Damn him! Damn him to hell and back! Being all nice and well-spoken. Thank the Lord he was actually a good guy, because if he decided to become a serial killer, he could be worse than Ted Bundy! Luring girls in with his supermodel looks, sexy body, polite ways, and damn waffles!
“Are we okay?” he asked, and she hated him a little for making her want to ease his worry.
“Yeah. We’re okay.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you later.” Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek, taking Dee completely by surprise because he’d never done that before. He kissed his female friends all the time, like Teacup and Gwen, but Dee usually just got a little pat on the shoulder or back.
Before she did something weird like analyze what a kiss on the cheek from Ulrich Van Holtz meant, she simply walked away.
Once she was outside, she realized that she didn’t want to take the long trip home. Especially since the cabbies would never take her all the way to her apartment. God, when was the last time she’d been at her apartment anyway? It didn’t matter. She’d go stay with Rory. Maybe she’d get to toss another full-human female out on her ass. Much to her private shame, she enjoyed doing that sort of thing way too much.
CHAPTER 6
“Coffee! Coffee! Coffee!” Dez MacDermott barked until Cella Malone handed her the Starbucks cup.
Once she had several sips, she smiled at the taller female and said, “Thanks.”
“Are you like this every morning?”
“Not a morning person until I get the coffee.”
“Then maybe you should have coffee before you come to meet us.”
“I would have, but my fuck session with Mace this morning lasted longer than I thought it would, and then I had to shower, walk the dogs because Mace was all, ‘They’re not my dogs’ and I was all, ‘Fuck you, we’re married, they are your dogs’ and then I had to feed the baby and he was all fussy and clawing and then I had to feed Marcus, who was busy imitating his father by being all fussy and clawing.”
“Wow,” the She-tiger said. “You really needed that coffee. And kind of deserved it.”
“That’s my feeling.”
Dee-Ann walked up to them and now that Dez had her coffee, she greeted her with a cheery, “Hey, Dee-Ann!”
“Am I intimidating?”
Since Dez had bent back to nearly a U-shape because Dee was all up in her grill, Dez decided to lie. “Of course not.”
“It’s your freak eyes,” Cella told Dee-Ann while she buffed her dark-red painted nails and popped gum. Dee always wondered if that was a skill taught in all Long Island high schools. Like in Home Ec or something.
“My freak eyes?”
“Yeah. They’re freaky.”
“My eyes are not freaky. I got my daddy’s eyes.”
“Heard his eyes are freaky, too.”
Dez quickly stepped between the two females. Something Mace had made her promise not to do from the moment he’d heard about this new assignment.
“My eyes,” Dee-Ann said over Dez’s head, “are the same color as yours.”
“They are so not the same color as mine. My eyes are a beautiful, feline gold with a touch of green for mystery. Your eyes are a direct, blunt canine yellow.” She pointed to a pitbull tied up to a fire hydrant outside the café. “Like his.”
“You’re comparing me to a pitbull?”
“No. I find pitbulls sweet and cuddly and misused by man. You . . . not so much. Except maybe the misused part.”
“Ladies,” Dez cut in, desperate. “Can we please get to work?”
Dee-Ann held up several sheets of paper. “A list of fight locations that are owned by our own kind with addresses.”
“Great. I have a list, too,” Dez said, patting her backpack. “I had Mace take a look at them, see if he recognized anyone or had any juicy gossip.”
“Oooh,” Cella cheered, eyes gleaming. “Anything really good?”
“As a matter of fact, you will not believe what he told me about Lattie Harlow of the Harlow Pride out of Queens—”
“Work,” Dee-Ann pushed. “More work, less bullshit.”
Cella snapped her gum. “Fine, Working Dog.” She snatched the pages out of Dee-Ann’s hand. “Let’s get to work. Especially since I have an exhibition game tonight with the Carnivores.”
With one more snap and pop of her gum, Cella walked out.
“Don’t let her get to you, Dee-Ann.” Dez told Dee.
“I’m not. And maybe I can handle a couple of the interviews.”
“Or,” Dez hastily countered, “you can start off with basic questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like to hit public records before we see these people directly. See if there’s anything else there.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me—”
“If you can handle public servants, Dee-Ann, you can handle interviewing anybody. As a cop . . . I know this.”
Dee-Ann grunted in reply and walked out, and Dez went back to the counter and ordered herself two more cups of coffee. Because she knew this was going to be a really long day.
It was a busy, midweek lunch rush and Ric’s kitchen was one dropped pan away from being “in the weeds.” Thankfully, they’d managed to avoid that and keep the food going out as quickly as possible without any major errors that would have his head exploding and him ripping into one of his crew.
He slammed two plates down on the board. “Table ten up!” he called out and spun toward his oven, but stopped short when he scented one of his own through all those meats, herbs, blood, and other breeds.
Ric looked up, his eyes narrowing, fangs sliding from his gums. With one leap, he was over the kitchen island, ignoring his scrambling-away crew, and latching on to the arm of the wolf trying to slink in. He yanked him into the hallway and out the back door into the alley. With one shove, he sent the kid slamming into the opposite wall.
“What the hell are you doing here, Stein?”
Stein Van Holtz, one of Ric’s younger first cousins, winced and moved his shoulder around. “No need to be so pushy.”
“Out,” Ric ordered. “Or I’m sending my chief sommelier after you. She’s a sloth. She’ll beat you to death with one of the wine bottles.” Ric turned to walk back into his restaurant.
“Wait!”
Ric stopped, his hand on the alley door.
“Please.”
Ric glanced back at the kid. He didn’t look good. He was too lean, looked too old. He wasn’t getting enough food and his body was beginning to feed on itself.
“I know how you feel about me,” Stein said. “I know how all of you feel about me. And . . . and you’re right, too. I fucked up. I know.” He scratched his forehead, struggling to find the right words. “I just need you to give me one more chance, Ricky. I hate that I have to ask. I hate that I have to beg, but I need—”
“What?” Ric demanded, facing him. “Money? How much do you owe this time?”
Stein winced. “I don’t want money.” He stopped, shook his head. “That’s a lie. I do want money.”
“Of course.”
“But I want to work for it. I’m not asking for a handout.”
“You expect me to trust you in my kitchen again? After last time?”
“I have no excuse for what I did last time. I know that.” Stein looked down at his feet. He wore Keds. Worn ones that seemed to be holding on by a few threads. His T-shirt and jeans didn’t look much better, and the denim jacket would be too small for him if he were his proper weight. This definitely wasn’t the cocky con artist who had sold spare equipment and expensive cuts of meat and seafood out of the back of Ric’s kitchen for three months. Right under Ric’s nose, too. And, because of that, Ric had felt certain he’d lose his kitchen to one of his other relatives. Losing one’s kitchen was the worst thing that could happen to a Van Holtz wolf, but Uncle Van had stepped in and overruled Ric’s father.