Otterly Scorched

by Tara Sivec

  She knows exactly what’s so hard about saying these goddamn names, because she already knows the names of the first two.

  “We’ve got Harry Otter, Motter Theresa, Jennifer Otterston, Otter De La Hoya, Beatrix Otter, and of course, Chris and Lincoln,” I finish for Harley, spitting out the names of all the otters as fast as possible.

  There was too much commotion in here a few minutes ago when the otters got to meet Harley for me to try and shout their names over all of the squealing and crying. I had to wait until Corrie, one of the employees, herded them all back outside to feed them. The otters were actually pretty well behaved for the most part. It was Harley who wouldn’t quiet down. She squealed up until the last one disappeared out of the doggie door seconds ago.

  “I think we should always use their full names out of respect,” Harley tells me sternly, the twitch of her mouth giving away her need to laugh and how she just wants to hear me say Christotterpher Columbus and Otterham Lincoln. “Also, that’s only seven. I believe you have eight otters, six of which I just got to cuddle.”

  I will never get the image of badass Harley Blake sitting on the floor cuddling otters out of my head. For the first time since I’ve met her, she looked relaxed and not at all pissed off about anything. As a detective, Harley wore nothing but slim dress pants and fitted button-down shirts, with her long brown hair always pulled back into a ponytail and out of her face. She always looked beautiful in her professional attire, but now I’m wondering if some of her attitude came from having to wear those stuffy clothes every day. She is fucking stunning in skinny jeans and ankle boots, with a flannel shirt thrown over a tight T-shirt, and her sexy-as-hell short blonde hair bouncing around her face. Her look finally matches the firecracker inside.

  “For the record, I didn’t name them.” I sigh, trying to take the attention off myself and how unmanly my job is, which is probably a bigger turn-off for women than the scars on my body. “I’m also afraid any mention of anything otter-related is going to make you squeal again.”

  “Very funny,” she mutters, crossing her arms in front of her.

  “I think I even heard you… giggle.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, and there it is again. The same thing I’ve felt since the minute I pulled in and saw Harley’s car in the parking lot. A whole shit-ton of happiness. It’s easy to take Nanci’s advice when I’m alone with Harley. She makes it simple to be charming and makes me feel like it’s okay to be a little bit of my old self, minus the womanizing douchebag part. I heard enough of what Harley and Nanci were talking about when I walked up on them earlier to know it’s not often that Harley gets to be this relaxed and carefree. I want to give her more of it.

  And goddammit, I want to hear her giggle again.

  “The last otter is named… Otterman Cumberbatch,” I finally tell her, my wish coming true as a slow smile spreads across her face. “Also referred to as Otterman Bumpersnatch, Otterman Cumberbath, or Botterman Bumbercatch.”

  The nicknames do the trick, and Harley throws her head back, letting out more than just a giggle. She laughs so hard she starts coughing, and I have pat her on the back a few times, which of course makes her swat me away for trying to help her.

  “Sorry to interrupt again,” Corrie says, coming back in from the door leading out to the habitat. “Are you ready to speak to me?”

  The easiness I was feeling immediately disappears, my shoulders get tight, and the grin falls from my face.

  “Did you remember to test the water?” I ask gruffly, watching Harley turn and look at me out the corner of my eye, most likely glaring at me.

  This is how I’ve always acted around the employees; it’s automatic, and I can’t just turn it off, even though I want to. I know Nanci is right, and I’ve been punishing myself for too damn long, thinking I didn’t deserve to have people like me. It’s a hard switch to turn off when the employees only know me as angry and brooding, wanting everyone to leave him alone. It also doesn’t help that no one here knows I own the place now, and the fact that I’m going to have to tell them my daddy bought me an animal sanctuary pisses me off. Which in turn makes me pissed off when I’m around them.

  Christ, it’s a goddamn vicious cycle I can’t get out of.

  “Did you test it or not?” I ask again when Corrie doesn’t immediately answer me.

  “Y-y-yes, yes, sir, Mr. Trevino, sir,” Corrie stutters, making me feel bad for the first time since I got here that this twenty-something, brilliant biology student is intimidated by me. “The levels tested fine. And Otterman Crimpysnitch ate all the shrimp again.”

  I hear Harley snort next to me, and I turn to look at her, lowering my voice as Corrie scurries away and into my office to wait for us.

  “I will remind you again—I did not name them or come up with any of those ridiculous nicknames for Otterman.”

  “Obviously.” She laughs as we walk toward the office. “Otherwise, they’d be named Pissed Off, Don’t Give a Fuck, and Stick Up My Ass.”

  “Cute.”

  “Not since I was five,” Harley replies defiantly. “Ease up on your employees. You don’t have to be so mean and scary.” She moves ahead of me to join Corrie in my office, sitting down next to her in one of the two chairs facing my desk.

  Seeing Harley again, verbally sparring with her like old times, fantasizing about all the ways I want her to use handcuffs on me—without the mortification of having my legs swept out from under me—it’s reminded me I’m still alive. I need to start acting like it and stop being a dick every time my dad pops into my head.

  “So, Corrie… you like animals?” The stupid question is out of my mouth before I can stop it as I perch my ass on the edge of my desk in front of the two women. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to use small talk, and I’m obviously rusty.

  “I love animals, especially the otters! I didn’t kidnap Chris and Lincoln. Please don’t fire me,” Corrie begs, tears filling her eyes as her chin quivers, and she looks at me like I just killed her family.

  “See? She didn’t do it. And now your suspicions made her cry,” I complain to Harley, because I don’t like it when women cry, and Harley is the only other person in this room currently not crying who I can blame.

  Harley closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers for a few seconds before looking at Corrie. “It’s okay. I already saw how much you love animals when you came and got them to feed them,” Harley reassures the young woman in a much kinder voice than mine, flipping open her notebook to an empty page. “Can you tell me the last time you saw Lincoln and Chris?”

  “She saw them the same time I did,” I butt in. “The night before they went missing, when we locked them in before we went home. I told you these interviews are a waste of time.”

  Harley clicks and unclicks her pen several times, glaring at me from her seat before she finally speaks to Corrie again. “I see from my notes you were hired by the owner a few weeks ago via email, correct?”

  “She sent in her resume, there was an email interview, and she started three weeks ago, reporting directly to me,” I immediately fill in, making Harley click her pen in silence a few more times.

  I interrupted the first time, because I was annoyed Harley was asking an employee a question I could have easily answered for her, without wasting anyone else’s time. But then I stopped being a dick for five seconds and remembered Harley is thinking like a detective, and I need to give her slack.

  Now I’m just doing it to piss her off, because it’s fun for me.

  When Harley glances at Corrie for confirmation of my answer and Corrie gives her a silent nod, Harley jots a few things in her notebook before continuing.

  “Which animals at The Backyard do you have any kind of interaction with?”

  “Alpacas, cats, horses, ducks, chickens, dogs, cows, goats, deer, miniature horses, rabbits, and, of course, otters,” I list quickly, the clicking of Harley’s pen now louder than the clicking of the otters’ nails
across the floor when they all run in here at the same time. “So basically, all the animals here.”

  Corrie is looking nervously back and forth between Harley and me, and I’m pretty sure she’s more scared of Harley than she is of me right now, so one point goes to me. Too bad I have to immediately deduct that point on account of the fact that I’m a little scared Harley might kick me in the balls she looks so ticked off.

  “If you can’t sit there and be quiet, you’re not doing these interviews with me,” Harley says with a bright smile, probably to put Corrie at ease, even though she’s saying these words through clenched teeth.

  “It’s cute you still think I’ll let you interview my employees without me, sweetheart.”

  Oops. It sure was nice enjoying being alive for a few minutes.

  “Listen, dick hole—”

  “Wait,” I stop her, holding up my hands. “Is it dick hole, or dick tits? I’m gonna need you to be consistent if we’re going to find Lincoln and Chris.”

  Harley glowers at me when I throw her own words back at her. I can’t take my eyes off her, even when I see Corrie start to rise from her seat out the corner of my eye. I forgot how much of a turn-on it always was to watch this woman get fired up.

  “If this is a bad time, I can come back—”

  “Sit!” Harley orders, her annoyed eyes still locked on mine while she points in Corrie’s direction.

  “Hey, ease up on my employees. You don’t have to be so mean and scary,” I speak in a placating voice. “It’s okay, Corrie. You can go.”

  “You, shut up,” Harley says, her pointing finger swinging in my direction before glancing at Corrie. “And you, sit down. I mean, please and thank you.”

  Corrie looks at me, and I gently shake my head at her, which makes Harley growl. Poor Corrie doesn’t know what to do, as she helplessly gets up, sits back down, and gets up again.

  I really miss Chris and Lincoln, and I want to find them as soon as possible, but this is the most fun I’ve had in ages. It’s the first time in a long time I don’t feel the heaviness of guilt and regret weighing me down.

  “Are you going to waste much more time here? I’ve got otters to find,” I fake complain, looking down at a watch that doesn’t exist on my wrist.

  That does it. Harley jumps up from her chair and steps up to me, and I remain perched on the edge of my desk so we’re eye-level.

  “I have had about enough of your mouth! Zip it!” she demands.

  “So you’ve been thinking about my mouth?”

  “No! Fuck off and be serious.”

  Her eyes give her away when they flicker down to my mouth, which I tip up easily into a smirk, watching Corrie quickly sneak out of the room when I glance over Harley’s shoulder.

  “Go to dinner with me tonight.”

  Harley looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have. I’ve never asked a woman on a date before. I’ve taken women to fancy dinners just to put them in a good mood before the sex I knew we’d have, but I’ve never actually just sat down and enjoyed a woman’s company because I wanted to. No woman has ever made me want to enjoy her company until this woman walked into a bar and hit on me five years ago.

  “Didn’t I just tell you to be serious?” Harley complains.

  “I am being serious. Have dinner with me tonight.”

  She studies my face for a few seconds, and when she realizes I am, in fact, very serious, she scoffs.

  “We’re not going on a date. You don’t want to date me. Stop being annoying or I’m going to punch you in the dick.”

  What I don’t like is the way she says I don’t want to date her. Like it’s the most ridiculous idea in the world anyone would want to.

  “I feel like you’re just being difficult, because you think it will scare me away.”

  She looks at me with a duh expression on her face, and I lean the upper half of my body closer to her.

  “Sweetheart, you’ve been difficult since the day I met you, and I still followed you around like a fucking puppy. You know, after you hit on me,” I add.

  “Still living in the city of Bullshit on Delusion Street, I see,” Harley replies before shaking her head at me and sighing. “We’re not going on a date. Aside from the fact that I don’t like you, I’m not good with dating, or boyfriends, or any of that bullshit. I’m a little busy, and I tend to forget about guys easily. You’ll be just like all the rest. I’ll forget you exist, and then you’ll get all butthurt about it.”

  Standing up from my desk, I quickly snake my arm around Harley’s waist, pulling her body up and against mine. She immediately grabs onto my shoulders for balance, and I have to remember how to fucking breathe, having her pressed up against me like this, so soft and warm and smelling so damn good. She’s breathing heavily, her mouth is still dropped open from the little shocked gasp that left her when I pulled her to me, and her eyes keep darting down to my mouth.

  “Once more for the people in the back,” I speak quietly, my arm tightening around her waist to pull her even closer as I bring my free hand up to slide around the back of her neck, dipping my head down so my mouth is right by her ear. “You were saying how forgettable I am.”

  I feel her body shiver in my arms, and I smile against her ear before Harley finally gets her wits about her, wriggles out of my hold, and smacks her hands against my chest to push me away. I raise one eyebrow at her with a smile as she straightens her T-shirt and flannel and runs a frustrated hand through her hair.

  “Fine,” she huffs, crossing her arms in front of her. “So you have a certain… presence that’s hard to ignore.”

  I chuckle quietly, and I get an eye roll.

  “So, six for dinner? We can talk about Chris and Lincoln the entire time, if that makes you feel better.”

  Harley’s phone rings, saving her for the moment from having to answer me. She quickly pulls it out of her back pocket, groaning when she looks at the display before answering the call.

  “Dad, I’m at work and…. Blood? What do you mean there’s a lot of blood?” Harley shouts. “Yes! I’m coming right now! Don’t move and don’t touch anything.”

  Harley quickly ends the call, shoving it into the back pocket of her jeans as she bends down to pick up the notebook and pen she dropped somewhere along the way.

  “This is why I don’t date. Because the minute I let my guard down, there’s blood. There’s always fucking blood,” Harley mutters to herself, standing back up to see me still smiling at her.

  “Come on, I’ll drive,” I tell her, turning away to head out the door.

  “What? You’re not coming with me!” Harley argues, jogging to catch up with me outside.

  “Oh, I sure as shit am.”

  “This is my personal business and has nothing to do with you or the otters,” she tries to argue.

  “Fine. Then consider this me helping you, so you can get back to finding my otters faster.”

  I glance over at her just in time to see her give me a look that clearly says she isn’t buying a word of what I say. Stopping next to the driver side of her car when we get to the parking lot, I turn to face her, resting my arm on top of the car. “I’m coming with you.” She opens her mouth to argue again, and I cut her off, holding one of my fingers up in front of her. “First, because I want to make sure your dad is okay, and because you don’t need to deal with this shit by yourself, when I’m right here. And second, because I’m honestly still really fucking curious about the frog orchestra in the basement.”

  For the first time since the otters crawled off her earlier, Harley laughs, her face looking a tiny bit more at ease than it did since that phone call.

  She even lets me drive, so she can try calling her dad back to get more information out of him.

  I’ll keep it to myself that my third reason is to charm her into that date.

  CHAPTER 8

  I am Otterly Fucked

  Harley

  “In all my years as a cop, I have to say I’ve never responde
d to a call quite like this,” Dax muses.

  My initial panic when my dad called, fearing he fell off a damn ladder again and hurt himself worse, was quickly replaced with irritation on our drive over here. He wouldn’t pick up my repeated phone calls while Dax drove, and neither would Davidson. But my brother sure as shit sent me enough photos that I quickly figured out they were at my house instead of my dad’s, and all the blood was, in fact, not Dad’s.

  “Is that an intestine hanging from your garage door mechanism?” Dax continues talking as he looks up while we both stand in the opening of my garage, where we’ve been standing for the last few minutes since we arrived, taking it all in.

  While Dax has been taking it all in, I’ve been counting to ten in my head repeatedly, hoping the distraction will stop it from exploding.

  “I told you not to keep the carcasses up on a shelf above the grinder where you were sharpening the blade of the circular saw, didn’t I?”

  “How was I supposed to know the vibrations from the electric grinder would make the bodies fall? And that they’d get wrapped up in the grinder wheel, shredded, and shot out around the room like being fired out of a cannon? It’s also not my fault that saw was way too big for such a small animal.”

  “You’re the one who watched a video on YouTube and said this would be easy!”

  “And you’re the one who said we needed to keep trying until we got it right!”

  “If that last muskrat wasn’t so small, it would have worked. It’s Harley’s fault for not having the right blade for the saw!”

  “Muskrat!”

  While my dad and brother continue arguing in the middle of my garage, and I watch a drop of… something fall from the ceiling and land on my dad’s shoulder, I don’t even have time to worry about the fact that Dax is at my house. My sanctuary. The place where I can relax for the few precious minutes a day that I get to, and where I can take off my bra and throw it wherever the hell I want, and where I can store my tampons in the silverware drawer because I can, and where there usually isn’t a scene from Dexter in my garage, and where I never, ever bring guys. It’s the kiss of death, bringing a guy to my house. I’m not a normal single woman who gives a shit about interior design, or window treatments, or buying groceries, or having chairs at my kitchen table. My three-bedroom ranch with a finished basement and a good-sized yard is basically a frat house, minus all the beer cans, pizza boxes, and fast-food wrappers covering every surface.