Bite Me

CHAPTER 3

Livy stepped out of the elevator and headed toward her office. As she walked, she heard her name. People calling out a greeting of some kind, but she didn’t reply. She wasn’t big on greetings. She found them irritating.

Moving down the hall, Livy didn’t look into the other offices. She didn’t look up at the people walking by. She just kept her head down and traveled on. That was how Livy mostly traveled . . . unless she had her camera out.

Livy pushed open the door to her office and stepped inside. She didn’t have a giant office on the underground floors of the Sports Center, where shifters of all kinds came to play their dangerous shifter games, but it was still a good size for what was essentially a staff photographer position.

Two or three years ago, Livy never would have come to the Sports Center. She’d never have had a reason. But financially things had changed. At one time, Livy had been on her way up. She’d traveled to many parts of the world and taken the kind of photographs that she knew future artists would study. But then, well . . . she’d had some . . . issues. A few editors she’d argued with. A few countries she’d pissed off. And her family’s reputation always haunted her.

Her cousin Jake had, on more than one occasion, kindly offered to give her a whole new identity. He could have, too. That was his specialty. But Livy didn’t believe in running. Whether it was running from who she was or running from a pissed-off hyena, it went against everything she’d been taught by her parents.

Honey badgers don’t run. They fight.

Of course, it was kind of hard to fight when a country revoked one’s visa to get their dislike of you across.

Although, at first, none of that mattered. Sure, they could take away her visas, deny her access to the Louvre without armed guards shadowing her, and keep forcing her to go to goddamn anger management classes. But the one thing they could never do was take her art from her.

Unfortunately, though, it seemed she’d done that to herself.

After a year of taking pictures of guys who considered sports an actual career, Livy no longer thought of herself as an artist. She was once considered a prodigy, but now she was just some chick who took pretty pictures of physically perfect people. It was not a challenge.

It was a job.

Livy dropped her backpack on the floor and plopped into the chair behind her desk. There were stacks of proofs for her to review. Pictures of shifters from tristate teams that played football, hockey, soccer, basketball, and whatever else that she didn’t give a shit about.

These were the pro teams. Or as Livy liked to call them, the “teams with all the penises.”

Okay. True. That wasn’t fair. Unlike full-human sports, there were many females on the pro shifter teams. But most of them were She-bears and big-armed tigresses. So Livy wasn’t sure that counted.

Livy sat at her desk, staring straight ahead, her phone vibrating in her back pocket, her PC pinging away, telling her that e-mail was arriving.

Livy ignored it all.

But she couldn’t really ignore the tall, beautiful woman who suddenly filled her doorway. Well, she could ignore her, but she’d tried that before and got hit in the face for her trouble. The reasoning? “I was worried you were dead. . . . I was just checking that you weren’t. Aren’t you glad someone cares?” Cella Malone had asked at the time with no sense of irony.

“Hey, Livy.” And here came the requisite sad face. The expression everyone used when someone they knew had a death in the family, but they didn’t actually know the person who’d died. Toni had burst into tears at the news. But she’d known Damon Kowalski well, once even managing to get Livy’s father to pay for art school by using an extreme level of guilt.

More sad face from the She-tiger who coached the New York Carnivores hockey team. “How ya doin’, hon?”

Livy briefly debated not answering and seeing if the female would just leave, but . . . she wasn’t in the mood to be hit. Again.

“I’m fine.”

Cella gave her the “Be brave, little one. Be brave” expression.

Unable to keep up the façade anymore—and for Livy, five seconds of keeping up the façade was damn near a record—she asked, “Need something, Cella?”

“I know it’s your first day back . . .” And Livy watched the She-tiger actually struggle with the mere idea of giving Livy work “at this difficult time.”

Putting it down to Irish-Catholic guilt, something even Catholic honey badgers never worried about, Livy decided to let the woman off the hook.

“It’s all right,” Livy soothed. “I, uh, need something to do to get my mind off things.” That was what people said when they were going through mourning, right? It sounded right. Like something she heard on one of those made-for-TV movies she’d had on in the background last night while she was up playing computer games.

“If you’re sure,” Cella hedged.

“I’m sure. What do you need?”

Malone held up an eight-by-ten picture of one of her players. “Is it possible we can make him look less . . . serial killer-y?”

Livy stared at the picture. “The man is seven-five, he weighs nearly five hundred pounds, and he’s missing part of his face.”

“Not missing it.” Malone looked at the picture. “Those are just claw marks . . . from his wife. A lovely She-lion.” She leaned in a bit and whispered, “Given during the throes of passion, I’ve heard.”

“So I don’t need to put ‘How to Stop Domestic Violence’ pamphlets in his locker?”

The She-tiger gazed at Livy, not getting the tacky joke at all. Before this job, Livy had spent most of her time with full-humans. Like most HBs, who either hung around other HBs or full-humans. It was rare for a honey badger to be around so many other breeds and species of shifters, and Livy often had to remind herself that life among shifters was . . . different. Shifter males often respected their mates because if they didn’t they knew the repercussions would be swift and long-term. Cops were rarely involved. Shelters never used. So those tacky jokes she heard around full-humans—that she, tragically, was not above using—most shifters never got.

Livy’s father once pushed Livy’s mother during a fight, around the time his drinking had just begun to get bad. Joan Kowalski retaliated by pinning his hand to the kitchen table with a steak knife. The move, of course, didn’t kill him . . . but it reminded Damon how far he could go with a fellow shifter. Especially a female one.

“Do you want me to take the scars out? Or rebuild his jaw?” Livy finally asked when the She-tiger continued to just stare at her.

“I don’t know if his fans would like that.” Cella continued to study the pictures. “Maybe we could put a hat on him.”

Livy scratched her cheek. “A hat? You want me to take the picture with him wearing a hat?”

“Uh-huh. Just cover his face a bit.”

A couple of years ago, this would be where Livy would jump up, snarl she couldn’t work under these conditions, and storm out. Unless the photo editor was rude about his feedback; then Livy would just go for his face. This time, though, the fight completely out of her, Livy just shrugged and said, “Sure. Let’s use a hat.”

Malone blinked and now studied Livy. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” Malone placed the photo on Livy’s desk and walked to the doorway. She stopped, looked back at Livy, nodded, and walked out.

Once she was alone, Livy spun her chair away from the door so that she faced the wall behind her. She had some proofs of shots she was planning to use for her gallery show but she didn’t even see them. She didn’t see anything. She just stared straight ahead and waited. For what? Livy had no idea.

“How do you tolerate that noise?” Dee-Ann Smith asked, her cold, dead, dog-like eyes glaring. She sat behind a desk with absolutely nothing on it. No computer. No paper. No phone. Not even a little lamp. There was just a chair on one side, two chairs on the other, and a metal desk in between. And there was just something so damn disturbing about that. The woman had missed her true calling as a Soviet agent during the Cold War. The Communists might have actually won with her on their side.

Vic shrugged. “What noise?”

“That noise.” She pointed at Shen, who sat next to him, munching on his bamboo.

“What about it?” Vic asked her.

“That doesn’t annoy you?”

“Not as much as it’s obviously annoying you.” Vic raised his hands, then lowered them. “Did you hear anything I just told you?”

Before Dee-Ann could answer, Cella Malone suddenly slid into the doorway, her shoulder hitting the defenseless wood there.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cella said, smiling at Vic and Shen. “What are we talking about?”

“Was wondering if that bamboo eatin’ gets on ol’ Vic’s nerves.”

Vic’s mouth dropped open at Dee’s words. That was her main concern?

Cella, now standing beside Dee on the other side of the desk, placed her hands on her hips and stared down at Shen. “I think I could get used to it. Besides, as a male, there are definitely worse things he could be doing.”

Dee grunted. “You have a point.”

“And let’s face it, you canines have a very low tolerance for sounds.”

“All shifters are sensitive to sound.”

“We are, but you guys get weirded out by the most minor noises. And when I’m traveling with the team and we all hear a siren, only the canines start all that goddamn howling.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a good howl, feline. Better than hissin’ like a slowly deflating air bag.”

“I’m getting cranky,” Vic announced and he watched the two females slowly turn their attention directly on him. “Cranky,” he growled out between clenched teeth.

“Problem?” Dee-Ann asked him.

“Why did I come all this way if it was a waste of time?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get paid for your information.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Vic saw Shen wince. And with good reason. He wasn’t some rat like Bohdan, running around, passing out info for coins or to get out of trouble. And it annoyed him when people acted like he was.

Vic stood and stepped around Shen’s legs.

“Hold up, hoss.”

“We’re done, Dee-Ann.”

“Wait.”

Vic stopped.

“Close the door, hoss.”

Vic glanced back at Dee-Ann. After a moment, he stepped back and closed the door.

Dee-Ann moved from the chair to her desk, resting her ass against the metal. She motioned to Cella and the She-tiger leaned in. They whispered back and forth to each other for nearly a minute before they focused on him again.

Finally, Vic couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s going on?”

“Management,” Cella said, “has been backing off finding Whitlan.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Few months.”

“Why?”

“We’re not sure. But they’re definitely not putting the resources to it that they had been.”

“But we ain’t giving up,” Dee-Ann said flatly.

“We’ve been given different assignments, but we just can’t let this go,” Cella explained.

“You can’t work on it openly, though,” Vic guessed.

“We have other assignments. But if you have some free time . . .”

“You want me to do what three major organizations haven’t been able to do in more than two years.”

Dee-Ann grinned. “Yup.”

“Hi, Livy!”

Livy, working hard not to sigh, swiveled her desk chair around and gazed at the wolfdog standing in her doorway. How painful is this particular conversation going to be? Most days she could easily tolerate Blayne Thorpe. It was fun to torment the long-legged wolfdog. Cruel, but fun.

But today . . . today was not a good day.

“What’s up, Blayne?”

“You busy?”

No, but she lied. “A little.”

“I’ll keep it really short then,” she promised as she moved into the office.

“Okay.”

Once Blayne was in, she immediately held up her hands and said, “First off, I’m so sorry to hear about your father.” She put her hands on her chest. “My heart just broke for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

Livy knew that saying she was “fine” would just lead to Blayne making it her mission in life to prove how far from fine Livy was, so she said instead, “As well as can be expected.”

“I understand. And I promise not to keep you. I just desperately need your help.”

“With what?”

“Well, you know my and Gwen’s wedding is coming up.”

“I’m sure you two will be really happy together.”

Blayne frowned, head tilting to the side like a confused Labrador. Then her eyes grew wide and she laughed. “No, no! We’re having a double wedding. I’m marrying Bo and Gwen’s marrying Lock.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I let Gwen handle a few things, which initially was working really well. But she had a little fight with one of our vendors and did that thing she does with her neck.”

Livy frowned. “What thing she does with her neck?”

“Trust me . . . if you ever see it . . . you’ll know what I mean. Anyway, we’re kind of in a bad way and I’m hoping you can help us out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I was wondering if you’d be our photographer!” She grinned that big Blayne grin, but Livy couldn’t even really see it.

“I’m sorry . . . what?”

“You do such nice work and Gwen doesn’t scare you at all. So it would be perfect.”

“Are you asking me to be your . . .” Livy swallowed down the bile in her throat. “Your wedding photographer?”

“I know it’s a lot of work. I do. But it would really help me out. And we don’t want video or anything. Just those lovely pictures you do.”

Livy would later realize that although she heard and knew the words coming out of Blayne Thorpe’s mouth, she didn’t really understand anything at the moment except one thing . . . she was being offered a wedding photography job.

Wedding photography.

Wedding. Photography.

Livy Kowalski. A wedding photographer.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Blayne went on, oblivious. “But we have every intention of paying you very well. I won’t ask for a friend discount or anything.” She laughed. “So just let me know!”

Blayne started to walk out, stopped, faced Livy. “And again, I’m really sorry about your dad.”

Then she walked away.

Leaving Livy unable to do anything else but stare at that doorway and wonder when exactly her life had completely fallen into the very pits of hell.

Vic didn’t know what was wrong with him. Why did he agree to things he didn’t want to do? But he had agreed.

You’re an idiot.

“I don’t do wet work,” Vic reminded the two females.

“Don’t worry,” Cella said with a smile. “You find him, Smith and I will take care of the rest.”

“Any idea who these packages your contact told you about were going to?” Dee-Ann asked.

“No. They were routed through several countries. It won’t be easy to track, but at least one of them was headed to Miami, Florida. I think we’ll start there. We’ll head out tonight.”

Dee thought a moment. “What about Whitlan’s kid?”

“Allison?” Cella asked. “We checked her apartment. Remember? Livy went in for us last year. She didn’t find anything that pointed to Allison Whitlan knowing where her father is. Or that she has contact with him at all.”

“He abandoned her and her mother before she was even five,” Vic told them. “She may not want to be in touch with him.”

“It’s been a year. Things might have changed.” Dee-Ann scratched her arm. “Think Livy would help us again?”

Vic shrugged. “I can ask.”

“Ask.” Dee-Ann slid off her desk and Vic knew she was done with them. “Barinov, you don’t discuss what you find with anyone but either me or Cella.”

“All right.” Vic opened the office door.

“And let us know if you have to leave the country again.”

“I will.”

He walked out, Shen right behind him.

While they waited for the elevator, Shen asked, “Are we doing this for free?”

“I don’t know.”

“Isn’t that something we should find out ahead of time?”

“They asked me to do them a favor.”

“You could have said no.” Vic looked at Shen. Still eating bamboo, the giant panda shrugged and added, “Just sayin’.”

The elevator doors opened and both men stepped in.

“So where to now?” Shen asked.

“Get something for Livy. You know . . . to cheer her up.”

“Flowers?”

Vic stared at the panda. “I thought we agreed last night she wouldn’t want flowers?”

“Yeah, but when I thought about it again . . .”

Sighing, Vic admitted, “Some days you make me want to tear your arms off.”

Shen nodded. “Surprisingly, I understand that.”

Unable to resolve how her life had come to this, Livy ended up where she felt most comfortable in her office—under her desk. It was a small space under there because of the desk drawers, so it gave her the illusion of being in a nice burrow.

And that’s where Livy stayed until the smell of roses, lilies, and some other annoying flowers filled her sensitive nostrils.

She tried to ignore the smell but it kept getting more potent as someone moved in and out of her office. Repeatedly.

She sniffed the air, trying to ignore the flowers and center on the person.

Vic. It was Vic in her office. With flowers.

Confused and curious, Livy quietly crawled out from under the desk and peeked around the corner of it to see Vic Barinov bringing in another giant flower display as well as a large fruit basket.

Getting to her knees, Livy asked, “What are you doing?”

Vic stopped and looked at her. “Were you under the desk?”

“Yes.”

“Are you always under the desk?”

“Not always.”

He shrugged, walked out, came back with another basket. This time filled with an array of cookies.

“Vic?”

“We couldn’t agree.”

“Who couldn’t agree . . . what?”

“It’s Shen’s fault,” he complained, which really didn’t answer her question.

“Okay.”

“First he said you wouldn’t want flowers. Then today, he thought you might, although he had no empirical proof regarding the veracity of that belief.”

“Empirical proof?”

“Right. So I brought you flowers. And cookies.” He walked out of her office. “I also,” he said from the hallway, “got you a plant.” And he came in with a five-foot-tall standing plant that he put in a corner. Christ, Livy was only five-one.

“And,” he said, gesturing at two other baskets, “food.” He pointed at one basket. “Nuts and fruits, nuts being the emphasis of the overall basket.” He pointed at the other. “Fruits and nuts, with fruits being the emphasis.” Went back into the hallway and came in with another basket. “And meats and fish.”

He placed the baskets in front of her desk.

“And”—he walked out again and quickly returned with one more basket—“honey. European and American. They didn’t have any African or Israeli bee honey.”

Glancing around the room, he finally settled on placing that basket beside the standing plant.

Resting back on her heels, Livy asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you bringing me anything?”

“It’s what people do when a friend suffers a loss.”

“We’re friends?”

“I just bought you all these baskets, so we better be.”

Vic had always found Livy . . . unusual. Cute. Really hot, when she wasn’t ripping a lion’s scalp off. But definitely unusual. Still, why was she hiding under her desk? That seemed weird. Even for her.

Even worse, when he suggested they were friends, she just stared blankly at him. It kind of hurt his feelings.

“I brought you honey. You could at least pretend we’re friends.”

“Yeah. We’re friends. Just don’t know why you felt the need to buy me baskets of . . . stuff.”

“Because that’s what people do, Livy. It’s called empathy.”

“I’ve heard the word.”

Vic rolled his eyes. “Look, Livy, I know you’re this great photographer but—”

“Oh yeah,” she suddenly cut in. “Great wedding photographer, maybe.”

“What?”

Livy shook her head. “Forget it.”

“Livy, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.” She suddenly dropped down and crawled back under her desk.

Vic, not sure how to deal with this side of Livy, walked around her desk and crouched down so he could see her.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” he asked.

“Because I’m so chatty?”

“No. But I understand that after the loss of a parent—”

“We weren’t close.”

“As you’ve already said. We could still go get some coffee.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe get lunch.”

“You asking me out on a date?”

Without thinking, Vic leaned back a bit. “No.”

“You don’t have to look so horrified.”

“It’s not horror. It’s confusion. You’re confusing me. Which,” when he thought about it, “may lead to horror. But I simply don’t like being confused. So the horror wasn’t directed at you, so much as the confusion.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

Glad she understood what he’d been trying to say, Vic asked again, “Sure you don’t want some lunch?”

“I’m not really hungry. But thanks anyway.”

“Okay.” He started to stand up, but stopped, remembering his conversation with Dee-Ann. “One other thing . . .”

“Yeah?”

“You up for a job?”

Livy closed her eyes. “Let me guess . . . you need a photographer for your nephew’s birthday party?”

“His birthday’s in June.” Vic scratched his head, again confused. “You do that kind of photography, too?”

“What job?” Livy asked and something told Vic not to push her.

“Remember that woman’s apartment you . . . uh . . . went into last year?” He hated saying “breaking and entering.” That was a felony.

“Whitlan’s daughter? Yes. I remember.”

“Would you do it again if I need you to?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said dismissively, her shoulders slumping.

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s the best job I’ve had offered to me in a long while. So I’ll do it.”

“You’ll be working with me and Shen this time.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain that later. But after I get back.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah. But staying in the States.” Vic studied Livy a little longer. He didn’t like the way she was acting. But, again, people mourned differently. “So if you need me, Livy . . . you call me. Understand?”

She looked up at him, gave a very small smile. “I do. Thanks.”

He headed out. “I’ll call you about the job when I get back.”

“Okay.”

Vic walked down the hall and met up with Shen.

“I booked our flights,” Shen said, closing up his laptop and slipping it into its case.

“Good.”

“So what did she like?” Shen asked as they headed toward the elevators.

Vic stopped, thought a moment, and admitted, “You know . . . I still have no idea.”