The Fox and her Bear (Mating Call Dating Agency, #2) (7 page)

The barman snapped his suspenders and twisted the ends of his ample mustache. “Walruses live a long time, boy, a real long time. I remember what it was like before I ended up with Vera. Lots of heartbroken ladies, and a long string of disappointments.”

“Right,” Dawson said with a grin. “Let me guess, the disappointment was with how you
actually
were once you stopped trying to get in their pants?”

The old man closed his left eye, and scrunched up his nose. When he did that, his mustache pulled up just enough that you could see his bottom lip and he looked almost human. “You son of a bitch,” he said before howling with the sort of laughter that only a person who has spent a lifetime laughing can manage. It might sound like the most easy and natural thing in the world, laughing, but it takes practice to do right.

Dawson reached over the bar and shot himself a cup of water from the soda fountain. “Well, either way, thanks for setting me up and tricking me into getting a date with her.”

“She’s got some hair, huh?” Tenner said. “Vera’s used to look like that, you know.”

The old walrus got a wistful, far-off look in his old, drooping eyes.

“I didn’t know she was a redhead?”

“Oh no,” Tenner said. “I didn’t mean redheaded, I meant that she had a gigantic mane like Angie. Seems like a nice girl on top of that exciting hair, huh?”

Dawson was staring off in the distance remembering the way her skin felt under his fingers. “Yeah,” he said, not realizing quite how ridiculous of a smile he’d acquired. “She really does. I can’t wait to see her again. Tomorrow. Tonight, whichever it is. She’s great.”

Walruses have this way of laughing that sounds like it’s halfway between a clown horn and a guffaw. Tenner let out a series of those. “Get back to work, piano bear,” he said. “Otherwise you’re gonna give me a heart attack makin’ me laugh like an idiot.”

When quarter of ten rolled around, the bar was pretty well hopping. A football game let out a little early as one of the teams had too many injured shifters to continue, so the general mood was one of jovial happiness.

Dawson was the first to see the customer who was going to ruin the night. He’d stepped up to the bar to freshen his club soda when he saw a strange silvery flicker underneath a dark-clad stranger’s coat. The guy was sweaty, nervous looking, and very obviously having some kind of problem.

“You all right, friend?” Dawson asked, grabbing the guy’s shoulder to check for a holster. Old habits die hard. “You seem a little shaky? Had too much?”

“Shut up,” the sweaty stranger growled. “Nobody asked you.”

Dawson narrowed his vision, concentration on the man’s watery, almost eerie eyes. “I don’t like the way you look.”

“Who asked you?”

“He did,” Dawson nodded toward Tenner. “Go on, get out of here. Come back another night when you’re feeling better, friend.” Dawson reached for the guy’s hand, to try and help him out of the bar, but when he did the man pulled back fiercely.

“Leave me alone!” he snapped, sweat running down the sides of his face.

Dawson put his hands up, defensively. “Fine. Don’t make any moves you’ll regret.”

The big bear went back to his soda, and then sat at the piano, eyes never leaving the stranger, or the jerky, unsettling movements he made. A few moments later, the man shouted for Tenner to get him a beer.

Then, that silver flash came out of his jacket.

There were three blasts, and then Dawson threw himself across the room on pure instinct and adrenaline. He felt the bar slide underneath him, and the soaking wetness of beer glasses overturning as he went. In a split second, the hair on his arms and neck extended, his cheekbones twisted into a snout and those big, strong hands that had enthralled Angie so.

As his jaws closed around first a wrist and then a throat, he heard his oldest friend cry out in pain. He felt a crunch in his side, then another. He was aware, vaguely, that his entire side was being damaged, but with the adrenaline coursing through his veins at a thousand miles an hour, he didn’t feel any of it, not the barest hint.

More crunching, more shouting, outcries and screams.

And then before he knew it, the only sound in Dawson’s ears was the soft tinkle of broken glass, and the patient drip-drip of beer running off the bar and to the tile below. When he came back to himself, he was shaking, Tenner was holding his side, and the guy who had just pulled a gun was a bloody damn mess.

“What... what happened?” Dawson asked.

“You saved my damn life from that lunatic,” Tenner answered, standing as best he could, but then collapsing back onto the ground. “I got no idea why he was here, but... shit, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him.”

And somehow, with all that going on, as soon as the panic slid away, the only thing on Dawson’s mind was Angie, and how badly he wanted—no,
needed
—to see her. Thankfully, he knew that once someone called the police, she’d know.

His head went all fuzzy for a moment as Dawson slumped back over at his piano. There was a dull, thudding ache in the back of his skull just like there always was when he shifted. Warmth pooled in his hand where he rested his head and when he looked, he realized he’d sustained more damage than he thought. Blood ran down the side of his head, collecting in his short sideburns and the stubble along his jaw. “Did anyone call the police?” he asked. Tenner pointed at someone standing by the doorway with an old flip phone against his cheek.

Dawson felt his blood rise again. “I need to talk to her, get the phone, Ten.”

“You sure? You’re kinda tore up.” The old walrus was holding his side still, unsure on his feet but standing nonetheless.

“You need to sit,” Dawson said, coming to his senses and realizing how badly his friend was hurt. “You’re bleeding all over the place.” He grabbed Tenner around the shoulders and eased the old man to a stool.

“Oh hell, I’m fine. All this blubber is good for more than keeping me warm, you know.” He laughed, but winced as he did, once again clutching his side. “I think you need to make sure
you
aren’t hurt worse than you think you are. You got a hell of a gash in your side.”

Dawson looked down, touching the shreds that used to be the left part of his shirt. Blood marked his hand, and he knew he
should
be in pain, but he just wasn’t. “How did he cut me?”

Tenner shrugged, and winced again. “There’s glass all over the damn place. And when you were tearing him up, he dug into your side with a broken bottle I think. I owe you my life, Dawson,” he got very serious, “he woulda shot me right in the face.”

“You’ve saved my life over and over for the last ten years,” Dawson replied. “I owed you more than a few. This just ticks off one of the many. But who was that guy? Why would he come in here and start shooting?”

Tenner took a deep breath and clutched the wound in his shoulder. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. That’s Duke Denny, although, he’s a whole lot worse for wear since I saw him last.”

“So this wasn’t some random psychopath?”

Tenner shook his head. “I may have gotten into it with him about ten years ago. Just business stuff that I never took personally, but he clearly did. I didn’t know the guy, but at first he tried to partner with me on the bar. I wouldn’t do it, so then he tried to buy the building out from under me. Tried to, you know underbid me for the place, and offered full cash, that kind of thing. Real scumbag, you know? Luckily he had terrible credit, so the bank wouldn’t think of selling to him.” He let out a long sigh. “Damndest thing.”

Having momentarily forgotten his burning need to talk to Angie, Dawson tore the rest of his shirt and stuffed it against the worst of Tenner’s wounds. “Quit trying to get up,” he said, with a hand firmly on his old friend’s shoulder. “Ever since you took me in after the whole bridge thing, I’ve been trying to pay you back. Well, here we are.”

“Hey! He’s movin’!” A slurred, slightly inebriated voice called through the gentle silence that had settled over the bar. The only other sound in the room was the old vinyl-playing jukebox was slowly playing a 45 of Dylan singing
All Along the Watchtower
at what seemed to be 20 spins a minute. The old record was dragging. Dylan’s voice sounded like it was being dragged across a very fine cheese grater, which somehow just added to the emotional effect.

As the rumpled, bloody, bruised stranger hauled himself to his feet, Dawson calmly left Tenner, walked over to the man, and punched him right in the jaw. The stranger fell to the ground, stiffened, and started to shake. “He’s in shock,” Dawson heard Tenner say.

The old man’s voice was an echo in Dawson’s brain. An electric chill slid down his spine, tingling through the nerves all the way down to his fingertips. At the urging of his body, Dawson’s fingers curled, then his toes clenched up, dragging against the smooth leather inside his boots.

“Dawson?” Tenner shouted. Two bar patrons ran to his side, but it was too late. “Dawson?”

Tenner’s voice was an echo of a memory.

The huge bear tried to catch himself as he fell face first into the bar. A handful of patrons tried to hold him up but it was no good. He crashed backward against the bar, leaving a crimson streak as he slid to the floor.

His head hit the ground, bouncing twice; each one thumped out just a little more of his consciousness. As he finally slid fully into darkness, all he could hear was shouting and the noises of panic. But all he could think about?

Angie.

––––––––

“I
think he might need some help back there.” Tenner’s voice, and the words that led Angie back to meet her bear, kept running through her head all night long. Call after call, nothing could get her down. Not even pet squirrels being harassed by a bat. She was flying high, rolling hard, and generally just smiling a lot more than she should have been, given the circumstances of her job.

She couldn’t help but dwell on the way he smiled and the way he touched her shoulder in a completely non-creepy way. There wasn’t even a hint of moisture on his hand, so he was about six steps above anyone else she’d dated in
years
.

After the sixth call, Angie realized she’d been giving instructions to the cops in a sing-songy voice. Patrolman Williams, one of the oldest cops still driving the beat, had laughed at her over the radio and asked if she’d gotten laid. White Creek operates in a slightly more relaxed manner than most places on earth.

He laughed, she pretended to be embarrassed, and everyone had a good time. That is, until Colton sent a call over her way.

“Hey Ange?” he asked. “I think you should handle this one. I don’t really know how to...”

“Yeah all right,” she answered. “Part timers never know much.”

She’d snickered at him, but he looked genuinely concerned as he tapped the buttons to transfer the call.

“State your emergency?” she asked. This time she wasn’t doing any singing. “Hello?”

Crashing sounds, thudding sounds and some loud shouting drowned out whoever was trying to talk. She repeated her request, loud enough to be almost shouting. “Hello? Emergency?” The phone number was registered to Tenner’s, and when she saw that, her heart sank.

Colton looked over at her, and she shook her head, mouthing ‘I don’t know, can’t hear.’

She sent out a call to any patrols in the area to report. And then she heard the sickening
thonk
of a piano being hit in a way that pianos should never be hit. Angie grimaced, and immediately, Colton was at her side. “What is it?” he asked, grabbing her shoulder.

She bit her lip, trying not to believe, not to imagine, her worst fears. “It’s the bar – Tenner’s – the place Dawson works. I don’t know what’s going on, but it sounds like a fight, or a... hell, like a riot.”

“Angie? That you?” the ragged, gasping voice on the other end immediately throbbed in her canine chest. Her breath tightened, and before she knew it, she was breathing hard too. “Angie?”

“Are you okay?” she asked.  “Is anything going on still?”

She noticed then that the sounds had mostly died away. There was just a hint of speaking in the background. “No,” he said, still breathing heavily but calming somewhat. “I took care of it. But this place is a mess.”

Something about the way he answered made her
very
nervous. “What do you mean you handled it? Handled what? What are you talking about?”

Suddenly, the line went dead. She had no idea why, but Angie was starting to panic. She hardly even knew the guy and she was still worried about him getting hurt, hurting someone, or well, anything else. It was the not knowing that really stuck in her brain. Tingles of electricity shot through Angie’s scalp and down the back of her neck, raising the hairs as they went.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she was able to get through again. Hearing Dawson’s voice felt just about as good as a long bath. “What happened?” she asked.

“I can’t say, exactly,” he said. “Someone pulled a gun, I heard Tenner shout and then,” he paused. She heard him licking his lips, the stubble of his beard rasping under his tongue. “Well... you know.”

“No, I don’t,” she heard herself say. It was like an out of body experience with her brain leading the way. “What do you mean you handled it? And why did the line go dead just now?”

“Well... I guess instinct took over.  I mean, when I came to, the whole place was a mess. Tenner’s shot; hurt real bad, but I handled it. As far as the phone, God only knows,” he laughed in a way that obviously hurt. “Phone company’s never been that good.”

His voice was distant, as though he was trying to, himself, figure out what had happened.

“Are
you
okay?” she asked. “You sound like you’ve been through a war.”

She heard the sound of sirens coming through the receiver. Police were there, or at least were outside. He coughed with a little wheeze trailing off the end, and then groaned softly. “At least that’s what I was told. I was out for a while. I think I cracked a rib. Oh, they’re here, I gotta—”

The shouting and general chaos of a bunch of confused police bursting into a scene they didn’t know the exact situation of took over. She heard the phone hit the ground, and a lot of ‘get down!’ and ‘hands out of your pockets!’ She shouted his name into the phone, hoping that somehow someone would hear, even though Angie knew it wasn’t her place, wasn’t her business, she couldn’t help herself.