Bear Meets Girl

by Shelly Laurenston

  “Football. Remember?”

  “Did Novikov start a fight with the guys?”

  “Not exactly ...”

  A bottle of Gatorade was held up in front of his face and Crush took it, smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He cringed, unable to stop himself. “Malone, your face.”

  “Yeah, but you should see what I did to Callahan.”

  “I’m standing right here,” the She-lion complained, handing Novikov a separate bottle of the sports drink. “I can hear you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The wild dogs were running out of steam, so your brothers and cousins offered to play.”

  “Uh-huh. Except you guys”—Cella motioned to Crush, Novikov, and the other hockey players who’d been playing with Mitch O’Neill—“are all standing here, with the ball. And those guys”—she motioned to the field where a battle between lion and tiger males was taking place—“are in their cat form and mauling each other.”

  “I must admit, the game seemed to go off the track right after that first play.”

  “Especially when the rest of the O’Neill males showed up.”

  “Gwenie invited her uncles,” Blayne chirped in, her entire body bouncing around in kind of a mix of 90s-style dancing and just a hyperactive fit. “Apparently, the O’Neills hate the Malones. I had no idea!”

  Cella studied Blayne. “Have you been drinking Shirley Temples again?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything!” Blayne yelled before she backflipped away from them.

  “Should you go after her?” Crush asked Novikov.

  “No. She’s heading right for that tree over there and—bam! Down she goes. She’ll be out for a bit.” He shrugged, focusing back on the fight. “I’ll scrape her up later.”

  “You having a good time?” Malone asked him.

  “Yeah. I’m having a great time.”

  “Good.”

  He cringed. “But I can’t ignore this anymore.” He took the towel he had hanging around his neck and wiped the blood off Cella’s face, moving carefully so as not to hurt her any more than she had been.

  Of course, he had to grip her chin a little tighter to keep her from starting another fight when the wild dog females all sighed out, “Awwwwww” behind them.

  MacRyrie tapped his shoulder. “Uh ... Crushek?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have brothers?”

  Crush looked at Malone, then released her and faced the grizzly. “Why do you ask?”

  MacRyrie pointed behind them and they all turned. Chazz and Gray stood there in T-shirts and loose dolphin shorts that no men their size should ever wear. In the distance, Crush could see his brothers’ wives and cubs at a picnic table, but if they knew what his brothers were up to, they didn’t seem to notice or care.

  The three of them scowled at each other, none of them speaking. Then Gray and Chazz looked at Cella and back at him, Gray raising his arms in what Crush felt was a clear challenge and ... well ... what did anyone expect?

  Clothes went flying, Crush’s jeans hitting Cella in the face, and then three polar bears were in the middle of a brawl right there. Since cats fought all the time, the Malone-O’Neill battle going on behind them was quickly forgotten as everyone focused on the vicious bear scrimmage.

  “So, he’s not close to his family then?” one of the wild dog females guessed.

  “There’s only the three of them and no, they’re not close.”

  Marly rested her elbow on Cella’s shoulder. “Anyone a little bothered that it’s those two against poor Crushek?”

  Cella was more than a little bothered, but who would get between three polar bears during a fight? But just as she had the thought, Novikov and MacRyrie ran past her, both in their shifted form. A few seconds after that, the rest of the first-string players followed.

  “Does Novikov have tusks?” Marly asked.

  “They’re not tusks,” Blayne yelled while slowly dragging herself to her feet. “They’re fangs. Like the mighty saber-toothed cat of yore.”

  Marly scratched her head. “Yore?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “He’s doing it wrong,” Van Holtz noted.

  The entire table looked over at the polar bear working the in-tent barbeque.

  “He’s going to make everything dry.”

  Novikov sighed. “Guess you’re going over there to show him how it’s done.”

  Crush, still feeling where Chazz had slammed his head into a tree, quietly stated, “I wouldn’t.”

  Now they were all looking at him. Crush still couldn’t believe these guys had backed him up in his fight against Chazz and Gray. And, man, had those idiots been jealous because he’d had the goddamn Carnivores on his side. It had been great !

  “You know him?” MacRyrie asked about the polar working the barbeque.

  “He was DEA before he retired. Now he lives in Staten Island and is a butcher. His name is Billows, but they call him Wishbone.”

  “Why?”

  “The story I heard from other shifters in NYPD is that there was a case involving some crack house in Staten Island. There was a little firefight and one of the guys made a run for it. Wishbone caught him and during the struggle, the guy stabbed Wishbone in the leg, which just pissed him off because he has a real short temper. So they say he had the guy by his legs, told his partner to ‘make a wish.’ Then he ...”

  Unable to find the right words, Crush illustrated by yanking his hands apart and all the men exclaimed simultaneously, “Ohhhh!”

  “Anyway,” Crush went on, “I’ve been to his butcher shop a few times since he caters to polars and, I think, lions, and he’s still known in his neighborhood for being kind of short on temper. So if I were you ... I’d let him make his dry meat.”

  They all silently agreed to let the butcher keep making his dry meat while they went back to their conversation.

  Eventually, they went to get something to eat. Crush gawked at the array of things to choose from, smiling up at Wishbone when the former cop turned around.

  “Crushek.”

  “Hey, Wish. How’s it all going? How are the kids?”

  “Pretty good. And you. Heard you moved to the Brooklyn House.”

  “I did.”

  The polar glanced around, stepped closer. “Watch your back, Crushek.”

  “From other cops?”

  “No.”

  Crush’s eyes crossed. “Right.”

  “Bears who work for her”—and he knew who Wishbone meant when he said “her”—“going around asking questions about you.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “Just digging. Probably trying to discredit you. Don’t know how far she’ll go, though. I don’t know what you did to piss her off, but ...” He picked up a tray of whale fat slabs. “Just be careful, man.”

  “Thanks, Wish.”

  Suddenly not hungry, Crush stood there staring at the table. When the answers to his problems didn’t miraculously appear amid the deer steak and zebra burgers, Crush started to walk away.

  “Have you tried the bison dogs?” Van Holtz asked. How long he’d been standing there, Crush didn’t know.

  “I haven’t.”

  “They’re good. Different. Add a little Dijon mustard and relish.”

  Deciding to follow the wolf’s suggestion, Crush filled up his plate and found an empty table. He dropped into a seat and Van Holtz sat down next to him. In silence, they ate until the table began to fill up with Cella’s aunts. They mostly ignored the two males, eating their own food, and talking shit about some of the other party attendees.

  When Crush was nearly done, Cella’s Aunt Karen leaned over and asked Kathleen, “No one thinks it’s strange that them two are friends?”

  The entire table looked over at Cella and Dee-Ann Smith, both of them laughing.

  “It is surprising,” Kathleen admitted. “Considering the past.”

  Crush wiped his mo
uth with a napkin. “You mean when Cella was in the Marines?”

  Kathleen and her sisters laughed. “God, no. I’m talking long before that. When we hexed them.”

  Crush looked at Van Holtz. They both frowned at each other before Crush asked, “You hexed the Smiths?”

  “Not me personally. Our ancestors. But the Smiths deserved it. They were eating us.”

  The bison was sticking in his throat, but Crush was a cop. There were just some things he simply couldn’t walk away from.

  “Wolves were eating tigers?”

  “They weren’t wolves then. They were cannibals.”

  Van Holtz leaned around Crush to see Kathleen. “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t know that? You’re living with one of them.”

  “She’s not a cannibal.”

  “And I don’t raise horses. But my ancestors used to.”

  “I’m still unclear—”

  Kathleen cut Crush off. “Some time in the sixteen or seventeen hundreds, I forget which, the Malones were once again forced out of Ireland.”

  “Once again?”

  She fluttered her hands. “Anyway, they were traveling through England and there was this area they were warned not to go through, but they went anyway because, ya know ... tigers. Figured they could handle anything, but what they didn’t know was that the Smiths were lying in wait.”

  “Lying in wait to ... eat you?”

  “And rob. That’s what they did. Most of the Malones got away, but the Smiths actually caught a few.”

  “And ate them?”

  “Among other things. The matriarch of the Malones at the time, she got really pissed and she said if they were going to be as low as dogs, they should be dogs. Then they hexed them.”

  Crush finished off his hot dog and, after chewing thoughtfully, finally said, “I’m not sure turning violent, vicious, cannibal killers into actual predators was the best idea your ancestors had.”

  “In their defense, though, at the time there was a lot of wolf hunting in England, so they probably thought the Smiths would be destroyed, but who knew the inbreeding cannibals had their own witches? A spell here, a spell there, and they were able to shift back and forth just like us. From what I understand, my relatives were sorely disappointed by all this.”

  “You mean because now the Smiths didn’t have to track down any weapons ... because they had become weapons?”

  “Yeah,” Kathleen sighed. “They clearly hadn’t thought long term.” She patted Crush’s leg. “But we all have stories like that, right? Mr. Van Holtz here is descended from German barbarians.”

  “It’s true,” Van Holtz admitted. “We’re the real reason Julius Caesar charged back across the Rhine and burned the bridge his troops had built before we could cross it.”

  “What about you, dear?” Kathleen asked Crush.

  “Well, my parents died when I was really young, but when I was older I managed to get a little information about my great-great-great-grandfather, who liked polar bears and used to sit around thinking about how much he’d like to be a polar bear. Then one day he woke up and he was a polar bear.” Crush thought about that a minute and added, “In retrospect, not nearly as interesting as barbarians fighting Julius Caesar.”

  “No. But not a story you have to hide, either.”

  “She’s got a point.” Van Holtz blew out a breath. “It’s not like I’ve heard any of the Smiths running around talking about their cannibal days.”

  “Exactly.” Kathleen patted Crush’s leg again. “I’m sure your ancestor was a very nice man.”

  “He was kind of a cop. You know, for his time. Well ...” Crush thought back, remembering what he’d found out. “Kind of a cop slash executioner. He had a real thing for injustice—”

  “There you go!”

  “—and witches. Used to burn them at the stake unless he drowned them or piled rocks on them first.”

  “Oh.”

  The group went silent until Crush finally stated, “Still liking the barbarians against Roman forces story better.”

  “Yeah,” they all agreed.

  The sun went down, the snow began to steadily fall, and nearly everybody was out on the dance floor dancing to Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime.” The hotties, of course, had on what some would call ski gear, but even they couldn’t stay in the hot tent. It had been a great party.

  She knew that Crush was having a good time, too, dancing with her, a little blood still in his hair from his earlier seal hunt with Novikov. He didn’t even seem to mind that she could only currently look at him through one eye since the other one was swollen shut from the fistfight. Smith offered to “cut you like in the Rocky movies,” but as Cella told the She-wolf when she’d offered, she’d rather wait until the swelling went down on its own.

  A slower Motown classic came on and Cella immediately went into Crush’s arms, the two grinning at each other while swaying to the music. Like most bears, the man had some nice rhythm considering his size.

  “You and the girls need a lift home?” he asked.

  “No. I’m going back with the girls, and some of my cousins. We’ll be making brownies at Jai’s place and talking boys all night. But thanks for the offer.”

  “No problem.”

  “Glad you came to the party?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  “You coming back next year?”

  He gazed down at her. “Maybe.”

  She chuckled. “Oooh, ‘maybe.’ That’s promising.”

  He laughed, his arms tightening around her waist. Cella rested her head against his chest. And that’s when she knew—she was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday morning, Ric Van Holtz dragged himself out of bed and made his way to his kitchen to get the coffee started. He ground the beans, pulled down a coffee mug, and waited while his fourteen-cup coffeemaker did its work.

  And when that hand slipped across his naked hip, he didn’t jump ... anymore. It took some getting used to, living with the sneakiest of wolves, but Ric wouldn’t change it for the world. Eyes still closed, he turned his head and soft lips pressed against his.

  “Glad you’re home,” he murmured, nuzzling the She-wolf who pressed her long body next to his. “What’s going on?”

  “The bear’s information was right. Found Whitlan’s office. And he’s in it.”

  Ric opened his eyes, and nodded. “Take it down. Tonight. Bring him in alive, Dee-Ann.”

  She grinned, kissed his neck. “You’ve got it.”

  Crush’s phone woke him that morning from the most erotic dream he’d had in a while, involving a She-tiger in hockey pants, and he wasn’t happy about it.

  He swiped the cell phone off his nightstand. “What?”

  “It’s MacDermot.”

  “What?”

  “Meet me at the office at six.”

  Crush glared over at his bedside clock. “It’s six-thirty.”

  “No. I meant six tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Group and KZS are taking down Whitlan. Tonight.”

  “Wait. They found him? How did they even know—”

  “God, you’re like my kid. Asking ten thousand questions.”

  “I’m a bear. That’s what we do. And this is our case.”

  “Flexibility is key for this job, Crushek. Get used to it. Besides, I’ve just accepted the fact that Dee-Ann Smith has contacts you and I just ain’t got. And if she wants to find you—she’ll find you. Now, I’ll see you at six.”

  “But—”

  “If it makes you feel better, your girlfriend will be there.”

  “My—”

  “Also heard you’re a hell of a kisser.”

  Crush sat up. “What?”

  Cella packed up her duffel bag, throwing in a few extra clips for good measure, and zipped it up. She looked around, made sure she had everything. She did, and what she didn’t have, KZS would provide.

  Pulling on a ligh
t denim jacket, she picked up her bag and rushed down the stairs, through the kitchen, waving at her mother and father, then around the side of the house. Meghan and Josie were already heading to the Jeep, schoolbooks in hand, discussing something in whispers.

  “I’m working tonight, babe,” Cella called out. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Cella tossed her bag into one of her brothers’ cars. She didn’t know which one.

  “That’s fine. I’m babysitting Deena’s kids tonight. But can we talk tomorrow, Ma?”

  Cella, about to get into her car, stopped and looked over at her daughter. “Talk? Oh, you mean about you heading to Hofstra in the fall? Sure ... we can talk about that.”

  Josie, an apple in her hand, stared first at Meghan, then at Cella.

  When her daughter didn’t say anything, Cella got in her car, pulled out of the driveway, and headed in to work.

  MacDermot was standing outside the office waiting for him. She had two big cups of coffee and a pastry bag. When he got close she demanded to know, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Malone told you about ...”

  MacDermot laughed. “She didn’t have to. Everybody told me how cuddly you two were at that freezing party.”

  “Ice Party.”

  “Whatever. Although really, you should have told me.”

  “Why the hell would I tell you?”

  “We’re partners.”

  “We’re partners, MacDermot, not girlfriends. We’re not going to sit around talking about dates or our periods or your husband’s problems with roaring at his neighbors.”

  MacDermot sighed. “We got another noise citation last week. I keep trying to convince them it’s the dogs, but no one seems to believe me.”

  Crush snatched one of the coffees away from her. “Can we just get this over with?”

  She held up the pastry bag. “I brought treats.”

  “What kind?”

  “Honey buns and—”

  Really mad now, Crush barked, “Do I look like a grizzly to you? Do you see a hump? Or an ‘I’m stupider than you might think’ look on my face? Huh? I thought we already discussed this.”