Otterly Scorched

by Tara Sivec

  “You mean we can start the interviews then,” Dax corrects me, closing the distance between us until he’s standing a foot away from me.

  “Oh no. That’s not happening. Nope, no way.” I shake my head.

  “Yes way. These are my otters. There’s no fucking way I’m not going to help find them.”

  I continue shaking my head at him. “Your employees are afraid of you. I think I saw one of them pee a little when you yelled this morning.”

  “That’s a little dramatic,” he mutters.

  “Is it though? I won’t be able to get straight answers out of these people if you’re standing there shouting and glaring at them.”

  After a few seconds of quiet contemplation, he finally shrugs. “Okay then. No shouting or glaring. What better way to get my employees to start liking me than with you by my side, bringing out my sparkling personality?” He finally smiles.

  I should say no. I’ve never let a client help me with a case beyond the initial interview and any follow-up questions I might have, because they’re too close to the case and too emotional to be objective. I also work much better alone. It’s one of the main reasons I didn’t like being a cop. People are annoying. Having to work with other people and be a team player just wasn’t my cup of tea. Dax isn’t a normal client, though. And all he’ll do is bother me more if I refuse to let him work with me.

  “Fine,” I huff. “But don’t piss me off.”

  We shake on it, and I pretend like his warm hand wrapped around mine doesn’t make me tingle in places that haven’t tingled since the last time I shook his hand the night we met.

  “No guarantees,” Dax says before I quickly yank my hand out of his, wiping the stupid tingles off on my thigh.

  Why do I continue to do things I know I’m going to regret?

  CHAPTER 6

  Hold My Beer

  Harley

  “If you don’t stop that screaming, I will climb over this fence and give you something to scream about!” Nanci yells, giving me flashbacks from my childhood.

  Actually, flashbacks from last week. I tend to lose my shit a lot with Davidson. Dad is not a fan.

  A disobedient cow named Brisket stomps his foot against the grass on the other side of the wooden fence then moos again at the top of his lungs. I shake my head and laugh, flipping the page in my notebook. I told Nanci maybe naming a cow after something he could possibly become wasn’t the brightest way to get him to stop being so ornery.

  When I got to The Backyard first thing this morning, I was met in front of the farmhouse by Nanci. She told me Dax had to run to the vet’s office to pick up some medication, and he told her to keep me busy until he got back. That jerk actually stuck me with a babysitter, so I wouldn’t interview any of the employees without him. And Nanci is one of those cool babysitters who bribes you with candy and staying up past your bedtime if you’ll tell her where your parents keep all the booze. Except booze to Babysitter Nanci is personal information about myself.

  Nanci will only give me the information I ask for if I share something personal with her. And even then, she tells me she’s old and it’s hard for her to remember information about every employee. I’ve already told her my favorite color, my favorite song, and my favorite thing to do to relax, along with about a million other things. It’s been a very exhausting and unproductive morning so far, and it’s a good thing my dad isn’t here or I’d be on the verge of getting yelled at for screaming again.

  “Where were we?” Nanci muses, knowing exactly where we were and why I hoped dealing with an obstinate cow would have distracted her enough to move on to something else.

  At least I got a tour of the grounds for the last hour on top of getting the third degree from my babysitter. Before sitting down on this bench in front of the cow pen on the far side of the farmhouse, Nanci took me on a golf cart ride around the property to see all the improvements they’ve done. The walkways all got a fresh covering of pea gravel. Brand new wooden benches with The Backyard engraved into the backs have been placed by all the animal pens for future visitors. All the barns were given new roofs and fresh coats of paint. New landscaping has been added along the front of the farmhouse and all over the grounds along the walkways. And of course, the addition of the entire otter habitat.

  I can’t believe how much has been done since the last time I was here, which coincidentally was on Nanci’s first day. I only spoke to her in person for about ten minutes that day, and we’ve shared a handful of emails since then. I thought she was just a nice older lady who selflessly volunteered her time helping animals. I am quickly finding out she is a pit bull and must hide all her sass up in her highly teased red hair.

  “Oh! I remember where we were,” Nanci says excitedly, turning to face me on the bench while I try to keep my groan of annoyance internal. “You were just about to tell me what features you’re attracted to in a man.”

  I am unsuccessful in keeping my groan to myself this time when she repeats the question she asked right before Brisket told her off. I assume he screamed for my benefit, so me and Brisket are now BFFs.

  “I’m pretty sure I was not about to tell you that information. I think you were getting ready to tell me how many hours Erin works a week.”

  I’ve been trying to get Nanci to give me every employee’s work schedule as we’ve walked by them on this tour, and so far, I’ve only gotten her to “remember” two.

  “Tall, short, blonde hair, brown hair…? Come on, give me the goods,” Nanci urges, reaching over to playfully push my shoulder.

  I already know if I refuse to answer this question, she’ll refuse to answer any more of mine. We spent five solid minutes walking in silence through the horse barn when I wouldn’t tell her how many sexual partners I’ve had, and she wouldn’t tell me which employees were the newest to start working at The Backyard.

  “I don’t have a type,” I finally reply, scribbling doodles in the notebook still on my lap.

  “You’re not really my type. I like my men a little less pretty than me, with a lot more facial hair, and maybe a few tattoos, possibly some deep, dark past that makes him broody.”

  That conversation from McCallahan’s pops into my head, as does a visual of the first good look I got at Dax after I realized it was him when he stood up from the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. I never expected that joke I made with him all those years ago to actually turn into reality. I thought Detective Dax Trevino was good-looking back then, just like any woman with a pulse. But he was too much of a pretty boy. If he looked back then like he does now, I would have probably gotten pregnant that night at McCallahan’s. My ovaries would have just handed themselves over of their own free will, even though we already shook on it that we were never having kids—the goddamn traitors.

  Jesus, why am I even thinking about this? Dax didn’t look like that back then, so none of this even matters.

  Ovaries: Sooo, we’re just gonna ignore the fact he looks like that now, are we? LOL, okay, sure.

  “Everyone has a type,” Nanci protests while I try not to think about lumberjack beards or muscles and tattoos. “I still haven’t found mine after seven husbands, but here’s hoping number eight is the lucky one.”

  “I really don’t have a type,” I lie, continuing to scribble in my notebook. “And even if I did, it doesn’t matter. I don’t do boyfriends.”

  “Well, maybe that’s your problem. They tend to get a little grumpy if you don’t have relations with them,” Nanci replies cheekily.

  Hell, this is almost worse than dealing with my dad.

  “I don’t have time for a boyfriend,” I amend, not even a little bit ashamed that I glare at my elder before going back to my doodling, wondering if I’d get in trouble for kicking her ass if she ultimately deserved it. “I have to keep my father from falling off ladders, run a business, and continue raising my forty-year-old brother for the rest of my life. A boyfriend doesn’t exactly fit into that mix.”

  Why that though
t suddenly makes me sad, when breaking up with… shit… whatshisname, was more of an annoyance than it was heartbreaking, is beyond me. It’s always more of an annoyance having a boyfriend.

  “That’s just someone else I have to take care of, and they never make things easier on me. They just want more of the time I don’t have and waste the time I do have complaining about how I never spend time with them. They expect me to cook them dinners, organize their life, be at their beck and call, and remember their name,” I ramble, scribbling harder in the notebook until I rip a hole through the page. “No one ever offers to cook me dinner or organize my life. Maybe I’d like a color-coded calendar, with stickers for all the appointments I have to go to and remind me when to take my Metamucil.”

  “Do you have a problem with irregularity?” Nanci asks with concern, making me laugh for the first time since this stupid conversation started.

  “I was talking about my dad and…. Forget it,” I tell her with a wave of my hand, dropping it back down to continue doodling.

  “It sounds to me like you need someone to take care of you for once,” Nanci says. “Someone who makes you want to spend your free time with them.”

  “Sure.” I laugh. “It would take a special someone to take care of me, because even though I say I want it, I’m too much of a control freak to let anyone do anything for me. This is why I will be single forever, Nanci. Just accept it. I have no type, and I don’t want or need any man. Can you answer my question about Erin and her hours now?”

  Nanci suddenly leans closer to me, cocking her head to the side to get a better look at my notebook.

  “Would you look at that? You scribbled Dax’s name all over the page,” she muses as I look down in horror at what I didn’t even realize I’d been doing.

  I don’t know what it is about this woman. No matter how exasperating I think she is, she still has the ability to make me word-vomit all my troubles and then doodle a guy’s name in my notebook like I’m in high-school, hoping he’ll ask me to prom.

  “Does this mean we’re going steady now?”

  I slam my notebook closed when I hear Dax’s voice above me, tipping my head way back to look at him upside down. Probably a bad idea, since the grumpy cat frown I’m currently giving him looks like a giant smile from his angle.

  He’s resting his hands on the back of the bench right by my shoulders, and he’s leaning over me, which of course gave him the perfect view of the hundreds of times I doodled his name all over that notebook page.

  “I really hate you,” I mutter quietly, even though he’s so close I can smell his fresh, soapy, manly scent, and it makes me want to turn around and shove my face into his chest to sniff him.

  “Good. Because I really don’t hate you at all. Once of us should stay difficult to keep things interesting.” He winks.

  Fucking winks.

  I snap my head back upright and realize Nanci is still sitting a few feet away from me on the bench, looking back and forth between me and Dax with a sinister look on her face.

  Fine, so it’s a sweet smile, but I know her better now, and I know she has nothing but evil intentions hidden under that grin. She’s got… matchmaking on her mind.

  Swallowing back the vomit in my throat, I quickly get up from the bench, Nanci mirroring my actions and then stepping toward me, pulling a folded-up piece of paper out of the front pocket of her tan dress slacks.

  “Here’s a list of all the employees, their hours, and their start dates,” she says with a bright smile, handing me all of the information I’ve been trying to pull out of her this entire time.

  “You could have given this to me an hour ago,” I remind her, shoving the paper into the back of my notebook rather aggressively.

  “Where would the fun have been in that? Then I wouldn’t have found out you’re not a snuggler, you only buy Lucky Charms to eat the marshmallows, and the last time you had relations with a man was—”

  “Okay!” I shout, cutting her off before this gets even worse, the sound of Dax chuckling next to me not helping matters. “There are otters that need to be found.”

  “I’d actually like to know the answer to that last one,” Dax whispers close to my ear, because of course he does.

  Why the hell does he always smell so good? He works with animals. He should smell like shit and wet dog. I feel personally attacked right now.

  Nanci finally gets the hint, saying a quick goodbye to both of us before heading toward the farmhouse. Dax and I start walking around the front of the farmhouse toward the otter habitat on the opposite side, where we’re going to be conducting the interviews. I make sure to keep at least a two-foot distance between us, so I don’t start panting like a dog if I smell him again.

  “Well, she’s certainly a good time,” I tell Dax when Nanci is finally out of earshot.

  He chuckles, sliding a hand through his hair to push it back out of his face.

  “Imagine having her partially raise you,” Dax replies.

  We walk in silence the rest of the way, and I try to study Dax out the corner of my eye without him noticing as he holds the door open for me that leads to his office.

  Dammit if he isn’t a thing of beauty now. So masculine and hot. It’s just not fair I hate him.

  Ovaries: Hate-fucking is making a comeback. We’ll pencil that in for you.

  As Dax leads me through his small office, I push away any and all unprofessional thoughts as I watch him shove open the bottom half of a dutch door that leads out into what looks like a sparsely decorated living room with toys all over the place. I pause right inside the office as Dax turns to face me and closes the bottom part of the door, shutting me in without him.

  “Let me greet them first and try to get them calmed down before you come out and join me,” he explains, smacking his hand on top of the door ledge at my waist twice before walking over to the middle of the room.

  The work I did on this case from home last night included getting sucked into the black hole that is otter videos on the internet. I’ve seen them squeaking in excitement as they feed themselves treats, twittering as they get belly rubs, playing fetch in a pool with a rubber ball, and baby otters drinking milk out of baby bottles. Just the idea that I am seconds away from interacting with them is making my palms sweat and my heart beat faster in my chest. It’s impossible to remain calm in this moment, and I don’t even try.

  My notebook and pen are tossed somewhere behind me, and I grip the ledge of the dutch door, bouncing up and down where I stand. I watch as Dax kicks a few rubber chew toys out of the way before kneeling down in the middle of the room. All of a sudden, a loud whistle comes out of his mouth, followed by a shout.

  “Babies!”

  That’s it. Just one word. I heard him cry it and shriek it on a phone recording yesterday, and it almost brought me to tears I laughed so hard. Hearing Dax shout it in such a deep, commanding voice absolutely does not make me laugh this time, and nothing prepares me for what I am about to witness, not even four straight hours of otter videos.

  Seconds after Dax shouts, it’s answered by a chorus of screams and chirps as a group of otters come barreling into the room from the doggie door that leads outside, snapping, biting, and tripping over each other as they race to get to Dax. I stop bouncing in place, and my mouth drops open when Dax holds out his arms, that gaggle of screaming, chirping otters climbing all over him while he greets them like he hasn’t seen them in months.

  There’s laughter, smiles, and baby talk, kisses, and scratches behind the ears. I’m suddenly rethinking my stance on snuggling. And boyfriends? I’ll take ten!

  I watch this hairy, muscly, tattooed, sometimes broody man get down on the floor and roll around with otters, who are licking his face and biting at his ears and beard like a bunch of puppies, and I resist. I resist, dammit! I hate him. And men are complications I do not have time for.

  “Daddy will give all of you treats, but you have to calm down first.”

  Oh, Momma like….


  No! Absolutely not! This is having no effect on me whatsoever.

  Ovaries: LOL, you’re cute. Hold our beer.

  CHAPTER 7

  There’s Always Fucking Blood

  Dax

  “If I had a heart, it would be full right now.” Harley sighs, making me chuckle as I hold my hand out for her to take.

  She smacks it out of the way, scowling at me and making me laugh again as she gets up from the floor on her own, where she’d been frolicking around with my otters the last few minutes.

  The only reason I haven’t collapsed from exhaustion is because of the woman wiping off the seat of her jeans and standing in front of me. After I left Harley’s dad’s house last night, I did not take her advice and go home to rest. Since I currently live upstairs in the attic apartment of the farmhouse visitor center, The Backyard is my home. And until Lincoln and Chris are found, I won’t be doing much resting. I joined the other employees and volunteers last night, going off on my own like always, and spent most of the night traipsing around the fifty acres of property, calling out for them, and looking for places where they might burrow. I managed to catch a two-hour nap before getting a phone call from the vet first thing this morning saying he wouldn’t be able to drop off the antibiotics we needed for the cows. Interacting with Harley is better than any shot of caffeine when I’m dead on my feet.

  “Okay, tell me all their names,” Harley demands.

  “Do I have to?” I complain, walking around the room and picking up the toys scattered all around, tossing them into a large plastic bin in the corner.

  Harley joins me, dumping a handful of blocks, plastic teething rings, and balls into the bin before giving me her signature glare.

  “Give it up, Trevino. What’s so hard about telling me all those adorable otters’ names?” She smirks.