Chapter 13
We’re ten minutes into our stakeout when I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.
This is worse than sharing a bed. Much, much worse.
I wanted to find a place where we could easily observe the entrance to the show barn, assuming that if The Witch is going to plant some kind of magical device ahead of time, she’d sneak back into the barn under the cover of darkness.
But I don’t want her to see us before she sees us, so Grayson and I are hiding under the table near the front of the barn, a long white tablecloth hiding us from view of anyone who walks in.
It had seemed like the perfect hiding place. The problem is, it’s a very narrow table. Which means we’re sprawled on our stomachs, eyes fixed on the door, shoulders and hips pressed together in a way they haven’t been since I woke up yesterday all snuggled up against him.
Worse, Grayson smells good. Like way better than a man who spent the day in a pig pen and refused a good hose-down should smell.
Like bourbon and musk, but the expensive kind of musk they sell in a bottle and not, you know, animal musk.
Okay, a little bit like animal musk. But the sexy kind.
He doesn’t smell like a pig. That’s what I’m trying to say here.
I try to study him in my peripheral vision.
His hair falls over his forehead in a way that makes me think of a beach lifeguard, which makes no sense but I suppose his very nearness has muddled my brain.
He has a nose that looks like it’s been broken once or twice, and that does make sense because I certainly wanted to punch him when I first met him.
Now, unfortunately, I’m less interested in rebreaking his nose and far more interested in finding out just how firm those perfectly shaped lips are…
Jensen! What are you doing?
Not focusing on the job at hand, that’s for sure. The Witch could be creeping up to the building as we speak, and here I am wondering if Grayson is the kind of guy who cups the back of your head when he kisses you.
Grayson shifts slightly, his knee brushing mine as he settles into a slightly less uncomfortable position.
Is he thinking about what I’m thinking about?
Is it crazy to think he might be? I mean, we’re practically laying on top of each other here, both of us silent except for our soft breathing.
Would it be so insane for him to be thinking about how close we are, how easy it would be to move just a bit closer, our lips meeting in that small, cramped, hot space, our hands tugging at each other’s clothes, our bodies on fire with need.
He turns his head in my direction, and my heart just about stops. This is it. This is where he—
“Did you bring any snacks?” he whispers.
Oh.
I push down the disappointment. I mean, not disappointment. The relief that we’re on the same page. This is a stakeout. We’re professionals.
I just need to keep Sally’s stupid crush where it belongs—locked safely away in her fantasies. Certainly not here, under a table in a show barn filled with pigs and one very attractive medical examiner.
“We just ate dinner,” I hiss back.
“I know. But I’ll probably get a little snackish later.”
I’ve got a snack for you.
Obviously, Sally has slipped in where Cressida’s voice normally is.
“Stakeouts generally aren’t about snacks,” I say, a little louder than I should so as drown out that pesky internal voice.
I feel the rise of his shoulders as he shrugs. “The only thing I know about stakeouts is what I see on TV, and someone brings good snacks in every TV stakeout I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ve never been on a stakeout?”
He chuckles, a soft, warm sound that sends a flutter through my stomach. “Medical examiners pretty much just sit back and wait for the bodies to come to us.”
“Right.” Of course he’s never been on a stakeout.
We lay there in silence, occasionally moving slightly to stretch out a cramped limb.
I listen hard, hoping the dark-haired woman will show up, hoping I haven’t dragged Grayson out here based on an unfounded hunch, hoping that whatever happens, happens before I give in to the urge to push the hair back from his forehead.
“So, um…” I cast about, looking for a safe topic of conversation to distract my itchy fingers. “Why did you want to be a medical examiner?”
He’s quiet long enough that I fear he may have fallen asleep.
But when I turn to look at him, he’s clearly awake, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the barn.
“A lot of my patients are past the point of help,” he says finally.
Then he shakes his head. “Obviously, all of my patients are past the point of help. They’re dead.
But I mean, before that. I get a lot of drug overdoses and suicides and other deaths of despair.
I’m not saying they couldn’t be helped—they could, if we did things differently.
But we don’t, and so they die alone, forgotten, dismissed. ”
He shifts ever so slightly, turning his upper body toward me and propping himself up on one elbow.
“I think growing up as a pig shifter, I felt a little like that. Pigs are smart, you know. They’re like the best of dogs and cats put together, but people don’t want to see that because they’re also delicious.
And so when I look at the people society has forgotten, I know I can’t save them, but I can at least treat them with dignity and respect.
Maybe to most people it seems like it’s too late for that and it doesn’t matter, but…
” He draws in a breath, and I feel the warmth of his body against mine. “But I know it does.”
I don’t know what to say to that, and neither does Sally. Even Cressida is silent in my head.
Then he laughs again. “Sorry. That was heavier than I expected it to be. I just…” He tilts his head—as much as possible—toward the pig pens nearby, from which we can hear the occasional grunt. “It’s hard to be around all of them knowing what’s going to happen to most of them when the show is over.”
Right. Because Grayson is in the market boar division. The other pigs in his division will all be bacon in a matter of days.
“Can you talk to the other pigs?” I ask.
“Not talk, exactly. Communicate, yes. I can definitely tell what they’re feeling—fear, contentment. Often they’re just hangry.”
I want to reach over and touch his arm, squeeze his hand, something. But I don’t know what that will lead to, so I ball my hand into a fist to keep myself from touching him.
“Are you sure you’re not the hangry one?” I tease. “Maybe I should have packed snacks after all.”
“It feels like it should be a tradition,” he says, a smile playing about those beautiful lips. “Like, ‘Hey, we’re on a stakeout. Here’s my thermos of gazpacho.’”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “No one brings a thermos of gazpacho on a stakeout.”
“See? I have so much to learn from you.” He turns his body away so he’s lying on his stomach again. “You really think that woman might be The Witch?”
“Maybe.” There’s a hangnail on my thumb, and I worry it with my index finger, the minor flash of pain keeping me focused.
“Super convincing.”
“It’s just…” I sigh. “There’s something off about this threat.”
“I mean, yes. There’s definitely something off about threatening to blow up an event with hundreds of innocent people.”
“No, it’s more than that.” This is something that’s bothered me from the beginning, and the feeling that this isn’t right is just getting stronger.
I push myself up so that I’m sitting, my head bumping against the table above me.
“The Witch is kind of a snob. She attacks things like galas. Black-tie events. Places with red carpets and people with fancy titles. Why in the world would she be interested in a pig show that no one important is attending?”
“Well, thanks for that. It’s nice to know I’m no one important.”
I swat his shoulder lightly. “You know what I mean. Why a pig show? Unless…”
He nods. “Unless it’s not really The Witch. Unless this is a copycat using The Witch as cover.” He scoots around so that he is sitting cross-legged, facing me. “Like a vegan protestor.”
“Yes. Like a vegan protestor.”
“But would a vegan really blow up a building with dozens of pigs in it? Isn’t that against their belief system?”
“You’d be surprised at what people can justify doing.”
Like making out with your stakeout partner underneath a table in a pig barn.
And there’s Sally. Perfect.
But…just how wrong is she? Would it be the worst thing to kiss Grayson right now?
I mean, we’re not actually partners. We don’t work together.
We’re just two people shoved together for an assignment.
In a couple days, this will all be over and we’ll be back to our normal lives—him giving his patients a little final dignity and me hopefully back in Cressida’s good graces.
Would it be so wrong?
Grayson swallows. He has one hand on his knee, his fingers tapping out some rhythm I can practically feel in my bones. “Olive, I—”
And then we hear it.
The squeak of an unoiled door easing open.
Someone is breaking into the show barn. And I have a pretty good idea just who that person is.