by Tina Gower
Becker turns his body toward mine. His face goes soft like he’s picking up my distress. “He apparently just moved into this complex a few months ago. He have an issue with you?”
“I didn’t think Howard did, but I guess…” My voice trails off. I mutter a curse under my breath. “Shit. You know what? Forget him. He has no business doing what he did and we shouldn’t live in fear that he’ll take more pictures.”
“He won’t take anymore pictures,” Becker says with an odd note of confidence and a deep growl to his voice that sends a shiver down my extremities.
“You didn’t.”
He clenches the steering wheel. The gold in his eyes glowing to full brightness now. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Gods, Becker, you can’t just—”
“Can’t what? Can’t threaten some jerk who was threatening you? He was jealous, you know. He didn’t like that you’d been promoted and he was overlooked.”
“Because he was a complete slacker. He took credit for some of my cases in the beginning, but I started getting smart.” Most offices rewarded people like him, but the world of actuaries doesn’t work that way. We value hard work and talent. Not one or the other, but both. I unclip my seatbelt and open the car door. “Just forget about him. Park the car and come on up.”
Becker doesn’t respond, so I shut the door and let him stew over his decision. I jog up the steps quickly. My door is right at the top, all the way at the left end of a block of apartments. The end apartments have windows surrounding all sides. Both a plus and a minus. Plus because it makes a good lookout down into the parking lot and the street running behind us. Minus because anyone can see inside if I leave my window shades open and lights on.
I enter my apartment, tossing my things on the kitchen counter. It’s the first flat surface, just a few feet from the entryway, so it becomes my crap catcher. I left the place early this morning a complete mess, so I pick up a few things here and there, tidying up in case I do end up having Becker for company.
There’s a fresh berry pie on the counter and a note from my cousin, Ali.
Sorry to hear about your case this morning. I don’t understand how your math works, but I do understand blackberries. Hope this helps. And if it doesn’t, you should realize these were the last of my frozen berry stock, so you can at least pretend I’m amazing.
Organic vanilla ice cream in the freezer.
Of course Ali’s amazing. I absently flipped through the calendar, counting down the days left in winter. Ali always got glum this time of year as her mother’s condition usually worsened during the colder months. Kiko Hale had known she’d descend into madness a few years after she met my uncle. What she didn’t expect was that my uncle would leave her and Ali before that happened. The winter after my father death my uncle packed his bags and never returned. Neither Ali or Kiko tried to track him down. It was so uncharacteristic of my uncle. Such a shock. But Ali wouldn’t speak of it and neither would Kiko. Especially now. As far as I know, aunt Kiko hadn’t spoken in two years. Ali says it’s a disease common among the most powerful healer witches.
I cut into the pie and set a piece on a plate and dig into my first bite. There’s a knock at my door as if on cue. “Come in. I’ll get you a plate.” I cut another piece of pie and transfer it over.
Becker enters with a frown. “You didn’t lock your door.”
“I was waiting for you to come barreling up here to tell me to lock my door. It would be rude to rob you of that joy.”
Plus, what are the self-defense classes he’s been urging me to take for? Or the supplemental lessons he gives me? Or the pepper spray he leaves around my apartment.
He locks the door and crosses his arms and sniffs the air. “Is that—”
“Yes.” I take another bite and scoot the plate I made him over the counter.
He takes a bite with mild suspicion in his expression, glancing to my room and in every corner.
“She’s been working the night shift all this week. She’s not here.” I answer his silent question.
He’s developed a mild fear of my cousin. Practicing witches who also happen to be druids aren’t a great match for werewolves. Ali said it’s because druids used to hunt werewolves during the ancient times and use their blood in certain magic. Although werewolf blood being special was a myth that had been long debunked, werewolves developed a natural instinct of distrust toward the group.
I’m not exactly sure if she was telling me the truth and I wasn’t about to ask Becker.
We munch our snack in silence, careful not to look each other in the eye. Becker stares at a section of wall next to the bar counter that separates my kitchen from the entryway. If he looks to his right it’s my bedroom. To the left it’s the living/dining area. He doesn’t exactly have a safe place to plant his eyeballs that doesn’t have awkwardness written all over it.
As a planner, I usually have these sessions completely structured. I have the movie on pause, popcorn just coming out of the old plastic 1970s air popper that I inherited from my parents’ house. And ideas for conversation usually centered around work or other appropriate topics.
Running through the list of things I didn’t do reminds me. “Oh! You said music is okay?” I don’t wait for his answer as I sort through a pile of cooking magazines Ali left on my bookshelf until I find my tablet. “I’ll see what the local digital has. Do you have a preference?”
“Something classical.” He sets his empty plate in the sink.
I can’t help but crack a sarcastic smile. “Fancy, Becker.”
He huffs out a full breath of air from his nose. “Words are distracting.”
I turn away before I witness his blush I know is coming. Becker hates this arrangement, but he has no other choice. It makes me feel like an abuser. It’s like I’m either holding it over him, or holding it away from him. Before I jumped into his bed a few months ago I shouldn’t have been so ignorant over what I was doing.
Fuck up one werewolf’s life. Check.
Fuck up my own. Double check.
I couldn’t even win for trying. Huge breath in. I can change it from this point on and get it right.
I turn around, facing him fully. “Take off your shirt.”
He takes a half step back. “What?” His arms go up around his chest out of protection, like I’d wrestle it from him.
“That came out wrong.” I hold up a finger and speed walk to my room, keeping the door slightly open so I can hear if he tries to leave. I kick off my clothes and jerk on a workout shirt, some skin-tight black Lycra crop top and calf-high matching workout pants. I adjust the thermostat. I’m chilled, but I lower it even more. Becker runs hot and I run cold. Although I won’t have to worry about it for long when we start the snuggling. Session. I mean pack session. If I think of it as something other than business, then it makes it seem wrong.
I rush out of the bedroom and Becker is exactly where I left him.
He looks me over—head to bare feet. “You don’t have to do this.” But his expression gives it away. He craves it. Needs it. That’s how I know we’ve waited too long between sessions.
“How long has it been since you slept?”
He runs a shaking hand through his hair. It’s like he’s a junky about to get a hit. His forehead wrinkles and his eyes narrow in concentration.
“You don’t know, do you? Congratulations, you’ve successfully tricked me into believing you were holding it together. Well, I’m on to you.”
“You hate this. I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”
Funny. I frown. I could have said that exact line. “I thought the boundaries would help us both, but obviously it’s going to make it worse unless we do something now.”
He yanks off his barn coat. “I’m not the one who set those boundaries.” He pins me with a hard look and jabs his finger toward me. “I’ve tried to talk to you.”
I lower my gaze, unable to look at him.
“Don’t do that.” His voice
goes quiet.
I forgot about the eye contact thing. Wolves generally don’t like to have their authority challenged with constant eye contact, but giving Becker complete authority unnerves him as though he’s afraid of being the one in control in this one area of his life. Figures I’d have to deal with a wolf outlier. I force myself to look up, jut my chin out.
His gaze goes straight for my throat. On reflex my hand wraps around the front of my neck in protection.
He blinks and twists around, facing away from me, hands on hips, head down. The muscles in his back strain, as though holding himself in place is some form of torture. “This is a terrible idea.”
Most people have the common sense to leave an animal when they’re at this state. Ears back, growling, shoulders raised. But Becker isn’t like any other wolf. He got an extra dose of aggression, anxiety, behavioral issues. He tried to warn me. His adoptive parents weren’t wolves and he never really learned the culture, so it makes him uncomfortable not having a clue what to do to ease his discomfort.
I take a few hesitant steps forward, until I’m right behind him. He doesn’t move away, but he knows I’m there. He tilts his head to the side, keeping me in his peripheral vision, unable to fully allow a potential danger out of his sight.
My fingers hover over his grey flannel, and his back arches slightly to encourage my touch. Whether it’s an involuntary reaction I’m not sure. I place my hand there and his tension melts. He braces himself on his elbows against the wall, his forehead coming down with a light thunk.
I experiment lifting his shirt a fraction to expose some skin and hug him from behind. The contact is light, my stomach against his back, but the effect is instant.
“Is this okay?” I ask in a whisper.
Becker doesn’t respond, but he manages a slight nod. He happens to be right next to a light switch. I reach over and flip it off. The LED from the kitchen keeps it dim.
My eyes fix on the couch and I wonder how I’ll convince him to move, so I wait for him to take the next step. And just when I think it might get weird with the amount of time I’ve given him, he turns slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll spook.
His shirt remains hiked up around his chest and he pulls me in for a tighter hug. “Is this okay?” He asks the same thing I did a moment ago and now it’s my turn to lose my voice.
I nod against his chest and he hitches me up into his arms. In two steps he’s next to my couch. He kicks at the cushions and knocks a few onto the floor along with a throw that I’d draped over the armrest. He settles me into the lump of pillows like I’m delicate cargo, but he tumbles next to me with a clumsy umph. I slowly unbutton the front of his shirt, pushing the fabric back onto his shoulders. I scoot close. Skin to skin. We’re facing each other, both our eyelids drooping, the day catching up to us. That’s the thing about pack: it regulates us both. Becker needs it, but I’ve grown equally dependent on it.
My mind clears of the stress of the day and I don’t even fight the drift into what feels like it’s going to be the best sleep I’ve had all week. My hands reach up to splay over his chest to maximize his contact. He nudges his shirt off and pulls me closer, his head finding a nook in the space between my neck and shoulder. It feels damn good to be this close to him, like a massage by someone who knows what they’re doing.
So much for boundaries.
It’s lights out, dead sleep, for at least several hours. The room takes on that fuzzy quality that only after midnight and beyond can encompass, as I hover between restful sleep states.
I wake, barely. Trapped somewhere in the stage between dream and reality. A buzz vibrates against my leg. Becker eases his phone from his pocket.
I register the glow of the screen and his soft but audible, “Shit.”
He shoves his phone into his back pocket this time and pulls me back into him. I manage to catch a glimpse of the time. 3:00 a.m. And I’m sucked under into dreamland again.
I wake up a few hours later in my own bed. With an energy I didn’t have yesterday, I bound from the mattress. The cushions are all in order on the couch and the throw folded into a neat square at one end. The pie is even covered with tin foil and there’s a note from Becker that he’ll see me at the station around nine for the interviews.
Welp, I guess I should get dressed then.
Chapter 5
I bring Becker coffee. He sits in the interrogation room rubbing his thumb across the stubble of his chin. The guy can grow hair like a weed—but I guess that’s some sort of gene leftover from being a descendent of werewolves.
I place the coffee in front of him and he looks at me. There’s a question in his look that I’m unsure if I should answer. Yeah, we smashed the carefully set boundaries, but I’m okay with it if he is. This couldn’t really be conveyed in an eyebrow arch, or spoken out loud in his place of employment, so I scoot the coffee closer to him and change the mood to something professional.
“Lipski says you had an early start without me.”
He blows the steam off the tiny air vent on his to-go cup. It whistles. “Yeah, the bus driver interview had to be scheduled before seven so he could catch his early morning shift. We were already here for something else. I didn’t want to pull you in after the hours you worked yesterday.”
I shrug. “You do it.”
He ignores my point. “It’s all recorded for you to pore over later. Here’s the transcript.”
He slides his tablet across the table for me to scroll through. I take a moment to pace the room and read through the account.
I set the tablet between us. “Okay.” I pull out a chair and it squeaks across the tile. “So the bus driver says he didn’t see Morrison at the stop sign.”
“He’s lying.” Becker sips the coffee. A drop spills over the edge. “I could smell it all over him. Except I can’t use it as evidence. So it’ll be hard to convince the higher ups to keep dragging the driver in for more questions.”
“But it’s helpful. Now we just have to figure out why he’d lie. Any movement in the anti-oracle or free choice groups lately?”
He avoids my gaze. “I’ll ask around.” He dips his finger in the coffee ring. “You really think someone deliberately messed with the prediction?”
“I’m not sure, but after Liza I feel like there’s something we missed.”
He nods and leans back in his chair. “Yeah.” He drums his fingers on the metal table, one quick motion. “But it’s been quiet on that front after we picked up the shades and no new reports of any threats.”
“It doesn’t mean someone’s not tampering.”
“It doesn’t mean that they are.”
I watch the bus interview on silent. “I just have a feeling.”
“You said that.” Becker scoots his chair back and stands. Now it’s his turn to pace the room. “What usually happens when someone tries to mess with a prediction this stable? Change a specific thread of destiny?”
He knows. He’s just asking to make a point, but I answer anyway. “It usually just plays into the prediction somehow. Once people realize they can’t do much to stop predictions, they give up. This one was a clear prediction. Solid. It would have been a very tough one to crack—take someone really sophisticated to turn it around.”
He gives me a look, one that tells me he doubts someone could have.
“You don’t believe me. Are you going to stop this investigation? Talk me into filing the chance occurrence paperwork?” I suck in a breath. It would mean a black mark on my otherwise pristine prediction record. Not enough to really do much, but I’ll know it’s there.
Becker watches me for a minute, but it feels like twenty. “No.”
“No?” I motion with my hands to elaborate. No, he doesn’t believe me or no, he won’t stop the investigation?
“No, to all of it. I don’t believe it, but I’m not stopping the investigation and I’m not forcing you to fill out your paperwork by not giving you clearance to go further.” He focuses on a spot on the wall behind
me, where the windows look out into the station. His eyes squint as if he sees someone he’d rather avoid walking in on us. “I’m not your supervisor.”
“But you have the power to—”
“I won’t.”
“Because of the pack thing.” My fingers go cold. Is he doing this out of some misplaced loyalty? “You can’t.” I lower my voice. “You have to throw the book at me, Becker. We can’t let personal issues interfere.” I huff a frustrated breath. “Look, I want to take this case further, but we have nothing to go off of and…”
He stops me with look. “Maybe not.” Becker motions to the window behind me.
Alana Morrison, the girl who started this whole mess by surviving, walks into the precinct. Her blonde hair is down and her bangs are cut straight across her forehead. Her red wool coat is buttoned all the way to her chin. She looks less relieved than she did yesterday morning.
I follow Becker out of the interrogation room and watch as Lipski pours on the charm. Alana’s smile quivers, but her emotion is painted on, as though she’s prepped herself and read online how to play this.
Becker waves her to us. “Ms. Morrison, please have a seat.”
Lipski pulls her seat out with a flourish and then moves back around to ease the door shut with a soft tap. The murmur of conversations cuts off.
Lipski goes to the corner where there’s a small kitchenette set up. “Coffee? Tea?”
Alana clears her throat. She keeps her smile in place as though she doesn’t have anywhere else to put it. “Tea sounds wonderful, actually.”