by Tina Gower
Ali’s car pulls up. She comes rushing through the police barricades. Two officers stop her. “That’s my cousin in there. Kate! Kate! I’m here. I brought muffins!”
I sigh. “That’s my ride.”
Becker silently follows behind me, until he can’t take my limping anymore and he curls his arm behind my back, stabilizing me. We melt into each other’s touch, our bodies betraying us. Lipski rejoins us.
Becker lets me free as Ali hugs and inspects me for injuries and shoves two muffins in my hand. I give one to Becker. He looks down at it, no expression on his face.
Ali flings her arms around me to help me to my seat and shoots Becker a concerned look. “You need a ride?”
I don’t say anything, not having the strength to turn him down twice.
Thankfully he speaks up. “I’ve got a lot of paperwork. This guy’s taking me to the clinic later.” He pokes a thumb out to Lipski.
Lipski crosses his arms, disappointment crossing his features. He sends me a hard look.
Ali guides me to my side of the car and I wave her away. She dances away from me and over to her side.
Lipski catches my arm. “You’re both being ridiculous.”
Becker stays safely behind the police yellow tape. Not moving.
I bring my focus back to Lipski. “This is the right thing to do.”
He lowers his voice, blocking it from Becker again. “You’ve only postponed the inevitable. When you figure it out you’ll regret this. He’s not going to do well with this.”
I watch Becker. He takes a bite of his muffin. “He’s fine. He said so.”
He lets me go. “You don’t have any idea.” He huffs out a short laugh. “Either of you.”
I get into the car and watch as Becker gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.
Ali turns to me. “Are you okay? What was going on? It seemed tenser than you were letting on.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you and Becker—”
“We’re coworkers.” But she gives me a whatever look and those words don’t fit right anymore anyway. I amend it. “We’re just friends.” I say the words fast and sure, so she knows not to question them, but my fingers go to my lips where his touch still burns. Even if he has no memory of it, I won’t be able to forget it. I glance back at the mirror, unable to see him anymore. Lipski’s words haunt me, because I don’t want him to be right. I don’t want to be wrong. But I’m afraid I’ve fucked this up, because I miss him already.
Continue reading The Outlier Prophecies, book three, The Werewolf Coefficient here.
If you enjoyed Conditional Probability of Attraction please help other readers enjoy it too.
Review it. Reviews help other readers find the books they love with the themes and characters they’re excited about. Let other readers know what you thought of the book by leaving an honest review. It doesn’t have to be fancy, just honest. It can be one sentence long! It’s a little known fact that for every review a unicorn is saved from destruction. So leave a review on Conditional Probability of Attraction, save a unicorn.
Recommend it. Help others find the book by recommending it to friends, reading groups, and message boards. If you’re a member of Goodreads or another social media site designed especially for book lovers that is a great place to make recommendations (in groups you might be a member of, or voting for this book on the various lists it’s on).
Join the Tina Gower Newsletter!
Get two free short stories emailed to you by signing up for Tina’s newsletter. Get updates on future publications, free fiction offers, prizes, and goodies! Your privacy is important; your email won’t be sold or exchanged with any other email lists.
Get your free short stories, Big Bad Becker novella, excerpts, and be the first to know when the next book is available here
LIMITED TIME SPECIAL OFFER: Sign up for Tina Gower’s newsletter to receive Big Bad Becker (An Outlier Prophecies Novella that takes place between book one and two) for FREE.
Get your free book
LIMITED TIME: Read Big Bad Becker for FREE HERE
The Werewolf Coefficient~Sneak Peek
Chapter One
The woman should be dead, yet here she is in all of her high-ponytailed, blond-haired, flattering-yoga-pants glory. She sits on the side of the remote jogging trail, her face sticky with happy tears. Her plastered grin takes up most of the room on her face. And she should be ecstatic: she’s alive and not dead as the oracle predicted, which means the actuary who assigned her probability of death has some explaining to do. I’d be rejoicing for her, patting her on the back, handing her tea and blankets, like the officers gathered around her, but I’m pissed.
Because I’m the actuary.
I’d assigned the probability of death. Even though I had assigned a six percent chance of survival (which gets me off the hook for a full review), the body crushed under the tree limb nearby presents a complication. Oh, him, yeah, the oracle never even mentioned him.
A gust blows freezing air into my face and tendrils of my black hair into my eyes. A hair tie would have been nice, but I left the house in a hurry after the early morning summons chirped on my phone. On a Saturday, no less. This would really fuck up my weekend. If I were late they’d fine me. Procedure is the official word, but it was more like a punishment.
The woman sits, frozen and pale, on a rotting oak log, the crunch of fallen leaves all around as officers work around her. The rising sun splatters light through the bare branches. During the summer months anyone can stand in the center of the forest and not spot a skyscraper, but at the end of winter, with the leaves scattered along the dirt and pine needle floor, I could see a glimpse through the bare dogwoods of the Angel’s Peak Bank—the tallest building on this side of the city.
The sensitive, a representative of the oracle, leans over the woman. His tan robes, bushy hair, and beard barely move when he speaks and blesses her. I turn around so I don’t have to see it—I’m not a fan of the monk-like dedication of the Brotherhood of the Vates. A small dedicated group of sensitives who take their job so seriously they’ve turned it into a priest-like existence.
We have a substantial following in Angel’s Peak. The Vates don’t make up all the sensitives we have under employment in the Department of Oracles, but they are slowly gaining a majority. Especially after a small but significant leak a few months ago when a recently hired sensitive had been revealed to be a leader in the anti-fate movement.
I can’t be near the Vate, not now. I don’t want to hear about my mistake being a blessing of human error, how I misinterpreted the oracle’s messages, or once again be reminded that according to Brotherhood law “oracles shall not be negatively criticized by errors in interpretation.”
I turn away, letting the wind blow at my back, pushing me to join Officer Ian Becker. Even the wind betrays me—Becker and I had taken a step back, a huge step back. We’d been forced together when Becker needed someone to step in as a pack mate for him. He’d been in bad shape, a stressed, emotional wreck, with difficulty controlling his aggressive outbursts.
As part werewolf he needed touch to center himself and to regulate his limbic system. After reading several books on the subject, I’d educated myself in a way I wish I had before volunteering to become his substitute pack member. Becker didn’t have a pack and desperately needed one when we first met. A high stress situation led me to step into that role and now I’ve been left wondering how I can detangle myself from that responsibility.
What I didn’t count on were the growing romantic feelings for my coworker—not something I wanted. Becker in his weaker state might have convinced me to give in to those feelings, but now that a few months have gone by, he seems more relaxed, maybe even relieved with our new distance. It hurts, because there was a part of me that wanted it to be real. Not some werewolf pheromone-driven attraction.
I’d drawn out the boundaries of our arrangement a lot tighter than when we’d started. No more night
pack sessions aka evening snuggling where we both fall asleep and become unguarded and unaware of what Becker’s pheromones are doing to us. No more crawling through my window in the early morning hours. All sessions are currently scheduled during the day when we both have a break in our schedules and Becker must leave right after.
We’ve made an effort to make it as non-sexual as possible by moving it to a couch instead of a bed. Playing a show or movie that could distract us both. Before all this I would have imagined it as a personal hell to feel this connected to another person. To trust someone with a vulnerable part of myself. To have them rely on me so completely to give them something they needed. But the truth is that I’ve grown dependent on the sessions. And that scares the hells out of me.
Just last night Becker casually asked me to join him for coffee, maybe to talk about what had led to my decision to shut him out. I fumbled. I wasn’t ready to deal with the aftermath. Not yet.
If I admitted I wanted more and Becker no longer did, then I’d lose him. He’d pull away for my “benefit.”
Becker leans in close to the jagged tree limb. His gaze travels up to the eucalyptus where the fresh splintered shards dangle like the other half of a puzzle.
When Becker glances at me, I ignore the pity in his expression. “What happened?”
“Kinda obvious, don’t you think, Kate?” His slip in the use of my first name unnerves me, making me itch. He pulls out a tissue to inspect the tree without leaving prints. “Why don’t the oracles ever predict anything useful like alerting the city to trim the trees?”
I’m thankful he stays on the topic of the investigation. “There’s no money in that, Becker. This is why you keep failing your detective’s exam.”
Becker flashes a half-smile, but his eyes are not amused. He must have failed again recently. He sniffs the tree.
“Smell anything?” I ask. Not that it will be useful; evidence gathered by latent werewolves is deemed unsubstantial. There are no true werewolves in existence anymore. Although Becker is pretty close to being full-blooded.
“Fungus,” he says. “They’re going to have to cut this whole section of the park down. It spreads quickly.”
He hands over an extra pair of rubber surgical gloves for me. I snap one on and take a look at the section of branch he shows me. Damn. I’d hoped for some sign of foul play, maybe evidence of a sawed off section to help the breaking limb along. If someone had planted this fungus here in hopes for it to fall they had to have had one hell of a foresight and years of patience.
“The organization representing the ancestors of the Fae won’t be happy if they take out this forest. It’s one of the few original undisturbed woods around Angel’s Peak.”
Becker folds his arms and stares past the tree, lost in thought. A quick glance affirms that nobody can see us behind the limb and scattered foliage. I clench my jaw, unsure if I should console him or not. My instinct wins and I gently place a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing over here?” he asks, broken from his spell. “You’re supposed to be talking to the survivor. Figure out how she got so lucky.”
I motion to the dead body. “This guy is more interesting. I was hoping for foul play, a couple of anti-predictability free will woo-woo groups out to mess with the fabric of fate and all.”
“Not this time.”
“Damn it.” I slam my gloved fist into the splintering bench.
“Chill out, Hale, you’re only human. Humans make mistakes.”
And wasn’t that just it? Wasn’t that just the exact finger-on-the-problem moment? I was only human. No trace of elf, fairy, mage, not even witch. In this melting pot of a city, eighty-seven percent of the population could lay claim to at least some supernatural ancestry. I didn’t find it amusing that his simple phrase reminded me I’d descended from bigots.
“No.” Something doesn’t add up. It’s more than the sting of a wrong calculation. I watch the survivor hug the sensitive. I whisper to Becker, “Get me everything on the oracles that made this prediction.”
“Information above your pay grade.”
“But not above yours.” I inch closer to him. “I’ll help you study for your next exam.” He looks unconvinced. I drop my voice to a low whisper. With no other werewolves on the scene and Lipski nowhere around, only Becker can hear. “I’ll agree to one time off the couch. Just one.”
He tilts his head, pretending to consider, although his eyes give away his answer instantly. “Pinning your mistake on an oracle won’t get you off the hook.”
I press my lips together—I refuse to pout, so I glare until he answers.
“On the bed?” he asks, one eyebrow tilting up.
Oh come on. He has to know that won’t fly. “On the floor.”
He frowns.
“With pillows,” I add to sweeten the deal.
He crosses his arms. “No television. It doesn’t feel like I get the full benefit like before.”
“Music then.”
He nods. “Lights off.”
“No. We leave them on.”
“Dim?”
I shrug. “Yeah, fine.” I’d read that the less sensory distractions during a pack session, the more effective. Ideally there would be some skin-on-skin contact, but neither of us was comfortable enough to cross that boundary. Becker wasn’t trying to make this romantic. I could tell by the flush of his cheeks that he was still as uncomfortable with this as I was.
“I’ll even provide dinner.”
“I’ll come by at seven.”
Continue reading and buy The Werewolf Coefficient here
Acknowledgments
Launching Romancing the Null was so nerve-racking, but exciting. To my friends and family who all supported me through the process and put up with my strange work hours. Thank you to the early readers of the first book. Total strangers who emailed me to ask about the series and tell me how much you enjoyed Romancing the Null. It was a pleasant surprise to have it received so well. It made me work ten times harder and faster to get this book ready much more quickly than I’d originally planned.
To my fabulous cover artist Christian and editor Alicia for making this book as pretty as book one, inside and out.
To Krystal, who has so far beta-read books one through three and always points out the plot holes and issues so I can make the books 100% more awesome. Also pointing out what I’m doing right!
To Andrea and Martin for reading through book one very carefully to catch all the tiny remaining errors. You are the dyslexic writers dream. To the people who wrote those early reviews so Romancing the Null wouldn’t be naked up there on sale.
To Tyler, always, who does just about every website thing I can’t figure out (and so many other technical things).
To chocolate covered almonds with sea salt—you’ve kept me sane.
About the Author
Tina Gower grew up in a small community in Northern California that proudly boasts of having more cows than people. She raised guide dogs for the blind, is dyslexic, and can shoot a gun or bow and miraculously never hit the target (which at some point becomes a statistical improbability). Tina also won the Writers of the Future, the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense (paranormal category), and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart® (writing as Alice Faris). She has professionally published several short stories in a variety of magazines. Tina is represented by Rebecca Strauss at DeFiore and Company.
Get the latest updates and learn more about the Outlier Series and other books by Tina Gower by signing up for her newsletter at her website www.tinagower.com or visit her blog www.smashedpicketfences.com
For more information about the Outlier Series…
@TinaGower
gowertina
www.tinagower.com
[email protected]
<
br />