Hot and Badgered

by Shelly Laurenston

  “What smart-ass kid?”

  “No idea, but he said he was a genius.” She rolled her eyes. “What. Ever.”

  “Name’s Kyle,” one of the other players volunteered.

  “Oh.” Charlie nodded. “Yeah. He actually is a genius. But from what my sister tells me, he is a lot of work.”

  “See? You don’t want to go home. Stay here. Relax. Watch TV. I’ll bring dinner back.” She motioned to the players. “Come on, bitches.”

  Charlie waited until they were all gone before informing Berg, “I love your sister.”

  “She has a way. Speaking of which, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she asked the bear, “And if I want to stay?”

  “Then you are more than welcome.”

  “I don’t want to put you guys out, though.”

  “You won’t.”

  The screen door opened and closed and Dag stood on the porch, scratching his head and staring at a sheet of paper.

  “Where have you been?” his brother asked.

  “Taking orders.”

  “Who was giving you orders?”

  “Uh . . . everybody.” He took a step forward, still staring at the paper. “Charlie, if you are feeling moody and need to bake, there are, um, requests here.”

  “Requests?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Franklin would like your cinnamon rolls. Mr. Gronbech would like your honey cake with white icing. But Tiny wants your honey-pineapple cake.” Poor Dag scratched his head in frustration. “I can’t read my handwriting here.”

  “Dag,” she said, patting his leg. “It’s okay. I’m not in the mood to bake. I’ve had a long day. I just want to do . . . nothing.”

  “Oh, okay. Good.” Letting out a relieved breath, he leaned against the railing surrounding most of the porch and stayed there.

  Charlie didn’t really think about it until Berg cleared his throat.

  “What?” Dag asked his brother.

  “Go away.”

  Dag’s gaze slowly bounced between Berg and Charlie. “Oh!” he finally said, grinning. “Right. Got stuff to do.” He went back into the house.

  “Yeah,” Berg muttered, “lots to do. Like look at porn online.”

  “Don’t judge. Sometimes one needs to check out bad homemade porn to feel alive.”

  “Big porn fan, are you?”

  “Not particularly. Except the Japanese animation stuff.”

  “Seriously?” Berg asked, laughing.

  “Yeah. If I watch that stuff then I’m not worrying ‘what do her parents think?’ Why don’t I worry? Because the girl getting hardcore fucked while still managing to keep her nurse’s hat on—an actual video by the way—is just animation.”

  “That’s amazing logic.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  * * *

  As promised, Britta brought dinner back but, thankfully, not her fellow players. Those she’d sent off, so it was just the four of them.

  Charlie had checked in on her sisters by texting them and the reply she got back must have been satisfactory because she didn’t run over there to see what might be happening. Instead, she relaxed and hung out. She read the newspaper while Berg fought with his idiot brother about what to watch on TV.

  After dinner, she read the current events magazines Britta kept on the coffee table so they looked like they were thoughtful bears while Berg continued to fight with his idiot brother as well as now his obnoxious sister about what to watch on TV.

  The fact that the three of them still disagreed and fought like they used to when they were cubs didn’t seem to bother Charlie, and Berg appreciated that. Then again, considering what went on around her at any given time, dealing with the Dunn triplets must have been like a vacation in comparison.

  Around midnight, Dag went out after getting a text from a She-cat a few streets over and Britta took her laptop—and whoever she was direct messaging—up to her room. When the door closed behind her, Berg knew she was in for the night.

  That left him and Charlie sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

  He was just about to move over to be closer to her when the dog suddenly sauntered into the room, climbed over the coffee table, and into the middle of the couch. He stretched out fully so that his back feet nearly touched Berg’s leg. His big head dropped into Charlie’s lap and she immediately began petting him while still reading her magazine.

  Berg wouldn’t have been so pissed, though, if his dog hadn’t looked over at him and given what Berg could only guess was a dog smile. Or leer. The bastard was mocking him!

  Eventually, Charlie tossed the magazine aside and walked out. He heard the door to the first-floor bathroom close and that’s when Berg tapped the dog on his hind leg and motioned to the floor.

  Ignored, Berg tapped the dog again and added, “Get down.”

  Now the animal growled at him.

  Fed up, Berg went ahead and pushed the dog off the couch. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he got up in seconds, turned, and threw himself at Berg.

  The two wrestled on the couch until they rolled off and slammed to the floor, their big bodies shoving the coffee table halfway across the room.

  “Ahem.”

  Berg cringed and glared down at the dog he’d finally pinned to the ground. And there went that rude, toothy dog grin again.

  “If you’re going to wrestle him on the floor,” Charlie said, standing over them, “you should really name him.”

  “He started it. He wouldn’t move.”

  “He’s a two-hundred-pound dog. He doesn’t have to move.”

  Getting to his feet, Berg faced Charlie. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I have a meeting tomorrow with my bitchy aunt. For tea.” She stuck her tongue out. “I hate tea. Then again, I hate my aunt.” She rubbed her forehead. “But I know Stevie’s going to be up all night with Kyle . . . talking about . . . genius shit.”

  “You can stay here for the night,” Berg offered and without moving anything else, Charlie lifted her left eyebrow. “On . . . on the couch. Appropriately.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Actually, I’ll take the couch and you can take my—”

  “I’m not taking your bed,” she cut in. “Although I appreciate the offer.”

  “Actually,” Berg said, trying hard not to outwardly cringe, “we have extra bedrooms, so you can have one of those.”

  Charlie pushed a loose curl off her forehead before asking with a smile, “You offered me the couch and your bed before one of your extra bedrooms?”

  He cleared his throat. “I forgot we had them.”

  “You forgot you had extra bedrooms? I didn’t know I was so distracting.”

  “Well, ya are,” he snapped back, embarrassed.

  Laughing, she said, “I’ll take the couch.”

  He frowned. No longer embarrassed but confused. “Why? You’re more than welcome to—”

  “Oh, I know.” She placed her hand on his forearm and her fingers were warm and dry and he liked how they felt against his flesh. “But if someone breaks in, I can shoot them . . . legally.”

  “You’re talking about your dad, aren’t you?”

  “When am I not talking about my dad?” she asked, clearly disgusted. “But, honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to drag his ass back here and start some shit. And I’d like to ensure he’s greeted properly. So the couch is good.”

  With a shrug, Berg went to get Charlie a new toothbrush and toothpaste. While she returned to the bathroom, he went upstairs and grabbed extra pillows and blankets from the closet. He returned to the living room and proceeded to make up her “bed.”

  “Blankets?” she asked when she walked back in. “It’s, like, 80 degrees outside.”

  “Trust me. In about an hour, Britta will turn the air up. She’s a grizzly and hates the heat.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said on a chuckle.

  Berg finished and motion
ed to the couch. “Madam.”

  “Thank you. For everything. I really mean it.”

  “Any time.”

  Charlie stepped close and her arms slipped around his chest. She was hugging him and Berg hugged her back, holding her tight against his body. And for once—for him—it wasn’t an awkward thing because of height differences and not knowing fully what kind of relationship he really had with Charlie. There was no fumbling. No leaning down or stretching up. It was the most comfortable hug Berg had ever experienced with a woman who wasn’t a close relative. And to his bearlike way of thinking, it was because Charlie fit perfectly into his life.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  Charlie pulled away first, giving him a wink and smile before dropping onto his couch. She kicked off her sneakers and stretched out, letting out a big yawn as she relaxed into the cushions.

  With a nod, Berg forced himself to walk away from her, leaving Charlie alone on that couch. He turned off all the other lights in the living room, letting her handle the one by her head. He was about to go down the hallway to the stairs when he heard Charlie giggle a little.

  He looked back and saw that his stupid dog had gotten on the couch with her. He was by her feet now, letting her rest them on his big head.

  “Psst.” Berg motioned to the dog to come, but he wouldn’t move. “Psssst.”

  “He’s not bothering me,” Charlie said, her back to the room. “You can leave him.”

  But Berg didn’t want to leave the bastard! He wanted to be the one that Charlie was putting her feet on. He wanted to be curled up with her on the couch for the night.

  Who knew he’d ever see that damn dog as a romantic rival? But here they were!

  “Okay, well . . . if he gets on your nerves, feel free to kick him off,” he spit out the last part between clenched teeth, his gaze locked with the dog’s.

  “Will do. ’Night, Berg.”

  “’Night, Charlie.”

  Berg made his way up to his room, sat on his bed, and stared at absolutely nothing until his sister walked in. She wore one of the team hockey shirts, which reached down to her knees.

  Smirking, she said, “You dumbass. You left her with the dog?”

  Groaning, Berg fell back onto his bed, his sister’s laughter giving him a headache.

  chapter SEVENTEEN

  They suddenly decided to move her in the middle of the night. Men in body armor and shielded helmets, so that she couldn’t see their faces.

  They burst into her cell but seemed thrown off to find her awake and sitting on her bed, feet on the floor, elbows on her knees, and hands clasped in front of her. She’d been waiting and they knew it.

  The group paused for a brief second before moving on. Someone grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved her to the ground on her face. They pinned her there before cuffing her arms and legs and then adding the chains. They blindfolded her and put a leather bit in her mouth to keep her from biting.

  Once done, they lifted her up and proceeded to carry her out. There were no catcalls from other cells. No sounds at all. But she could hear the increased heartbeats. The panicked breathing. The scent of fear. All those men around her waiting for her to do something.

  Yes. She was in the men’s prison. A decision made after the third body was found. They couldn’t pin the murders on her, but they wanted to. Of course, it didn’t help that the bodies stopped dropping in the women’s cells once she was gone.

  Mairi MacKilligan was not taken to another part of the prison as she expected. The “crazy ward” they all quietly called it, where they put the worst of the worst. They had put her there once before . . . but it had not ended well. She’d dig holes through the concrete and into the other cells around hers, and then she’d have some fun. Get back to her cell, hide the hole, and wait until the guards came by to do a cell check. She’d smile when she’d hear the gasps of shock. Or the screaming. She loved when there was screaming.

  They’d put her back in the regular cells not because they had no evidence she’d done anything—they never had evidence—but because she and the “gov” had come to an agreement. She’d stop killing and he’d let her stay in the regular cells. She’d agreed . . . with a smile. He’d cried after she’d left his office. She didn’t know why. She’d kept her promise. She hadn’t killed anyone. Why bother with all the mess when she could get them to do the job to themselves?

  But no. They didn’t take her anywhere else in the prison. Instead, they carried her out altogether and threw her into the back of what she suspected was a van.

  Men came in with her, the back door closed, the engine started, and they were moving.

  No one spoke around her. They’d learned not to. She remembered voices. Remembered conversations. And then she used them against those people just because she could. She didn’t need a reason. She had always bored easy.

  They drove for hours. She could sense the sun had come up when the van finally stopped. The doors were opened, several gloved hands picked her up . . . and threw her out of the van.

  The doors quickly closed and she heard the squeal of tires as they drove off and left her. Not that it mattered. She could get out of her chains anytime she wanted. She’d just never bothered. Where was the fun in that?

  She gave herself five minutes as she was always big on testing her skills. The last chain hit the ground and she’d reached up to take off her blindfold when she heard, “That was impressive.”

  Mairi smiled around her bit and dropped the blindfold. She blinked against the light until she could see the men standing in front of her. American men, heavily armed. Except for the one she guessed was the leader. He was older, wore jeans and a thick blue sweater, but still had that military haircut. That military bearing.

  “You going to kill me here . . . um . . . ?” she asked.

  “John Mitchell. And that would really piss off my clients. They’re very interested in meeting you.”

  “Meeting me for what?”

  He crouched down in front of her and said, “They need your help. Your help to hurt people. They’ve heard you’re good at that.”

  “Very good.”

  “And a chance to get even with your family. To get even with the ones who left you to rot in prison.”

  Mairi felt it snake up her back. Like an electric current. Making her fingers tingle and her nipples hard. The excitement. How she felt when she stole jewels or broke a bloke’s arm or cut someone’s throat in the dark . . . when they never knew she was even in the room.

  She got to her feet, cracked her neck. And waited.

  The man motioned toward their vehicle and Mairi followed. . . smiling.

  chapter EIGHTEEN

  Berg walked out of the second-floor bathroom, freshly showered and shaved, a towel around his waist.

  He was heading to his bedroom when he caught sight of his sister and brother staring into one of their extra bedrooms.

  Berg walked over to them and looked into the bedroom. To his surprise, Charlie sat cross-legged on the mattress, her wrists resting on her knees, her eyes closed. He sensed she’d slept on the couch, but was using the bed to meditate. A strange decision, but she was doing it all quietly. Unobtrusively.

  So what were his siblings doing? Why were they watching her like her head was spinning around?

  He grabbed both by the back of their T-shirts and dragged them down the hall to his bedroom, shoving them inside.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper.

  “The question,” Britta said, “is what is she doing?”

  “She’s meditating.”

  “Why?” his siblings asked.

  “Get out,” he ordered. “And leave her alone.”

  They left without a word, and Berg dried off and put his clothes on. He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket and walked out of his room. He was about to head to the stairs but couldn’t help but go back to the bedroom and check on Charlie. She was still there, still meditating. But now that stup
id dog had joined her. Big head resting against her hip, his wagging tail slapping against the bed.

  He spotted Berg and leered at him again. Berg pointed at the dog, then used the same finger to draw a line across his throat.

  It was childish, but he couldn’t help it. Damn dog.

  Shaking off his annoyance, he headed downstairs and went into the living room. That’s where he found Stevie. She looked much calmer than she had the day before. Clearly her meds had kicked in, and Berg was surprised at how relieved that made him.

  “Hi, Stevie. What’s up?”

  “Is Charlie still here?”

  “Yes. She’s upstairs—”

  “Meditating,” his sister answered for him, coming into the room. “Does she do that sort of thing often?” His sister made it sound like they’d caught Charlie smoking meth. It was meditating, for God’s sake!

  “She’s meditating?” Stevie’s smile was wide and bright. Very adorable. “I’m so happy! I gave her books on that a few years back but didn’t know she was actually using the techniques.”

  “Why does a shifter need to meditate?” Britta asked.

  “It’s to help with her GAD.”

  Britta gripped Berg’s forearm.

  “Ow!”

  “What is that?” his sister demanded, gawking at Stevie. “Is that something we can catch? Is my brother going to die?”

  “It just means general anxiety disorder. My sister has had it for years. Probably since after our mom died.” Stevie pressed her hand to her upper chest as if she were in front of an audience explaining the different kinds of disorders in the world. “I have panic personality disorder, which has elements of anxiety. But Charlie—not surprisingly—has anxiety disorder with some bouts of depression. The meds she takes help but one doctor told her, when she was about fifteen, that if she didn’t get control of her anxiety, she’d have a hole in her gut the size of Texas. I don’t want my big sister to have an ulcer, so we’ve been working on a way for her to manage her anxiety. She doesn’t need meds like mine, though. Her issues are much less . . . complicated.”

  She held up a small plastic container with seven compartments. Each compartment had a letter representing the day of the week on it. “That’s why I brought her meds over. They may not be as complicated as mine, but she can’t just not take them. Especially the one for anxiety and the beta-blocker. The beta-blocker is to help with her racing heart issues.”