by Hannah Jayne
Olak was a shyer, slightly more stooped version of Vlorg, and Steve, as I mentioned before, was the redheaded stepchild of the troll kingdom—or the velveteen-tracksuit, gold-chain-wearing stepchild. Today he looked like a very tiny adult film producer—only not as charming—with his tracksuit unzipped halfway down his troll sternum, loops of pale green lichen snaking over the zipper.
Steve grinned when he saw me, his gray lips curving up salaciously, his angled tongue sliding over his teeth. He put his tiny troll hands on his hips and sucked in a satisfied breath.
“Steve likes what he sees.”
I wrinkled my nose, this time not caring who I offended. “Steve.” He stunk in more ways than one.
“Oh, yes, Steve. Has Sophie missed Steve? Steve has missed Sophie.” He laced his fingers together and balanced his chin in his hands, donning a look that I think was supposed to look innocent. It came out looking lewd.
“Steve apologizes for not being around more. The business”—he gestured to Olak and Vlorg behind him—“has really been ramping up.” Steve rubbed his fingers together. “But Steve has been making lots of money. Would Sophie like a shopping trip? Perhaps a visit to the Sizzler?”
“No, thank you. And really, your absence has been just fine.”
“Still—Steve apologizes from the bottom of his heart. Steve will be around from here on out for Sophie. At your beck and call.”
I crossed my arms. “Kind of like a stalker?”
Steve crossed his arms. “Steve prefers the term ‘mythical protector.’” He waggled his bushy black eyebrows. “Or perhaps beloved boyfriend?”
“Stalker. And why do you always refer to yourself in the third person? Is it just a troll thing?”
Steve raised one eyebrow. “It’s a Steve thing. Steve is a lot of man.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled out another file folder.
“When is Sophie going to give Steve a chance? Steve can be Sophie’s knight in shining armor. Steve would never leave Sophie.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Sophie is—I mean I’m flattered”—I forced a smile—“really, Steve, but no thank you.”
“Is it because Steve is a troll? Because, you know, not everything about Steve is troll-sized.” The gray corners of Steve’s thin lips snaked up in a lascivious, obnoxious grin.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, grimacing and gathering up my files.
Steve rushed toward me. “Does that mean Steve has a chance? Because Steve can do things to Sophie—”
I dropped my files and pressed my hands over my ears. “Not hearing this!”
Steve frowned. “Steve just wants to make Sophie happy.” That salacious grin again. “Very, very happy.”
I knelt down. “You know what would make Sophie happy? Steve, leaving.”
Steve started to back away, the lewd smile still playing on his lips. “Sophie is going to miss Steve. Sophie is going to miss Steve a lot.” Steve disappeared into the hallway.
“That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” I sighed quietly.
Steve poked his head through the open doorway. “But Steve is always just a heartbeat away. You just watch. Steve will wear Sophie down.”
I could hear Steve whistling as he strolled down the hall.
Chapter Ten
At 1 P.M. I had an armload of files and was muttering to myself as I walked down the hall at the police station.
“Something is definitely not right here,” I started as I pushed my way into Parker’s office. “Oh, I’m sorry, Park—Detective—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Chief Oliver, seated on the edge of Parker’s desk, craned his neck to look at me and offered a polite smile. “Miss Lawson. Feeling better today, I hope?”
I felt a flush wash over my cheeks, and I hugged the stack of file folders to my chest.
“Yes, I’m feeling much better. Thank you.” I peered around the chief at Parker and took a small step backward toward the hall. “Detective Hayes, I’ll just wait until you two are finished.”
“No, no.” The chief used one hand to wave me in, the pinkish folds of his big cheeks pushing up in a welcoming smile. “You’re as much a part of this case as anyone else. And”—he glanced back at Parker, whose eyes had wandered back to his computer screen—“maybe you can make a little more sense out of this than we can.”
The chief angled Parker’s computer monitor toward me, and I sat in the visitor’s chair, squinting at the dark screen.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, trying to focus.
The men exchanged a glance and a hazy gray image appeared on the computer screen. I could make out the outside of a building, faded bricks, and a flickering light. There was a spray of glass on the screen, and then what looked like a big dog tore through one of the windows and disappeared out of the frame. I sucked in a shaky breath.
“What?” I whispered. “Is that—?”
Parker’s eyes were soft. “We think it was Sampson.”
“This is the surveillance tape taken from one of the cameras just outside of the station.” The chief eyed me warily. “It was taken last night, just before you were attacked.”
“No.” I wagged my head emphatically. “You said it was gangbangers. That’s what you told me.”
Chief Oliver steepled his fingers and brought them to his pink, thick lips. “Officer Franks doesn’t yet know the”—the chief’s eyes shifted from Parker to me—“intricacies of the case. But, Miss Lawson, you do. You had to know it wasn’t gangbangers.”
I sat back against the hard vinyl visitor’s chair, all the breath leaving my body. “I know. Of course I knew. I just don’t believe that it could be Mr. Sampson. I don’t see why Mr. Sampson would attack me. Me, of all people.”
Chief Oliver shrugged and put his hand on mine. “Miss Lawson, in this business you learn quickly that you never really know someone.” He stood up, nodded to Parker, patted my shoulder, and walked out.
“‘You never really know someone’?” I hissed, disgusted.
“Look, Lawson, I know that for whatever reason you have a soft spot for this mutt, but he was going to tear you apart.” Hayes gestured to the screen. “It’s right there in black and white. Well, kind of.”
I smacked the desk with my palm. “You don’t know that! And with that, that”—my hand flailed toward the monitor—“tape, you can’t prove anything. Sampson could have been running away from me for all we know. Hell, we don’t even know that was Sampson. Besides, did the chief or Franks even see any of the attack? It could have been gangbangers!” I could hear my voice rising toward hysteria, and I gulped in several deep breaths while Parker watched, calmly.
“Even so, you need to be prepared.” Parker slowly pulled open his top desk drawer and laid a heavy black gun on his desktop.
“Are you kidding me?” I recoiled, standing up sharply, scattering the files on the floor. “You’re going to shoot me now?”
Parker rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on it, but give me a moment.”
I narrowed my eyes at Parker, who waited for me to calm; then I slumped back in my chair. “You’re really that worried?” My voice came out as little more than a whisper.
“I’ll teach you how to use it.”
I gulped, my breath starting to quicken again. “You want me to use it? To shoot people?”
“Hopefully, no,” Parker said, leaning back in his chair. “But I do want you to be safe.”
“How does having that make me safe? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with yet. If it really is a rogue vampire or a werewolf, this”—I stared down at the gun—“isn’t going to help.”
“Fine.” Parker stood up, loading the gun into a metal-sided briefcase. “We’ll pick up a garlic pizza and some Milk-Bones on the way to the range.” He slung an arm around my shoulder and grinned. “That way we’ve got all our bases covered.”
I rolled my eyes and followed him out the door.
“Okay, first things first,” Parker said
when we got to the shooting range. “Gun safety is our top priority.”
I smiled and batted my eyes. “It would be much safer anywhere but here.”
He blew out a sigh and removed the gun from the briefcase, laying it on the counter. “Do you know how to hold a gun?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “No.”
Parker swung his head to look at me, his blue eyes shining and earnest. “Are you scared? It’s okay if you are.”
I nodded slowly, softening.
“Don’t worry,” Parker said. “I’ll guide you through it.”
Parker’s eyes dropped to an almost-sinister cobalt. I might have been imagining it, but I think he licked his lips hungrily. I fought off images of a sharp wind that tore open his shirt, showing off his rippling abs as he embraced me, the smoky heat of the gun between us.
“I don’t need any help!” I blurted.
Parker blinked at me. “What?”
Everyone in the entire place—which included a paper-thin cashier with a name tag that said NEWT and a guy in dirty jeans and a trucker hat—blinked at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my voice and licking my incredibly dry lips. “I guess I just got a little nervous.” I rubbed my palms on my jeans and made a mental note to have Nina cancel our subscription to Cinemax.
After Newt had fixed us up with some ultra-fashionable protective eye and headgear, Parker guided me into the shooting gallery. I half expected to see a Western façade, perhaps a line of faux ducks or glass bottles like they had at the boardwalk, but the gallery was long, gray, and concrete, and hanging at the end of a silver line against the back wall of the stall was the black charcoaled outline of a man with a target drawn on his trunk.
I gulped.
“You’ll want to aim for the chest. That’s where there’s the most surface area.” Parker glanced at me. “No head shots.”
My stomach went sour. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” I murmured.
Parker loaded the gun, explaining as he went, and I tuned out, breathing out of my mouth to avoid the singed scent of spent powder and casings.
“Come here,” Parker said, opening his arms.
I didn’t know that it was customary to hug before target practice, but I stepped toward him anyway. He twirled me around, his chest pressed against my back, and I could feel his moist breath as his lips brushed past my ear. He took both of my hands in his and gently pressed the butt of the gun between my palms, lacing my fingers around the trigger space, his fingers warm as they closed over mine.
I hadn’t realized how soft his hands were.
“This is how you hold a gun.” The stubble on his chin tickled my ear, and I pressed back into him and then stiffened, embarrassed. “Okay,” I said weakly. “I think I’ve got it.”
I glanced down at the gun pressed in my hands and eyed the target, then had a very real, very Charlie’s Angels kind of moment.
Sophie Lawson: Kick-Ass Angel.
I imagined kicking down doors with the stiletto heel of my black patent leather boots; dodging a hail of gunfire with one of those killer tuck-and-roll moves; then landing perfectly, my sexy red hair bouncing around my shoulders as I took down the bad guys, one by one.
Parker’s hand squeezing mine brought me back to the smoky shooting range.
“You’re going to—”
“I know, I know,” I said, impatient, “pull the trigger.”
“No, you’re going to squeeze it. Gently. And it will recoil, so be careful.” Parker stepped away, and I was alone, in full gunslinger stance, aimed and ready to take out my make-believe attacker.
“Yeah,” I whispered to myself, “I can do this.”
Sexy, stiletto’d, gun-toting me had already taken out an entire community of bad guys in my mind, so I began to squeeze the trigger.
Yanked it, actually.
I heard someone screaming and saw a little bolt of fire ignite, then fade out. My hands were hot. My arms hurt. Something hot and smooth rolled over my wrist and tinkled to the ground.
And there were little chunks of cement raining from the ceiling.
The screaming stopped when I closed my mouth.
“What the hell was that?” I was waggling the gun and jumping from foot to foot when Parker leaned in and grabbed the gun, slipping the safety on.
“That was just the casing rolling over your hand.”
“That was so scary!” I yelled. But Parker had stopped listening.
He was laughing.
“Hey,” I said, stamping my foot.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shutting up abruptly—but I could see his body shaking against his laughter, little tears clinging to his bottom lashes. “You did great. Really.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I shot the ceiling.”
Parker pursed his lips, and I imagined him gritting his teeth. “Yes, you did. But it was only your first time. You’ll get better.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Did you shoot the ceiling your first time?”
“Of course not. Let’s try it again.”
Parker put one hand on my shoulder and turned me around so his chest was pressed against my back again. He wrapped his arms around me and placed the gun in my hands once more. I breathed deeply, memorizing his warm scent of soap and singed gunpowder.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and warm and delicious on my neck. “How do you feel?”
Horny! I wanted to scream. Nina would have said horny, but she had no blood and thus could not turn beet red from follicles to toenails like I could. Also, she had the luxury of eating the source of her angst. Vampires were so lucky!
“I’m okay,” I squeaked. “I mean, the gun feels okay.”
Parker took one hand off the gun and pressed his palm against my rib cage, the tip of his thumb gently brushing the underside of my breast.
I was afraid I was going to fire the gun right then and there.
“Relax. You’re okay,” he said.
“I just …”
“I know. I have that effect on a lot of women.” He grinned down at me, that same, lopsided half grin that all at once was lust and hate inducing.
“I’m just nervous about shooting,” I spat, annoyed. “Is it going to make fire again? What if the casing hits me in the eye this time? Has anyone ever died from the back end of a gun? What if I shoot you?”
Hayes ignored me, but his arms seemed to close a little tighter over me. His hands clamped over mine again, and his thumb stroked mine as he guided my finger to the trigger. “Okay?” he whispered.
I nodded weakly, unsure if the sensation roiling through my body was fear or an intense desire to spend more time pressed up against his firm, warmblooded body.
“Take your stance,” he said, and I felt his leg between mine, pushing against my thigh until my feet were shoulder width apart.
“Ready.”
I took a miniscule step back, and Parker made up the distance so his hips were pushed flush against mine once more.
“Aim.”
The word was soft, moist, tender against my earlobe.
“Fire!”
I squeezed the trigger, and my eyes shut simultaneously. The gun recoiled hard, but Parker had me, one arm extended and holding the gun, the other clamped around my waist.
“Are you okay?” He looked down at me, his eyes a breathtaking blue. All I could do was nod spastically.
“That was better,” he said softly.
I stood up straight, squinting down the aisle toward the target. “Where did I hit him? Can we see it?”
“Actually …” Parker stepped around me and pointed at the dirt. “You shot the ground.”
“Crap!”
Parker looked away, grinning. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it; it’s just going to take some time. Let’s keep working.”
Parker spent the rest of the night coaxing my ceiling-and-floor aim to meet in the middle—or, at the very least, to hit the target—and I spent the whole night being
folded into his arms and recoiling into his tight chest.
I may never like guns, but I was learning to love Parker’s instruction.
“Okay,” Parker said, taking the gun and unloading the magazine. “That’s enough for tonight. You’re doing a lot better.”
My arms felt like jelly and shots kept exploding in my head. “Are you less worried about my safety now?”
Parker jabbed at a button, and the paper target came sailing toward us. He held it up to me, and I could see four tiny gunshot holes near the bottom right corner of the paper.
“Not exactly,” he said.
I squinted. “I got it on the paper though. That’s got to count for something, right?”
Parker chuckled, his smile chocolate-chip-cookie warm and relaxed. “Yeah. Whatever you say, Lawson.”
Chapter Eleven
It was dark by the time we left the shooting range, and my stomach rumbled angrily as Parker pushed the key into the ignition. I blushed, feeling the heat rise to my ears.
“Sorry,” I said, as a flint of panic washed over Parker’s face. “I guess I’m just a little bit hungry.”
“Man.” Parker’s eyes dropped to my stomach. “I thought you were growing a baby dinosaur in there.”
“Geez, Parker. You’re a real gem. I can’t believe a woman hasn’t snapped you up yet.” I crossed my arms and sunk into my car seat. “Let’s just go.”
Parker shrugged, turning the key, a hint of smile playing on his lips. “You know what they say: The Lone Ranger rides—”
“Alone?” I finished.
“Come on,” Parker said, backing out of the lot, “you’re buying me a pizza.”
“Is that so?”
Parker ignored me, his grin knee-melting and annoyingly smug. “Yup. Training fee. You should have read the fine print.”
I dug into my purse and handed Parker a twenty-dollar bill. “How about you buy your own pizza and we call it a night. I’m exhausted.” And frankly, not so sure I could spend another hour alone with Parker Hayes without jumping those alternately frustrating and super-hot bones.