“-you have to throw them in my face like this all the time?” Portia’s angry voice growled across the room.
“Portia, I never wanted you to join the sheriff’s department. You went over my head and got yourself hired after I asked you not to, so you don’t get to complain that you don’t like seeing me with other women. She’s our guest, and I damn sure expect you to be civil to her, or I’ll move you to the night shift at the North County substation.”
Portia let out a low growl of anger, and then Ginger heard the sheriff’s footsteps heading her way. She quickly shifted back to her human form.
What were they even talking about? Why would Portia feel threatened by her? Portia was beautiful. And Ginger was only here for two weeks.
She walked out of the room and nearly ran right into Loch. He stepped back with a grin, and she quickly folded her arms over her chest as her nipples sprang to attention.
“Everything going okay with the filing?” he asked.
“Absolutely! Is…is me being here causing you problems?”
“Not at all. I did have a couple of questions about your abilities. The ones your Alpha mentioned to me.”
Ginger made a face, although she tried to stifle it. “Sure. Ask away.”
“If it’s something that you’d rather not talk about, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“No, no, not at all. That’s not it. It’s just another thing that makes me stand out, and not necessarily in a good way.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“You know,” she said, gesturing at herself. “This figure. The only werewolves who are, shall we say, fuller figured, are the ones who are half-breeds. So we’re pretty rare. And then when I was little, before I could control my powers, I’d talk to people that only I could see. My mother had me tested and it turned out that I wasn’t actually crazy, that I was communicating with the recently deceased, but people still look at you funny when you carry on one-sided conversations. It took me until I was in my teens to learn to shut it out unless I was actively seeking to speak to the dead. By that point, the nickname Crazy Ginger had spread among the pack, and it stuck.”
Oh, crap. She’d just told him her very unsexy nickname.
But he was still smiling. No matter what she said, how dorky she sounded, he always looked at her like he wanted to spread whip cream on her and lick it off. Of course, he probably looked that way at every woman who was old enough to legally buy alcohol.
“Oooh, I think that’s a wicked cool power. Excuse me for eavesdropping.” A spiky haired girl with arms covered in tattoos walked up and stuck her hand out. Her fingernails sparkled with purple polish. “Hi, I’m Lola. I’m a secretary here. That’s why I get to dress like a freak. So, are there, like, ghosts right here? In this room?” she shivered in happy anticipation.
“I do sense a presence.”
“Really?” Lola squealed excitedly.
Ginger glanced at the sheriff, who nodded. “Go ahead. Let’s see what you got.”
When he said it, his gaze roved over her body, and she stifled a shiver. Why was it that everything he said felt like it was meant as a double entendre?
Ginger walked over to the far left corner of the room. The corner was empty, but she sensed that it hadn’t always been.
She closed her eyes and relaxed, letting her defenses down, letting the world fall away from her.
She opened her eyes again.
“Eek,” she said. There was a desk and a chair in the corner now, and there was a ghostly figure sitting in the chair, a sheriff’s deputy who was slumped in the chair with what was left of his head thrown back. There was a gun lying on the floor at his feet.
The top of his head was blown off, and splattered all over his lap. Her stomach lurched.
“Suicide?” she said. “No, wait…”
His head reformed. He was sitting there with a handkerchief in his hand, polishing the outside of his gun, which was pointed right at his face. He was humming a happy little tune.
Then the gun went off, and the top of his head exploded.
She turned to look at Sheriff Armstrong in dismay.
“Was it a suicide?” The sexy smile was gone. He was staring at her with concern stamped on his handsome face.
“No. He was cleaning his gun with a handkerchief and the gun was pointed at his face. He didn’t mean to kill himself,” she said.
“Whew. Glad to hear it. It happened just last month. The coroner’s inquest found that it was an accident, but there have always been questions. Poor ole Dumb Darryl,” he added, shaking his head sadly.
“That was really his nickname?”
“He’d already shot himself in the foot, twice, drove the patrol car through a store window, and accidentally set his own house on fire. Nobody wanted to go on patrol with him. But his wife will be relieved to get the final word that it wasn’t a suicide.”
“That was so cool!” Lola’s eyes were wide with admiration.