There was a knock on the door, but my response was a loud groan.
“Rise and shine, Mistress Tequila!” Remi shouted through my steel door, thumping once for good measure. “Got to get up, love. Boss wants to see us.”
I ran my fingers through Frankie's wavy hair, too lazy to find a comb. After wiping a spot of drool from the corner of my mouth, I wrenched open the door, still clad in the wrinkled camisole and the panties that I had slept in.
I pushed my arms over my head to yawn. My jaw unhinged like a shark. The lower part of Frankie's toned stomach exposed.
Remi's eyes studied my form, traveling up Frankie's long legs, over her flat stomach and cleavage until they rested on my eyes.
Remi cleared his throat. “Davenport’s office.” He reminded me with a husky grunt, averting his eyes.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me.
“Aren’t you going to put some clothes on?” Remi laughed, gesturing to my erect nipples.
I shrugged but did not smile. “I literally feel like canine shit. If I bend down, I will barf.”
“Fair enough.”
We walked to Davenport's office in silence. His PA's desk was empty because it was so early. The sun had only been up a short while; although a few of the Hunters were jogging the perimeter, I had noticed that the admin staff didn’t start until later in the day.
Hugo was already in Davenport's office. His arms flailed wildly; his cheeks flushed red under Davenport's laser point scrutiny. I wondered if Hugo was pinning the blame on me for our drunken jaunt.
I didn’t get what the problem was. We were all adults.
“I’m going to get some coffee, you want one?” Remi asked, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.
“Irish. Thanks.”
Remi shook his head and chuckled. I had a feeling that he hadn’t taken me seriously.
A few seconds later, when I stood alone in the waiting room, I tiptoed to the side of the door without glass and pressed my ear against the wood. Gooseflesh covered my bare legs. I rubbed the skin and groaned internally because I had forgotten that humans could feel the temperature.
I heard the low rumble of voices and found myself squished against the door until I could almost make out what they were saying.
“That woman is not Frankie Gardiner.” Hugo declared hotly.
“What makes you say that?” Davenport was cool as a cucumber.
“She’s so... She... She just isn’t.” The incubus spluttered. “She doesn’t wear her gloves! She drinks, she flirts!”
“Surely, we can make allowances for Ms. Gardiner. She has just come out of a coma.” Davenport's voice was low with warning. “If you have any issues with her behavior, I can assure you that she will be punished for last night.”
Hugo huffed. “She’s different.”
“Frankie Gardiner is your fellow Hunter. She needs your support.” Davenport said.
I wrenched my face away from the door and floated back to my chair. Numb, my thoughts faced as I lowered myself into my seat.
Hugo knew.
It was only a matter of time before everyone else did. I pressed my head into my hands. Useless. Flighty. Unfocused. Immature. All of the words that Dirk had used to describe me in the past floated through my head until I clenched my fists hard. Feeling the bite of my nails dig into the palm of my hands.
“Are you okay?” Remi said. I hadn’t heard him approach. He stood next to me, holding two reusable coffee cups. One had a picture of a witch on a broom on it, and the other had a unicorn. He handed me the unicorn.
I took a sip. No whiskey.
“I'm great,” I replied.
His lips vibrated like a buzzer. “Psst. Lie.”
Hugo opened the door to Davenport’s office and slipped into the waiting room. He startled when he saw both of us.
“Hey guys,” Hugo murmured, looking down at his shoes.
I thought about his conversation with Davenport. I couldn’t exactly call him out on it without validating what he had said. Instead, I settled for a tight-lipped grin.
“What's the damage?” Remi took a sip of his coffee.
“You and I are on instructor duty for the rest of the week. Frankie has to clean out the K9 unit.” Hugo glanced back at Davenport's office.
“Can I eat breakfast first?” I moaned, rubbing my churning belly. “How are you even upright?”
Hugo shrugged. “I have a high tolerance for alcohol.”
My tolerance was as high as my host body, and Frankie Gardiner was not a drinker.
“This is so unfair!” I buried my head in my hands again. Willing the room to stop moving. “I feel like I am dying.”
“So much for feeling 'great,'” Remi mocked, quoting my earlier words back to me. “Just pray that Sgt Hart is in a good mood...”
Callum Hart, aka Sgt Hart, was not in a good mood. He was an evil man who had no sympathy for my pain, even after he caught me vomiting behind the kennel. He'd just glanced down at the puddle of puke and then back at my damp face, handed me a bag of sawdust, and told me to 'sort the mess.'
I didn’t even get to see any of the dogs, as they were with their handlers running drills in the next field over.
After helping to clear up the poop from the enclosed grassy area, and refilling all of the water bowls, I sat on the fence and watched Sgt Hart as he threw the various dog toys littered around the grass into the chest on the other side of the fence. He hit his aim every time.
After watching him make a few nearly impossible throws, I began to cheer and whoop. His marmalade eyes turned to mine and scowled.
“This is meant to be a punishment.” He sniffed.
“It’s more fun to watch you.”
Hart scoffed and turned around, continuing his task. He ignored me for a few minutes; I twiddled my thumbs—unsure of what to do. A few seconds passed, I looked up into Hart's scrutinizing gaze. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog trying to solve a puzzle.
He handed me a tennis ball. “Throw this,” Hart demanded as he pointed at the toy chest on the other side of the yard. With a shrug, I wound my arm back and threw it. It fell fifteen feet from the toy chest and bounced off the grass.
Callum Hart's expression fell flat. He stepped into my personal space, causing me to lean back to continue to look into his eyes. I spread my knees; he advanced until he was between my legs. His nose trailed along the crown of my head, scenting me.
Arousal flared in my core; I had to close my eyes to focus on keeping the oil slick away. I felt the darkness in my chest and clamped down on it. Hoping to the Seven Circles that I had a tight reign on my nightmares.
My eyes fluttered open when I felt Hart's warmth leave mine. My fingertips tingled with the need to reach forward and touch him.
I almost did—until I caught sight of his grim expression. My hand curled in on itself as I pulled it back and gripped the fence under my butt.
“You are not Frankie Gardiner,” Hart stated. His voice was anger and gravel.
I opened my mouth to speak, but decided against it. Anything that I could say would make it worse.
“Your aim is shit.” He continued. His eyes pinned me to the spot. “You do not smell like Corporal Gardiner.”
I blinked slowly. I was delighted that I had remembered to put Frankie's gloves on that morning. I opened my mouth to argue that I was too hungover to aim accurately, but his hand lashed out and gripped my neck before I could speak. Too fast for my eyes to track the movement. His speed was impressive. His orange eyes glowed as his fingers tightened around my throat. They did not squeeze, but his grip was firm. Enough to discourage any movement.