Chapter Eight
WHEN we walked into Buddy’s and I saw the guy who stood up and waved, all my good intentions vanished. The guy was gorgeous. Tall, slim, nearly delicate in build, this guy—who Owen called David, though the actual introduction was lost in the static of rage and awe in my brain—had the kind of androgynous beauty that would make millions on runways. Smooth, milky skin stretched over sharp-edged cheekbones and a perfectly straight nose. His mouth was wide and perfectly bowed. Even his damn eyebrows were perfectly arched. He was, in a word, perfect. If I had to find a fault—and believe me, I had to find a fault—it would be that his rich auburn hair was a little too long, like he was maybe a few weeks past due for a trim. Physically, it was his only fault. If the dude got a haircut, he’d be, in a word, perfect.
Maybe I’d luck out and his voice would be squeaky or he’d be dumb as a post. Because, yeah, computer hackers and investigative journalists were always known for their dim wits. And then he opened his mouth. “Owen, it’s great to see you.” His voice was rich, smooth as his skin, and held a warm familiarity that had my inner lion pacing restlessly. I wanted to slash at David with my claws, tear into him with my teeth. The violence of my reaction scared me enough to mute the lion’s aggression. At least a little bit.
Then David wrapped his arms around Owen.
I snarled. Audibly. In a public place.
David’s lake-blue eyes—of course they were a glinting, sparkling blue; what other color could they possibly have been—widened.
Owen gaped.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, horrified. “Sorry,” I said from behind my palm. “Don’t know what happened.” I took a step back. I needed a minute to gain some control over myself. “I’m going to get a latte. Can I get you something?”
Owen shook his head. “You should avoid the caffeine. Get water or juice or something.”
It was my turn to gape. Was he seriously telling me what I should drink? “Excuse me?”
Searching my face as though he couldn’t figure out why I was upset, Owen cocked his head. “You already have trouble with insomnia. Espresso will only make it worse.”
It was a stupid thing to put my back up, but I’d worked too hard, risked too much, to be my own person and make my own decisions for me to easily give up even the smallest sliver of independence. “A latte ten hours before bedtime isn’t likely to hurt me.”
David watched us, undoubtedly filing away details for some kind of mental exposé. I could see it now: To Caffeinate or Not to Caffeinate—The Insomniac’s Beverage Battle.
Owen reached out, hand gliding down my arm. I stepped away before his touch could weaken my resolve. “Also,” he said quietly enough no one else should be able to hear him, “caffeine can have some weird effects on certain shifters. You should play it safe until you’ve had time to work with my dad.”
“When am I working with your dad?”
“You’ll have to work with someone to practice control. He’ll be able to find a mentor, someone discreet.”
“Why—”
“You snarled a minute ago, remember? And your eyes glowed for a second too. If you’re going to be around nonshifters, you’re going to have to learn control.” He looked around carefully. “Also, my dad is researching your condition. He should be able to figure out how you managed to go over twenty years before shifting.”
I pursed my lips. I hated that his arguments were sound. I especially hated that once again someone was trying to dictate my life. I’d already escaped from my overprotective family. Well-intentioned or not, I was tired of people arranging my life without my input.
“We’ll talk about this later.” I rolled my eyes toward David, who was still watching us like this was some kind of reality TV show.
I stalked to the front counter, where a girl with short dark hair and thick-framed glasses asked for my order. I read the menu board and its dozens of coffee drinks. Cursing silently, I ordered a mango-pineapple smoothie. My stomach seemed to be gnawing at my backbone, so the extra calories and protein from the smoothie would do me good. I grabbed a bottle of water for Owen. If I didn’t get caffeine, neither did he.
I took advantage of the wait for my drink to rein in some of those primal reactions causing so much trouble. I had enough difficulties with other people trying to control my life; I didn’t need these unfamiliar emotions and instincts driving me too.
By the time I walked back across the café, smoothie in hand, I’d managed to stuff the internal crap back down.
They’d found a table near the back, partly obscured by a floating bookshelf. Buddy’s business was brisk, especially for midday, but even a nonshifter nose could have picked up the aroma of baked bread and simmering soup weaving through the coffee and chocolate smells I would normally associate with a café. The place had a rustic-cabin-meets-garage-sale chic look that was both homey and hip, and I could see myself bunkering down here when I needed to escape the dorms. Doing homework over there by the big stone fireplace appealed to me more than my room or the library. It would be especially nice, I decided, come winter.
I slid into one of the mismatched chairs next to Owen. I passed him the bottle of water. He eyed my smoothie but was perceptive enough not to indicate with even the flicker of an eyelash that it wasn’t the latte I’d intended.
Needing to prove I wasn’t an asshole driven entirely by animal instincts, I offered David my hand. “Sorry about earlier. Things have been… odd… for me lately. I’m Joey Franke.”
David shook my hand and smiled. I had to make a conscious effort to not be dazzled by the perfection of it. He was just so shiny. “Owen’s told me a little about your situation. I can see how you might be a bit on edge.”
I glanced at Owen, but my question was directed at David. “What exactly did he tell you?”
Owen answered. “I only told him what he needed to know to find the information we need.”
“Can we trust him?” It was totally rude to talk about David as though he weren’t watching us from the other side of the table, but it probably wouldn’t hurt for him to know I wasn’t going to accept him at face value.
“Yeah. As long as we’re clear that he’s got his hacker hat on and not his reporter one. He’s good at not blurring those lines.”
David snorted, apparently tired of passively observing. “Believe me, blurring those lines could get me into big trouble. Not like I’m going to advertise my less-than-legal skill set.”
“It may not come to that,” Owen rushed to assure him—or maybe me. “There are layers, and a lot of adoption information—if it applies,” he added quickly when I hissed in objection, “is public record. David can do those kinds of searches faster and more comprehensively than either of us could.”
I acknowledged his point even as my shoulders tightened. The idea of finding proof my parents were not biologically mine, that they’d been lying to me this whole time, had tension rising in me. “Only open adoptions are available publicly, right?”
Owen’s lips twisted. “That’s where the hacker part comes in.”
My stomach dropped. I shot a look at David. “How illegal is it?”
“Very. There are lesser consequences if you were to break in and steal paper copies of the records than the internet-based data,” he said wryly. “Especially since most states have legal channels for adopted children to request and receive their biological parents’ information, even in closed adoptions. Since we’re looking for verification rather than actual parent information, I wouldn’t need to go that deep, so the risk of getting caught is less.”
I pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping roughly on the floor. “No. No, I don’t want putting yourself at risk. Not about this. Not for me. Especially since I don’t think there’s any way I’m adopted. I mean, what are the chances a Caucasian and an Iranian would adopt a baby who is clearly a biracial mix of Caucasian and Persian ethnicity?”
Owen put his hand on my knee, and the panic receded. “Relax. I didn’t—don’t—expect things to go that far. I think we should do this in a few stages.”
“Stages?” I asked.
“Figures,” David said.
When I looked at him, he clarified. “Owen always has ideas and plans. He seems so laid-back and chill, but underneath he’s plotting and planning. Do yourself a favor. Don’t play chess with him.”
I don’t know which part of David’s statement I disliked the most. There was definitely some bitterness in how obvious it was that David knew Owen better than I did. I’d never seen signs of him plotting or planning. But knowing David and Owen had played chess really rankled. A dark, selfish part of me treasured all those nights of chatting and chess. I wanted our time to have been special. Finding out it wasn’t hurt nearly as much as coming face-to-face with Owen’s picture-perfect ex-lover.
And I had no right to the jealousy in either situation.
Owen smirked. “Yusuf holds his own. Wins as often as he loses.”
He sounded proud of me. I swore my inner feline purred in satisfaction.
This whole thing was ludicrous, so I pretended to ignore it. “So, stages?”
“Right. The way I see it, we have two angles we need to follow. The possible adoption and the shifter side. I think the first thing we should do is have David scan the public adoption records.”
David dipped his chin. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll set up a search algorithm using your name, your birthday, your parents’ names, see what pops. All perfectly aboveboard and legal.”
“Theoretically, we could do a similar search too,” Owen told me. “But we’d have to resort to random Google searches, so David’s way will be faster. Then, or maybe while his search is going, we’ll need to follow the shifter trail. That one will require hacking.”
David leaned back in his seat. “You want me to hack the shifter database?” I caught a whiff of something mildly sour coming off him, a scent that wasn’t there before. Nerves, the primal part of me suggested. I wasn’t used to identifying emotions through my olfactory senses, but something, probably my inner lion, seemed capable of making the distinction.
David hadn’t batted an eye at illegally digging through sealed adoption records, which potentially came with severe legal consequences. But breaking into the shifter database, which wasn’t tied into any government agency, made him sweat? “Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
“No. David’s just being a wimp.”
I looked at David, who glowered at Owen. His lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed. Definitely one of those “if looks could kill” scenarios. Owen acted oblivious to the deadly glare, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
David deflated. “Damn it, my mother will murder me.”
“Only if you get caught.”
It felt like they were speaking a foreign language or in code or something. “Your mother?”
He slumped in his seat. “She’s the director of the Western division of the US Shifter Council.”
“Which means you have easy access through the database’s firewalls. Your job will be made much easier.”
“Not from here, I don’t. Maybe from my mother’s system.” Some of the dread left him, and he straightened his spine. Clearly he’d found an argument to counter Owen’s request.
“You’re going home for Fourth of July this weekend, right?”
David narrowed his eyes. “Bastard.”
“Look, you can’t tell me part of you isn’t thrilled at the idea of seeing if you can get past your brother’s programing.”
“Evil, manipulative bastard.”
Owen smiled, looking sweet and innocent, and very unbastardlike.
I probably looked confused. Owen took pity on me. “David’s brother is a successful program developer. He specializes in security systems that are used by all sorts of important people.”
“He’s not that good.” David rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Here’s your chance to prove it,” Owen said.
Exhaling with loud whoosh, David sat up. “Fine. What information will I be risking my mother’s wrath, possible incarceration, or even exile to collect?”
“Don’t forget the bragging rights you’ll be earning.”
“There’s that. Anyway, what are you looking for in the databases?” David reached behind him and pulled out a smartphone and a stylus, ready to take notes.
“There are three known prides of Asiatic lions. One in North Khorasan, Iran, one in Gujarat, India, and one in Madhya Pradesh, India. We need information about the prides. Kind of a who’s who or a where-are-they-now search.”
“If you know where the prides are, you’ve already accessed the database.” David lifted his stylus.
“Yeah, we saw what was in the public view. Problem is, there’s nothing there. Just the list of the locations, and it’s completely generic. A basic list of the provinces or states where the prides are located, nothing more specific.”
“Wait a minute.” I jabbed a finger at Owen. “Is that weird? You didn’t say anything about it last night.”
“I needed to verify a few things. I didn’t want to make more of it than it was, if they changed the system views or something. You had enough to deal with without adding to it unnecessarily.”
“That wasn’t your call—” I stopped myself. Now wasn’t the time to object to his making decisions to “protect” me. I took a breath and started over. “I take it you verified there should be more data?”
“I looked up some other groups in other parts the country, and in other countries. Family and pride or pack listings typically include basic census data. Names, birthdates, addresses, the whole deal. The missing information is a little suspicious.”
“Given the locations of Asiatic lions, though, it’s possible—even probable—the prides are solitary. They may not interact with others or accept regular check-ins.” David moved his stylus over the screen too fast for me to track.
“Which is what I want you to find out.”
David nodded, tap-tap-tapping away. “Got it. I’m going to need info from you, Joey, before I can start the adoption records searches.”
“Of course.”
“While you two start, I’m going to hit the men’s room.” Owen pushed back his chair, then stood. “You should finish your smoothie. Maybe grab a sandwich.”
I gave him my best deadpan look. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
He held up his hands. “Sorry.”
He headed to the back of the café, where a wooden sign with the word Gents burned into it hung above a swinging door. I admired the way his khaki shorts showcased his ass and muscular thighs.
David cleared his throat. I whipped my head back to him, heat burning my cheeks.
“I don’t blame you for looking, and Buddy’s about as close to a safe space as you’re going to find around here, but this is Wyoming.”
The blood suffusing my face changed course and dropped to my knees. I hadn’t thought about that. Not at all. I rubbed the back of my hand across my chin and mouth. “I guess I’m not in Chicago anymore,” I said. Not like it had anything to do with being caught ogling some dude’s ass. I wouldn’t have done it in Chicago either. It was like my hormones had been on hiatus while my body struggled to figure itself out. And now…. But, yeah, I needed to watch myself.
Time to deflect. The condensation on my smoothie cup had made a little pool on the table. I mopped it up with a napkin, noticing I’d only finished about a third of it. “Why are you doing this, David?”
“This?”
“Yeah. Why would you spend your time, and take the risk, to help me figure this shit out? I’ll be honest. I can’t afford to pay you anything, and you don’t know me from anybody.”
“I know Owen. And he’s really good at convincing people to help. Pretty sure he single-handedly recruited every volunteer for the Cody College Charitable 5K last spring. Even people who’d never volunteered for anything in their life found themselves donating their time.”
“He told me you guys dated for a while.” I mentally cringed. Shit. Why had I said that? “Sorry! I didn’t mean to say anything. It’s none of my business.”
“Oh, I know why you mentioned it.” His tone and his smile were sly. “But you don’t need to worry about me. We gave things a go last year, but we were never a good match.”
“But you were together?”
David shrugged. “Yeah, but I think it was one of those things that sounded like a better idea than it was. Our families are close, and it seemed like a natural pairing. He’s nice and he’s hot, but he’s not for me. And I’m the wrong guy for him. So, yeah, the way is clear for you.”
“I didn’t… I’m not….” I sputtered. “Just, let’s just move one.”
His perfect smile flashed again. “Moving on. I’m going to need your full name, your parents’ names, your birthday, birthplace—city and state, and if you know which hospital that would be, even better—your birthday.”
“I was born in Tehran.”
“Tehran? Iran?” David dropped his stylus. “That complicates things.”
“I’m not even sure where to start looking. Maybe if I had the actual birth certificate. Is it an American certificate, at least? Or are you an Iranian citizen? Or dual citizenship? Can you have dual citizenship between the US and Iran?”
“Iran doesn’t recognize dual citizenships. It wouldn’t matter for me, though. My father is American, and he’d worked in Tehran for a while. My mother had a green card through her marriage to Dad. So I was born in Iran, but I’m an American citizen.”
“That helps. There’s bound to be records, then, from when they got your American birth certificate issued. Do you have the birth certificate with you?”
I shook my head. “My parents have it stored in their files.”
He bit the side of his lip, focusing internally, like he had some kind of inner list he was reviewing. “Any chance you can get your hands on it? Or even a copy of it?”
“Maybe. If I told them I needed it for some financial aid forms or something.” When I made my escape, I probably should have brought some of my files—or at least my birth certificate—along with me. I’d been afraid of losing something important. Of course, at the time I’d had no idea I’d be suspicious of my origins.
“Well, we’ll get the rest of the info you know, and I’ll start looking. But as soon as you can get me your birth certificate, or the exact time, date, and location of your birth, let me know, and I’ll update the search parameters.”
By the time Owen returned, David had taken down some of my information, then left, muttering something about algorithms and bots and other things I didn’t understand.