Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
FIVE YEARS LATER
Mostly, I love my job. It’s fantastic.
Except when it sucks balls.
And not the good way, either—there’s no enjoyment to be had from this kind of ball sucking. Unless you’re the ginormous hellhound currently “hiding” under my dining table. He probably likes sucking his own balls.
Ugh, now I need brain bleach. I do not want to think about my best friend that way.
“I swear to almighty fuck, if you don’t get out from under there and out of my house, I’m going to drag you to a human vet, have you castrated, and poison you with your own fucking balls!
” It’s an empty threat, of course, since he’d just have to shift before we got to the vet to avoid having his nuts hacked off, but I’m hoping it’s suitably scary to make him come out…
and get out. The worst damn thing about shifters is that the only lock they can’t open is the one on their smartphones.
Seriously. Back before facial recognition, I watched a shifter stroll through a dozen doors with heavy-duty locks on them like they weren’t even there, and then spend twenty minutes trying to unlock his phone to send a text saying he was in… and fail.
I laughed a lot that day.
Not like now.
Now, I’m stuck dealing with a fucking shifter who has no understanding of boundaries. I just wanted one night to myself. One.
“Don’t make me warn you again, Alistair,” I growl, although it’s a pretty pitiful effort compared to what he can do.
It seems to do the trick, though, and he finally slinks out from under the table and looks up at me with a pleading puppy-dog gaze.
Because, yes, hellhounds can be just as adorable as any other dog.
Any dog that’s nearly four feet high and looks like it’s stepped out of your nightmares to eat you, that is.
I harden my heart and shake my head. “Shift and get out.”
The hound whines, and then there’s a… I have no idea what to call it, despite having watched it happen for years.
It’s not a flash of light, because there’s no brightness.
It’s some sort of distortion of light, though.
Anyway, a moment later, there’s a six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, incredibly buff man wearing chinos and a polo shirt standing where the hound was.
Until I met Alistair, I had no idea hellhounds were so into Abercrombie and Ralph Lauren. I mean… who woulda thunk it? If someone had asked me what the human version of a hellhound would wear, I would have imagined a biker vibe. Chains and leather, yeah?
No. I made the mistake of mentioning that to Alistair once and got a diatribe on stereotyping and how hurtful it can be.
“Time to go,” I declare, pointing toward the front door.
Alistair sighs and hangs his head.
“Now.”
He pouts. “But, Sam—”
“No. No, no, no. Nope.”
“But I’m having a terrible day and I haven’t told you about it.”
“For the millionth time, I am not your therapist. ” Alistair has this idea that because I’m human, I can give advice from a different perspective.
It caught on at the office, and I’ve somehow become their unofficial agony aunt.
Hence the appearance of hellhounds, demons, and incubi on my doorstep at all times of the day and night.
He huffs, turns in the direction of the door, takes six steps, and flops down on the couch.
“I’ve met the most amazing man in the universe,” he declares. I look around. Have I actually been talking to myself? You heard me tell him to leave, right?
“I don’t care. Go home.” I don’t move from where I’m standing. If I give an inch, he’ll take it as permission to continue.
“He’s handsome, kind, intelligent, and he has the hottest little body….”
Of course, I don’t actually need to give an inch for Alistair to take that mile.
“…asked me to go home with him, and I was halfway to the door, but then his boyfriend turned up and had a hissy fit. Which is why I’m here with blue balls instead of fucking the perfect man.” He heaves another sigh. “Why are you humans so emotionally delicate?”
I blink. I wish I could tell you this is an unusual question, but sadly, it’s not.
“Humans aren’t emotionally delicate. The poor guy was about to get cheated on. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Alistair rolls his eyes. “He just kept yelling and whining—”
“Shut up,” I interrupt. “He was allowed to be upset. His boyfriend was about to cheat on him. You’re ridiculously possessive; you should understand not wanting to be cheated on.” I’ve seen him get pissy over someone borrowing a pen, for fuck’s sake.
“That’s not something I can ever understand. I will never be cheated on,” he declares. “After all, who wouldn’t do everything in their power to keep me in their life?”
“I wouldn’t. In fact, why don’t you leave now so I can prove it?”
He laughs. “Thanks, Sam. You always know how to make me feel better.” He puts his feet on the coffee table. “What’s for dinner?”
I give in and go collapse on the couch beside him. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Nope.” He turns his head and smiles at me. “If I can’t have sex, you’re the next best option.”
Great. I grimace. “Pizza?” I can’t be bothered cooking.
“Sure. I’ll order it.” He pulls out his phone and hands it to me, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Why don’t you just use the facial recognition?
I’ve been meaning to ask that for ages.” I take the iPhone and input the code he tells me.
Honestly, I have no idea how it is that shifters can’t do this.
It’s the weirdest fucking thing. Code or fingerprint—neither will work for them.
Yet they can easily use the same features to access apps once the phone has been unlocked.
Luckily, the advent of facial recognition seems to have leveled the field.
“I’ve got it set up,” he says glumly, taking it back and bringing up the app for a local pizza place. “But I don’t want to use it unless it’s absolutely necessary. Just in case it realizes what I’m doing and evolves to shut me out.”
I open my mouth to tell him how utterly ridiculous that sounds, but then close it. Who knows? Maybe he’s right. After all, it makes no sense that even if he puts in the correct code, it won’t unlock.
Either way, I can’t be fucked arguing about it. Instead, I turn on the TV and wonder how I got stuck having dinner with a hellhound when all I wanted was some quiet time alone.
Surprisingly—or not, really. He knows me well by now—Alistair isn’t too much of a nuisance.
We only argue about what to watch a few times, he doesn’t snap or threaten to claw me when I reach for a second slice of pizza—although he looks a bit grim when I snag a third—and he leaves fairly early.
Aside from the whole letting himself in despite the locked door and then thinking he can escape my wrath by shifting and hiding under the table, he’s an okay friend.
Who am I kidding? He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
I lock the door, which won’t stop Alistair or any of my other shifter colleagues from getting in, then put a chair in front of it, which should make enough noise if someone comes in that I’ll at least wake up.
You have no idea how disturbing it is to get up in the morning to find a hellhound making pancakes in the kitchen while an incubus surfs through all your cable channels and complains about the lack of options.
Fuck, I’m so glad I took that job.
I wasn’t, at first. Even after that first day and the almost-confrontation with Gideon that left me feeling like garbage, I had to go through some hazing.
Have you ever found a giant stuffed dog in your shower? Or a dozen stuffed puppies in your dishwasher? Has anyone ever programmed your Google Home assistant to howl every time you asked it to do something?
Those were just a few of the welcome-to-the-team gifts from my hellhound colleagues.
Honestly, if Harold had told me before I took the job that shifters could get through locks without even trying and that they would try to get me to sign legal papers for them to adopt me, I probably would have said “no thanks” and kept looking for a different job.
By the time I realized how… intense they really were, I was already comfortably settled.
And really, it’s nice to be wanted. I’ve been on my own for a long time.
I kind of like being able to complain about how clingy my guys are.
About two years after I started working with CSG, Harold and his boss, Geoffrey, asked me to move to an emergency response team.
I’m quick to action jobs, efficient, and can deal with even the most annoying agents (there’s an unofficial medal amongst the admin staff.
I’ve won it three years out of the last five).
The emergency response teams are basically the first responders of the community.
I politely declined. It’s a higher-paid job and generally considered more prestigious, but my team kicked up a fuss that just wasn’t worth dealing with.
The thing is—and this is why I wanted a night to myself—Harold and Geoffrey have asked me for a meeting tomorrow.
I meet with Harold all the time and Geoffrey occasionally, but the only time I’ve met with both together was when they offered me that job.
So… maybe they’re going to offer me another one. And this time, I might be interested.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my team. I’m really attached to them.
But five years in the same job, even if it is interesting and exciting, is more than I’ve ever done before, and I’m ready for a change.
There’s going to be a vacancy in one of the emergency response teams starting in two weeks, and the faster pace would be a fun change.
So I wanted tonight to think it over and decide if I want to take the job—that is, if they offer it to me. I might be jumping the gun a little.
Either way, I won’t know until tomorrow.