“That’s your solution to just about everything,” Cooper noted dryly.
“And so far, it’s worked out for me.” I snorted, snatching a few of the chips off Cooper’s plate. I chewed them while I surveyed the room. “He’s probably some forty-something virgin who lives in his mother’s basement and touches himself while watching The Howling.”
“Look, Mags, I’m not any happier about him being here than you are. But I think we should take a more subtle approach than your usual ‘bite first, bite again, keep biting until they’re too busy bleeding to death to explain themselves’ method.”
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” I shot back. “So, where is this loser?”
I scanned the dining room, stopping on a plaid-clad form hunched over a notebook at his table. My mouth stopped mid-chew. Helloooo, yummy goodness. He looked like those old pictures of Vikings you’d see in history textbooks. Wheat-colored hair that was just a little too long. A white-blond goatee dusted around a mouth that was curved into a smile. Blue eyes so bright I could spot the little lapis-colored ring around the iris from across the room. I could practically hear the freaking ocean when I looked at them. Strong chin, lantern jaw, high cheekbones. Lips that were currently being gnawed on as he scribbled in his notebook.
And when he slid those little wire-rim glasses on his nose, I started drooling. Saliva was literally leaking out of the side of my mouth.
“Mama likes,” I whimpered as Mo approached behind the bar. I growled softly as the resident bar wench, Lynette, sidled up to his table and started flirting. She giggled and tossed her hair. She was practically scrawling “Do me” on her boobs in maple syrup. “Who is that, and how much will I have to threaten Lynette to keep her skanky ass the hell away from him?”
Mo grinned at me. A series of little mental tumblers clicked into place in my head.
“That’s the loser, isn’t it?” I groaned, to Mo’s delight.
“Pay up!” she crowed at my brother, who begrudgingly handed her a dollar bill. She smiled winsomely at me as she stuffed the bill into her stained blue apron. “I bet Cooper a buck that you’d pick him out of the crowd as soon as you saw him. You Grahams have a thing for outsiders. We are the forbidden fruit you just can’t wait to get a bite of. Face it, accept the outsider hotness, and move on.”
A couple of locals watched with bemused interest as Mo did a little victory shimmy behind the bar. Cooper’s hands rushed to cup Eva’s ears again as I narrowed my eyes at his wife. “That was low, Mo. I thought this guy made you nervous.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t find the entertainment value in all this,” she said, shrugging. “What? We don’t have HBO.”
Cooper grumpily shoved a fry into his mouth. “You owe me a buck, Mags. He’s not the type of guy I thought you’d be interested in. Too pretty.”
I snorted as Mo slid a cheeseburger plate in front of me, extra pickles, no tomato, double onion rings. These were the moments that made up for my sister-in-law being an occasional pain in my ass. “So, who exactly do you think is my type?”
Cooper pursed his lips for a moment as I devoured the burger. “What do they call those guys who fight in the octagon?”
I slapped at his arm, choking a little on Mo’s ambrosial half-pounder with cheese. Cooper was about to protest when Lynette streaked past us in a huff, pulling the shoulders of her artfully shredded Bon Jovi T-shirt back up over her sparkly purple bra straps. I shot a look back over to Dr. Thatcher’s booth, where he was casually thumbing through some battle-scarred book, blatantly ignoring the tray-tossing hissy fit Lynette was throwing in the kitchen. Dr. Thatcher was apparently immune to her cleavage-y charms.
For a brief, horrible moment, I wondered whether he was gay and mourned the potential loss. Not just for me but for all womankind. This led to thoughts of Dr. Thatcher naked and sweaty, and I started feeling uncomfortably warm in certain places.
“Still want to murder the good doctor Goodfellas-style?” Mo asked, smirking at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I growled.
“Just that you’re not looking at Dr. Thatcher with bloodlust right now . . . ”
“Oh, I’m supposed to just overlook that he’s trying to expose my entire species because he’s got a pretty face?” I said quietly. “That’s sexist. As a matter of fact, the idea that he’s trying to exploit innocent furred people instead of modeling for underwear ads—the way God obviously intended—is reason enough to kill him. “
“OK, calm down, crazy eyes,” Mo told me. “Here’s the deal. He’s been asking questions about Jacob Bennett and Craig Ryan. About Susie Q and Abner, anyone who suffered mysterious bite wounds last year. I think he’s trying to play it off as just general interest, like every yahoo who’s seen the news reports about the attacks. I don’t know what to make of him, Maggie. It’s not that I think he has bad intentions. In fact, I find myself sort of liking him and feeling sorry for him because I know what it’s like to be the new guy around here. But he seems to be the type who’s smart enough to bring this whole ‘fur issue’ crashing down on our heads. Frankly, I’m surprised you guys have pulled it off for this long.”
“So, what do you want me to do now that I’ve seen him?” I asked. “Since I’m not allowed to run him out of town on a rail, I feel as if my hands are tied.”
“You had an actual rail ready, didn’t you?” Mo asked.
I didn’t respond.
“I’m checking your truck later,” Mo muttered under her breath.
Cooper shrugged. “I thought it would be helpful for you to talk to him. To get an idea of what he’s looking for. And maybe feed him a little misinformation.”
“You could do all that,” I pointed out.
He grinned. “I’m not the alpha, oh great leader. We both know if I started doing your job for you, I’d wake up missing parts.”
“Parts that I hold in high esteem,” Mo added, wandering down the bar to take an order.