Poppy

My phone vibrates against my butt. Apparently, shoving it in a bag of rice has done the trick, and it’s decided to work again after its immersion in the bayou. I’d had it set to buzz and not to ring in the hopes that I’d be spotting a dozen wolves and that my ringtone (a wolf howling, naturally) would scare off my shy darlings. As it’s almost mid-afternoon and wolves are nocturnal, it’s pretty clear that I’m shit out of luck for today. I make a face. Guess I’m free and clear to take this call.

I pat him on the shoulder. His really big, hard, flannel-covered shoulder. Jeez, the man is large. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you comfort (he’s more hot, dirty quickie sex than he is sympathy balloons and roses), but not doing something feels wrong, too. So I pat him once. And then once more because why not?

He stares down at my hand. “The fuck?”

So he’s a little growly.

“You should work on your nice,” I tell him. “When people are nice to you, you should be nice back.”

The look he gives me is incredulous. Okay. If he’s ever super sick or someone close to him passes, I won’t send him one of those big So sorry about your loss bouquets. Not that we’re going to be hanging out together after this week is up and I’ve found my wolves, but you get the point. He’s a little unappreciative, and I’ve sworn off guys like that. My phone vibrates again and I pull it out.

Shoot. It’s my backer, the font of all dollars, and the reason my electricity stays on. This would be so much easier if it was a telemarketer ringing me up in the bayou.

“Excuse me.” I wave the phone at Gator. I kind of wish he’d tell me not to take my call because I have a bad feeling about this. Research foundations don’t bother calling lowly field researchers unless someone’s been nominated for a Nobel Prize or the dollars have run dry. And since I’m certain there’s no first-class ticket to Sweden in my future, that leaves the other choice.

The bad news.

I step away as much as I can, seeing as how we’re standing by the brackish water’s edge. The area’s heavily wooded, so it’s not like I can go far, plus all those tiny green mosses decorating the bank look pretty darn slippery. Falling in again is not part of my plans for today, so I’ll take the few feet and count my blessings. Gator folds his arms over his chest, tips his head back against a tree, closes his eyes, and proceeds to give his best impression of giant predator just, hey, you know, basking in the sunshine.

“Ms. Burkhart-Jones?” The voice on the other end is super cool and emotionless. I wonder if they train their people to sound like automatons or if they just pop a Valium the way the rest of us knock back coffee on our way to work.

“Yes?” I say. I suspect I sound more demented chipper than professional, but whatever.

“This is Lena Oxfam from the Weppley Foundation. We’d like to schedule a project review as soon as possible. The directors are concerned about progress and demonstrable results.”

Translation: they think I’ve taken their money and used it to fund some sort of strange vacation in the Louisiana bayou. I’m not sure how to convey my indignation in work-appropriate words. First of all, I do have ethics. I don’t lie, steal, or commit felonies (other than possibly hanging out with Gator, who seems to attract those things like flies on honey). Secondly, if I did abscond with their money, I’d be somewhere way more exotic, like Tahiti or the Seychelles.

“Are you firing me? Because I’ve met all my milestones,” I point out in a rush. The foundation requires mountains of paperwork—a veritable Mount Everest of status updates, timelines, documentation, and progress reports.

“No, but there are some concerns.” Lena’s voice is smooth and complacent, the kind of tone in which you’d expect to hear your flight attendant barking out her Prepare for a water landing heads up. I tense up automatically.

“What are they?” I ask, trying to keep my voice equally level. You know—no big deal, not an impending financial apocalypse or anything. This grant was the only thing I could land after Nathan finished with me; it’s my ticket back into academia and winning full-time, gainful employment at a university. If the Weppley Foundation deems my research a failure, however, and pulls the plug, that’s going to be one heck of a DNR on what’s left of my professional life.

“The board is concerned that you’ve uncovered no tangible evidence of any wolf presence during your field research.” Lena sounds like she’s reading the weather report, not hinting at my impending doom. “Other than the initial materials you submitted with your proposal, you have made no additional discoveries.”

“Wild animals are just that. Wild,” I say carefully. “You can’t issue them an invitation and expect them to RSVP.”

Behind me, Gator snorts. Unfortunately for me, the man has superior hearing.

“Ms. Burkhart-Jones,” she says pleasantly. “We’re well aware of that but the Foundation did expect you to make some kind of progress.”

There’s an unpleasant moment of silence that I’m sure I’m supposed to fill. Except—what can I say? I don’t have anything to show for my months here in the bayou. I’ve spent their money, and I’m technically no closer to proving that wolves have been reintroduced to this area. No matter how loudly my instincts are clamoring that wolves are here, and that I could be just minutes, hours, or days away from the discovery of a lifetime, I don’t have any photographs or video. I don’t have any proof.

“I had a wolf cadaver,” I point out carefully. “And I sent in scat samples for analysis.”

“There is some concern that those items may not have been local,” she admits. “It’s unfortunate that the wolf cadaver was lost.”

“It was stolen,” I protest.

And… more silence on the other end. I should have let the call roll over to voice mail, except that wouldn’t have made the problem go away. It wouldn’t have solved anything.

“What do you need from me?” I ask because hanging up still isn’t an option. “I’ve been delivering regular progress updates and status reports, but clearly that isn’t enough. Obviously, I’d like for the Foundation to be satisfied.”

Lena makes a sort of humming noise. Ding ding ding. I’ve said the magic words.

“Progress, Ms. Burkhart-Jones. We’d like to see concrete, verifiable evidence that you’ve made progress in proving that wolves have been reintroduced to the local area.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed,” I say because slamming my phone into one of these lovely cypress trees would be as counter-productive as chanting fuck you very much.

The problem with apologies, however, is that the other person has to be willing to accept them. The Foundation’s enforcer doesn’t say no problem or even I understand where you’re coming from. Nope. She proceeds to issue an ultimatum.

“Two weeks. If we can’t verify that you’ve made progress in two weeks, I’m afraid we’ll have to end your funding.”

And with that she hangs up. I stare at my phone for a long moment, kind of hoping that I’ve fallen asleep in the sunshine and it’s all a bad dream. I suck in a deep breath through my mouth and push it out through my nose. I read about that calming technique somewhere, and I could use a miracle right about now.

I turn around. Gator’s still laid out in the sun, face turned up toward the sky. He looks peaceful, and I’m tempted to throw my phone at him. Not that this is his fault, but today sucks.

The story he told me about how he was injured is ugly. And it’s also kind of sad. It’s hard to look at him and judge him objectively now. Was he good-looking before his midnight encounter with the bayou’s gator population? Is he still? Are the scars some kind of divine judgment, like he seems to think, on his past actions? From where I stand, those scars are simply part of who he is. It’s not like I’ve got some kind of weird scar fetish but they don’t bother me. I don’t see the scars—I see Gator. He’s more than just the marks on his face even if he doesn’t seem to think so. And I understand about scars. Mine are on the inside, but they’re there, too.

“Problem?” Gator asks.

Does he really want to know? People ask those kinds of questions, but what they want to hear is that everything’s fine-fucking-dandy. They want sunshine and singing birds and happy moments—not the kind of shitty reality that I’m staring down. Unless I get a whole lot smarter or luckier and find concrete proof of my wolves ASAP, I’m going to lose my job, my ability to pay my bills, and my second chance at a career that I love. Wildlife biology isn’t the biggest field in the world, and people talk. My failing now will only reinforce the belief that Nathan is the reason I got my degree. No one will believe that I didn’t screw my way to success.

“Not yet.” The last word comes out on a sigh.

Gator holds out a hand without opening his eyes. “Come here.”

I’m sure it surprises no one that I do. I walk right on over because it’s easier to let him be strong enough for both of us right now. This is what got me into so much trouble with Nathan, but apparently I’m warming up for a repeat.

Gator’s fingers close around mine, strong and warm. “Gonna be fine, babe.”

“You don’t know that.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “You sure about these wolves?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll find them. Just might not be when or where you expect.”

“Well I need to hurry it up,” I mutter. “I’ve got two weeks and then my funding gets yanked.”

“So you can put them in some report and bring every scientist in Louisiana down here to stare at ‘em?”

“I want to protect them and their habitat.”

“Fucking heroic of you,” he says calmly. “But maybe shit’s fine as it is with a little mystery in it.”

“I need to find out,” I argue. “I need to make sure they’re safe. Do you have any idea what happens when an animal has limited habitat and people start encroaching on it?”

He sighs, his fingers tightening around mine. Such a tiny connection, but I like the way he holds onto me way too much. “Sometimes, the safest thing is to let them go. You don’t fuck with wild animals, babe.”

He tugs gently on my hand.

“What?” Men should come with an instructional manual. Possibly a reset button too, to set them back to the factory default. Gator’s impossible to read. The fantasy’s a good one, though. I mean the man doesn’t look anything like Prince Charming, but maybe it’s the sheer size of him. He looks like he could protect me from pretty much anything. Tsunami, tornado, an alley full of muggers… Gator would have it handled.

“Come here,” he growls. And pop… there goes my fantasy bubble. Gator’s big, but he’s not always nice. Okay. He’s rarely nice. His fingers tighten around mine and yank, further proving my point. I land on his chest with an ungraceful thud. He flips me over like I weigh nothing. That part’s not so bad.

But somehow he’s spread his legs, and I’m planted squarely between the vee, my butt wedged against his crotch. I’m pretty sure his dick doesn’t mind the close contact, because there’s something real hard poking me. It’s getting harder, too. I open my mouth to say something and—

“Shut up,” he says pleasantly.

“Do you have any idea how rude that is?”

He shrugs, his chest lifting beneath my head. Nope. The man doesn’t give a fuck. “You need to calm down. Breathe a little.”

He’s got his mouth by my ear and he expects me to calm down? I don’t even know where to start. It’s like he’s running down a checklist of all the shit you just don’t say. Rude? Check. Offensive? Check, check. Possibly misogynistic? Well, the jury’s still out on that one and his dick certainly seems to like me just fine. I wiggle a little, trying to get comfortable. Not sure why guys think a hard dick makes such an awesome seat—it’s like trying to get comfortable on a tire iron.

“Might want to hold still,” he suggests, his mouth against my ear.

“I have work to do,” I protest. “The world ends in two weeks for me, remember? So I need to get cracking. Find some wolves, log some incontrovertible proof, build an ark.”

We can’t all sprawl around in the sunshine like some kind of pagan god. Some of us have to work—and make miracles happen.

“Sun’s out. Weather’s good. Enjoy it a little.” He runs a hand over my hair, his fingers easing the tie free until my hair spills around my face and shoulders. It gets in the way like that, but it’s hard to protest when his fingers start working through my hair, finding sensitive spots on my scalp and pressing. God. It feels good. My girl parts appreciate his efforts greatly.

“It’s gonna be okay, you hear me?”

I hear him all right. It’s the belief part I’m struggling with.

Gator

Poppy’s tired, and she’s worried about her grant. I’m not her fucking Mr. Fix-It, seeing as how I plan to sabotage her research any chance I get, but I gather her a little closer. Guess I can do this much for her. Glad my brothers can’t see me now, though, because she burrows into my chest and drifts off to sleep like I’m her favorite kind of pillow.

I tuck my chin against the top of her head.

The bayou’s peaceful today, the water still and silent. Got some storm damage thanks to last night’s rain, but the sun’s out and there’s no one else here. It’s just the two of us. Sucks to think that I’m the one who’s gonna betray her and take away all the shit she’s dreaming about. She snuffles, settling in against my chest. I swing her up into my arms and start walking back to the house. Gonna tuck her up in my bed where she belongs. She’ll be gone soon enough, so I’ll take what I can, when I can.