Bear This Heat (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) (11 page)

“He may have the answers to questions I have.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Things about my past, my history.”

“This person knows you?”

“Not personally, no. I’ve never met him or her.”

“You don’t know if it’s a man or a woman?”

“Honestly,” Dylan said, looking at her. “No.”

“So how could this person have answers?”

“To tell you the truth, Sasha. It’s just a hunch.”

“Can’t you ever just speak straight? Why is everything this wordy maze with you? I don’t need these bullshit answers, you know.”

“It’s not bullshit.” He grinned when she sighed and rolled her eyes. She seemed all at once a contradiction to him. A storm encased in a bubble of patience. Passion checked by discipline. He was fairly sure anybody else would be angry as hell at him by now, or at the very least visibly put off.

She was right. He knew he wasn’t ever winning any popularity contests. He knew he didn’t play nice with most people. But that was because he was different than most people. Beyond the pleasures of the flesh, there wasn’t any reason to make friends. He was fairly sure that Sasha was proving herself to be the exception to the rule, and that worried him. Now was not the time to be forming attachments, even the sort that flared up over the course of a single day. He had an obsessive mind, and he knew that it would just be harmful in the long run… unless she became his.

“You’re kind of a strange woman, you know.”

Her mouth grew into a broad smile. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

“Do you think you are?” Dylan leaned into her when he asked the question, caught a strand of her scent. It was intoxicating. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. And not just to bed her. He wanted her for himself.

“No,” she said after a pause. “Why would I think that?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not strange. I mean, do you think you’re an odd person? Because you
are
strange.”

“Yes,” Dylan remarked truthfully.

“Why?”

“I make people feel uncomfortable.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So, I’ve answered a bunch of questions. And you’re opening up to me, too, and-”

“I’m just buttering you up so you’ll slip, right? Spill the beans.”

Dylan continued. “So why not answer some of my questions? Who was Charlie Kinnear? Was he anybody in particular?”

“No,” Sasha said. “Just an old man. Oldest in town. Been here since forever.”

“Since forever, huh? Got a photo of him?”

“Why?” Sasha’s head snapped toward him.

He half-shrugged. “Curious.”

“In the file,” she said, jerking her head backward. “On the back seat.”

Dylan turned around and saw a manila folder sitting there. “You make a habit of sharing your case information with suspects?” he asked, reaching for the file.

“That’s not information, only a photo. And it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, anyway. Besides,” she said, taunting him with a challenging smile. “You’re not a suspect, right?”

“Right.” He opened the folder, saw a picture of the old man. He looked familiar, but Dylan couldn’t immediately place him. He knitted his brow, and touched his nose, trying to figure out where he had seen that man before.

“You know him?” Sasha asked, looking at him.

“Feels like I’ve seen him before.”

“I don’t think he left home much.”

“I know!” Dylan said, punctuating the statement by pointing his finger at nothing in particular. “I saw him this morning. Only, briefly.”

“Where?” Sasha demanded. She pulled the car over, leaving the engine running. With no more air streaming past them, it was sweltering again. “You better not be bullshitting me. When and where?”

“In the tourist office,” he said.

“Impossible. Office opened after he was killed.”

“
He
wasn’t there, detective,” Dylan said. “There was a
picture
of him there, on the wall behind the reception counter.”

He watched as Sasha’s face bunched up in frustration. “Fuck,” she murmured, nodding her head slowly. “There is.”

“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Whole day has been like that.”

“He was shaking hands with somebody,” Dylan said. “In the photo,” he added a moment later.

“Yes, he was.”

“Who?”

“The state governor, I think. But that was before my time.
And
it’s not important. The photo is unrelated.”

“Huh,” Dylan sounded, alarm bells going off in his head. “That’s funny.”

Sasha snapped her eyes to him. “Why?”

He could tell that she knew he was onto something, and so he shook his head, made a face, and lied. “Just that I’d see the photo of a man who had just died, that’s all.”

“That’s not funny at all.”

She started the car again, and the baking vehicle lurched off toward the Red Sands Motel.

*

There seems to be a connection between the people in this group. Sasha Monroe has referred to it unknowingly as instinct, a hunch, and the others seem unwilling to expound on it. But it is undeniably there. I have watched as they finish each other’s sentences sometimes. I have seen entire conversations take place in what I can only describe as advanced body language.

The following illustrates the foreign nature of this: intonation in eye-contact; inflexion in posture; modulation in gestures.

They seem able to communicate with each other on a level higher – or perhaps a more primal level, though I’m reluctant to use that particular word – than a normal person. They don’t seem wholly aware of it, either.

It is, however, a logical extension of Sasha’s instinct. I’m of the belief that it was something that they fully attained after the fact. While Sasha had the tendency toward it, it did not become fully realized until long after she had met Dylan.

The method of communication is not unlike the way in which information is quickly shared between a pack of wolves, or any other grouping of animal.

The implication is, of course, that to some extent, this group of people were meant to come together, and the pairings within them were meant to happen.

Fated, perhaps? It certainly helps to assuage the uneasiness that confronts my sense of belief as I listen to these wildly coincidental tales of how each of these people met.

What forces are at work here?

And do they act upon everybody, or simply a select, privileged few?

- Excerpt from
Unlocking Within: Return to Animal
by Circe Cole. Printed with expressed permission.

*

With the engine off, Sasha leaned toward Dylan, patted her gun. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to go inside, and I’m going to watch that security video. You’re going to stand against the wall where I can see you until I’m satisfied, okay?”

She found it annoying, then, that he grinned. “Okay,” he said.

“Argh!” Sasha got out of the car, and banged her fist against the dusty top. “Come on!”

She led the way, toward the motel, all the way her mind broiling with thoughts of what she’d like to do to Dylan. He was at once hot and cold; enticing and annoying; inviting yet shielded. She wondered what his deal was. His whole demeanor seemed so infused with a playfulness and cheek that left her asking if he ever took anything seriously.

No, she thought. That was not entirely true. He was taking the murder of Charlie Kinnear quite seriously. And this person he was looking for? Who had apparent answers? On the surface, that looked like a crap lie. So that made it all the more curious why he had seemed remarkably sincere about it. She knew he was hiding something; that much was for sure.

And all that talk about her being gorgeous… what the hell was he up to with that? The thought did cross her mind that he really was into her, and though that was flattering in and of itself, it was ridiculous that he was being so inappropriate, given their roles toward each other.

She was a cop, he was a suspect, or at best a person of interest. Why would he even think she’d be interested in something like that?

Of course, the truth was that physically, hell yes! Guy was hot, and if he was into her, then that was great. It’s not like she was a total prude. Sasha didn’t exactly have the kind of body that men fell over backward for, and so if he was into a big girl, that that would suit her very, very nicely…

If he wasn’t involved in a murder investigation.

Sasha shook her head. It had been an extremely long day, and she could feel her patience fraying at the edges. She wanted to go home, run a cool bath, and lie in it, gradually warming up the water as her temperature cooled.

She wanted to tuck into a good book, or maybe listen to some music. Or perhaps she could watch a movie on her tablet, propped up on a stool next to the tub.

Either way, it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be working a murder. She definitely didn’t want to be spending any more time outside in what must have been a record setting day, temperature-wise.

No, she thought, again realizing that what she was trying to tell herself was not entirely true. And when she forced herself to come to terms with her own feelings, she knew that she actually wouldn’t mind going on a little pretend-date with Dylan. He was… compelling, somehow. Jaunty, reckless, and a confidence that couldn’t be due to his age. He looked younger than her by a few years, but something about the way he held himself lent him the gravity and presence of someone a decade her elder.

And there was also the case of her professional curiosity. She knew he was holding out on information. She expected that. But for the time being, he was her only lead. She could always bring him in later on the trespassing charge if she learned that his involvement was more than just circumstantial.

“Come on,” she hurried him, pushing open the door, and was instantly bathed in waves of cold, refreshing air.

“That feels good.” He walked in behind her, neck glistening and reddened.

“Wait over there,” she said, gesturing at the far corner of the small reception room. It was by a plant, a cactus in a pot. “And don’t move.”

“Yes, detective,” Dylan said, doing exactly as he was told. He did it all with a smirk on his face, and though Sasha wanted to scowl at him, she found that she couldn’t.

“Hey, Jake,” she said to the young clerk at the reception kiosk.

“You know him?” Dylan called from across the room.

“It’s a small town,” she said, turning to look at him and putting an arm on her hip. She shot him a look that she was fairly sure he’d be able to interpret: shut up.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” Jake did not looking up from his computer screen.

“Thanks,” she said. “Listen, I need the security footage from this morning.”

He paused his pecking at the keyboard then, narrowing his eyes at her. “Is this, uh, legal?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

Sasha blinked at him. “What? Would you just give me the damn tape? You’re not a suspect, and anything I find on it I can’t use in court against you, anyway! In court for the crime you are
not
suspected of.”

“Oh.”

“I need to see this guy here.” She jerked her head at Dylan, and then looked at him. He was entirely at ease. And that meant that his alibi was probably airtight.

“Fine, fine,” Jake said, putting up his hands. “But I’m telling my Dad.”

That was the owner. Sasha tapped the desk impatiently. “Fine.”

“What time around?”

“Uh-”

“No, never mind, it doesn’t matter. We only change tapes every day. Come in the back, and I’ll rewind it for you.”

“Fine.” She turned to Dylan and beckoned him with a curled finger. “Come on.”

He walked toward her, an exaggerated swagger in his step that might have made her smile under different circumstances. “You’re about to lose your only suspect,” he said. “Bad day, eh?”

The two of them walked into the back office, and Sasha wrinkled her nose. The rancid pong of food left out for too long hung in the air like a damp fog.

“Smells in here.”

“Here,” Jake said, ignoring her. He pointed toward a small television, on which was the scene of the empty reception outside. He began to rewind the tape, and Sasha watched herself march backward out of the building. The small time display moved rapidly in reverse, and then she was looking at a video of Dylan, wearing the same clothes he was now, putting money down on the counter.

“Aren’t you supposed to get passport details?” she asked. Jack looked between her and Dylan, and she looked between them. “What?” she asked, turning to Dylan. “You pay more for privacy or something?”

“Yes,” Dylan admitted.

“Great. Okay, thanks, Jake.” She left the office, and ran her hand through her hair.

Dylan joined her at the front desk, and leaned against it. “Not all is lost,” he said after a pause. “We still have a date tonight.”

“You’re not off the hook yet, Dylan,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You know something, and you’re not telling me. I can tell.”

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the hallway leading to where all the rooms were. “I’ve got a cold drink in my fridge.”

He walked off then, leaving Sasha behind him, and, a little reluctantly, she followed him down the gloomy corridor.

*

“Here!” Dylan shouted as soon as he saw Sasha in the doorway. He threw her a bottle of water he’d retrieved from the mini-fridge. She caught in both hands. “Nice catch.”

“I played water polo when I was in school. I can catch.”

“Indoor pool?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t imagine the kids get to do much outdoor sports in this climate.”

“In the winter months the boys play rugby, as it’s a bit cooler. Girls play hockey. But it’s only for a couple of months, and only for half the class period.”

“Ah,” Dylan said. He was surprised. Just moments ago she had been all barbed-wire, and right now they were having a pretty normal chat, if a little banal.

“Please,” he said, gesturing at the stool next to the coffee table he was also seated at. “I’d offer you a better seat, but this is a pretty shitty motel.”