to The Lucky Clover later for a celebration dinner. He just decided to keep those plans to himself for now.

  Vince gave Jean-Luc a nod as they entered. The owner moved swiftly from behind the counter and approached. “Is there anything I can help you gentlemen with?”

  Maltese took a step back, his gaze sweeping toward the exit. “We’re just here to…uh…I’m not gonna steal anything.”

  Jean-Luc grinned. “I didn’t think you would.” The owner gave Vince a quick glance, and Vince heard the unspoken words of “Not with a cop at your side.”

  “We’re browsing, but I’ll let you know if we require assistance,” Vince said.

  “I’ll be behind the counter if you need me.” Jean-Luc walked away.

  “I don’t do good with fancy,” Maltese whispered. “I feel like I’m breaking out in hives. He’s gonna watch me the whole time to make sure I don’t steal from him.”

  Vince looked at the counter. Jean-Luc was submerged in the paperwork in front of him.

  “No he’s not. Now stop stalling and let’s get you some work clothes.”

  Maltese wandered the store for ten minutes but hadn’t touched anything. With a sigh, Vince took over and shopped for him, picking out dress shirts, slacks, and even underwear, undershirts, and socks. He stepped over to the shoe area against the back wall.

  “No way.” Maltese moved in front of Vince and held his arms out. “I draw the line at polished loafers.”

  Vince looked down at Maltese’s worn sneakers. The white was worn and grungy, and the red had faded so badly the color appeared a light pink. He stepped past his mate and grabbed two different shoes.

  Jean-Luc was at Vince’s side in an instant. “What size would you like to try on?”

  “Nope.” Maltese folded his arms over his slim chest. “Not gonna do it.”

  Vince guessed at Maltese’s size.

  “Very well.” Jean-Luc disappeared into a backroom with both display shoes in his hands.

  Maltese clenched his jaw as he waved a hand at the wall. “Do you see those prices? It’s gonna take me forever to pay you back. Who charges that kind of price for a stinking pair of dress shoes? You should arrest him for highway robbery.”

  Vince thought the prices were reasonable. His wages as a deputy helped him live a decent lifestyle, but Vince was over three hundred years old and had a nice savings and a financial portfolio, so good that, if he chose, he didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to.

  But he had no one to spend his money on, and it felt good giving Maltese what he obviously never had. He saw now that he would spoil his mate rotten.

  “I’m not letting you spend a couple hundred dollars on one stinking pair of shoes.” The obstinacy was back in Maltese’s dark eyes as Jean-Luc returned with two boxes. He set the display shoes back on their individual small shelves.

  “Try them on,” Vince said.

  Maltese shook his head.

  “Can you give us a moment?” he asked the owner.

  “Take your time.” Jean-Luc gave a hesitant smile before walking away.

  “Try the damn shoes on.” Vince opened the box on top and grabbed the polished burnt-red shoe. “Sit or I’m gonna…” Vince sighed. “Please.”

  He wasn’t sure h
ow he’d won the argument, but Maltese sat. The shoe fit perfectly and looked damn good on his mate’s foot.

  They rung the items out, and Vince paid, placing himself between the register and Maltese so his mate couldn’t see the total.

  “Have a wonderful day.” Jean-Luc smiled as he handed the bags over.

  When they walked out, Vince placed the bags in the bed of his truck as Maltese stood by the passenger side door. As soon as he slammed the back closed, Vince heard a hail of gunfire. He dove toward his mate and covered Maltese with his body as they hit the ground. Vince shouted into the mic at his shoulder, praying his fellow officers got there in time to save his and Maltese’s lives.

  * * * *

  “Were you hit?”

  Maltese shook his head as he struggled to breathe under Vince’s crushing weight that had him pressed against the pavement. “I-I don’t think so.”

  His heart was in his throat, and he shook so badly that his bones should’ve been rattling. Maltese wasn’t sure who the shooter had been targeting, but Vince had just saved his life.

  “Stay down.” Vince looked over his shoulder as Maltese heard tires squealing. Was the shooter racing away? Were they safe now? Although Maltese was a demon, he didn’t have his powers, so he wouldn’t be able to survive getting shot. The last time he’d been jacked up, it had been the demon leader who had healed him.

  And since Panahasi didn’t follow him around, the leader wouldn’t have been able to save him this time.

  Vince jumped up and fired his weapon as Maltese pushed from the ground but stayed hunched down until Vince told him it was clear.

  Sirens filled the air, and police cars sped to where they were, coming to a hard stop. Cops spilled from their cruisers, and the shouting began. One of the cop cars took off past Vince’s red truck, obviously trying to catch up to the fleeing shooter.

  In that moment, Maltese hated his father more than before. If Maltese had had his powers, he would’ve been able to disarm those men and stop the car from driving away.

  Vince returned to Maltese, helping him stand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Maltese nodded as he pressed his hands to his chest. “I’m-I’m fine.”

  “Did either of you see anything?” Sheriff Werth asked as he approached.

  Maltese looked around at the gathering crowd on the street, a blend of curious and frightened looks on their faces. Didn’t any of them have common sense? Why were they standing there when there was a chance the shooter might return? Had they not even considered the fact he or she might not be working alone?

  Vince gripped Maltese’s chin in a gentle hold. “Focus, Maltese. Breathe in and out and clear your mind. Did you see the car or the shooter?”

  “No.” He didn’t want to admit that he had been checking out Vince’s ass as the deputy stored the bags in the bed of the truck. He hadn’t paid attention to the traffic or what kind of cars were passing by at the time.

  Sheriff Werth called out the names of two deputies. “Go talk to the gawkers and find out if any of them saw anything.”

  Vince opened the passenger door and coaxed Maltese to have a seat. Someone handed him a bottle of water, and Vince gave it to him.

  “Thank you.” He took a long drink, willing his heart rate to return to normal. “Why did someone shoot at us?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” Vince said.

  Maltese didn’t like the accusatory tone in the man’s voice.

  “What, you think I had something to do with this?” Maltese capped the bottle and set it on the truck floor. “Because I used to sell potions you think someone has an axe to grind with me?”

  “I’m not ruling anything out.” Vince rested his arm on top of the doorframe. “They could have been just as likely after me. I haven’t always been in law enforcement.”

  Maltese highly doubted Vince was saying he used to be a criminal. He was too sweet and nice to have been about that kind of life. Vince cared too much, even when people didn’t deserve his compassion.

  The street in front of the shops was blocked by the cop cars, and drivers were forced to take an alternative route. One of the deputies was pushing the crowd of onlookers back. Sheriff Werth stood at the end of Vince’s pickup, talking with Dillon and Deputy Jacoby. As Maltese’s gaze landed on the side of the truck, he saw bullet holes running a straight line from the bumper to the back door, and Maltese was willing to bet there were holes in the passenger door, too. Miraculously, the tires and windows were still intact.

  This all seemed too much. Maltese still couldn’t believe someone had actually opened fire on them. That kind of crap only happened in the movies. He might’ve lived on the streets and sold potions in back alleys to get by, but he’d never been a true criminal.

  He was shaking so hard his knees clacked together and his teeth chattered.

  Vince slid his thick jacket off and pulled it around Maltese’s shoulders. “Why don’t you pull your legs in and I’ll start the truck so you can get warm.”

  Maltese wasn’t shaking from the cold. He kept hearing the rapid gunfire, was still feeling Vince dive on top of him, still feeling the scrape of the cold ground under him as he thought he was going to die.

  It was a miracle he or Vince hadn’t.

  He twisted around and slid his legs in like Vince had asked. As soon as the door closed, the background noise dimmed. He sucked in air through his nose and blew it out through his mouth. “You’re not dead. He isn’t dead.” Maltese pressed his hand against his chest and felt his heart still thumping out of control. He blew out another breath. “Calm down.” He blew yet another one. “Neither of you was hurt so don’t freak out.”

  The driver’s door opened, and Vince dug the keys from his pocket and started the pickup. Maltese wanted to beg Vince to get in with him, to not leave him alone, but Vince shut the door, sealing Maltese in by himself once more.

  In the rearview mirror Maltese saw Vince join the sheriff and the deputies. They spoke in low voices, making it impossible for him to hear with his supernatural hearing, what they were saying.

  Would they blame this on him? Would they think that Maltese was responsible for one of their own nearly getting killed? His interview with Sheriff Werth had been polite but straight to the point. He was willing to give Maltese a chance only because Vince had asked him to. The sheriff might’ve been thankful that Maltese had saved Max’s life, but he also blamed Maltese for Max getting sick in the first place.

  “Don’t think negative thoughts,” Maltese chanted to himself. “Vince said he was proud of you. You got the job at the station. Those bullets didn’t turn you into Swiss cheese. Vince didn’t die. Keep thinking positive thoughts.”

  His phone vibrated, startling him. Maltese pulled his cell from the pocket of his jacket. Again, the screen read “unknown caller.”

  “Hello?”

  “You didn’t meet me.”

  Maltese’s nerves were too frayed, and he was too tired and too terrified to play guessing games. He rubbed his forehead and wished this was over so he could go back to Vince’s. “I don’t even know who you are,” he confessed.

  “I’m the man who is gonna end your goddamn life, Maltese Barros.” The caller hung up, leaving Maltese sitting there stunned.

  Chapter Five

  “I can’t believe no one saw a damn thing,” Werth snapped. “How can someone open gunfire in the downtown area and no one…not one single person can tell us what the driver looked like or what kind of car he was driving?”

  Vince knew it happened all the time, or the witnesses’ descriptions were so vague or varied so widely that their recounts were useless. But he wished they had something to go on. He’d had his back to the street, storing the bags. Vince had heard the gunfire and simply reacted. Although he was a trained deputy, at the time of the shooting, his only concern had been saving his mate’s life, not checking out the make and model of the car or seeing who was behind the wheel.

  “Are you sure Maltese
doesn’t have any enemies who want to settle a score?” his boss asked.

  Maltese had said this had nothing to do with him—in so many words—but Vince had just met him yesterday. He wanted to believe his mate, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation. He’d told Maltese that the guy could have just as likely been after him, but Vince had only been trying to erase that hurt look from his mate’s eyes.

  Vince didn’t have any enemies. At least none that he could think of that wanted to risk gunning down a law enforcement officer. He wasn’t saying that there weren’t any preternatural out there that had no qualms about killing a cop, but Vince had been working at the BV police department for a decade, and almost all his cases were about car theft or vandalism or the occasional person who’d locked themselves out of their house or car. Once in a while he arrested a drunk driver or given a speedster a ticket, but who tried to kill a cop over those things?

  Even so, Vince found himself saying, “He’s just as shocked as we are that this happened. He doesn’t have a clue who would do this.”

  Dillon stood there, his gaze flickering between the two as he listened to them argue. From the way Dillon pressed his lips together, Vince could tell his partner wanted to say something but was smart enough to keep his mouth closed—especially if he was gonna say something about the shooting having to do with Maltese.

  “Get him to the station so we can interview him,” Werth said. “Maybe questioning him will jog his memory.”

  That idea didn’t sit well with Vince. He needed to get his mate home, to help his little demon feel safe again. Maltese was already shaken, and being interrogated by his soon-to-be boss wouldn’t help matters and definitely wouldn’t help garner any trust with Werth.

  “I’ll question him at home.” Vince wanted to get back to Maltese. He saw his mate in the side mirror, and the guy appeared pale as he blew out a few breaths. His lips moved, like he was talking to himself. Things were dire, but at least Maltese wasn’t freaking out.

  It was also about time he told Maltese the truth, that they were mates and that Vince would do everything in his powers to keep the guy out of harm’s way. He just had to figure out what he was keeping Maltese safe from. What kind of situation were they dealing with?