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    Joey and the Fox: shifters and partners, #3
    Joey and the Fox: shifters and partners, #3
    Joey and the Fox: shifters and partners, #3
    Ebook218 pages3 hours

    Joey and the Fox: shifters and partners, #3

    By Hollis Shiloh

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    About this ebook

    Asshole cop. It's Joey's role, and one he's comfortable with. Joey tells gay jokes. He's crude, tough, and thick-skinned. But now he's got a chance to work with a fox shifter—and he doesn't want to lose that opportunity. 

    Dylan is a mess: clingy and broken, cheerful but lost, seriously unpredictable…and very gay. But Joey desperately wants the partnership to succeed. He's not willing to lose the fox shifter for any reason, even when Dyl drives him crazy. 

    Is there any way to make it work? And will the weird attraction he feels to the cute redhead ever go away? 

    57,000 words

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSpare Words Press
    Release dateMay 21, 2016
    ISBN9781508596233
    Joey and the Fox: shifters and partners, #3

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      Book preview

      Joey and the Fox - Hollis Shiloh

      Dedication

      With thanks to Terry Steward for making me think twice about Joey, and thus inspiring this story. 

      About the story

      Asshole cop.  It's Joey's role, and one he's comfortable with.  Joey tells gay jokes.  He's crude, tough, and thick-skinned.  But now he's got a chance to work with a fox shifter — and he doesn't want to lose that opportunity. 

      Dylan is a mess: clingy and broken, cheerful but lost, seriously unpredictable . . . and very gay.  But Joey desperately wants the partnership to succeed.  He's not willing to lose the fox shifter for any reason, even when Dyl drives him crazy. 

      Is there any way to make it work?  And will the weird attraction he feels to the cute redhead ever go away?

      57,000 words

      Joey and the Fox

      (a shifters and partners novel)

      by Hollis Shiloh

      When Ralstead and Singh said I could have my own shifter to partner with in a trial basis, I just about shit my pants I was so excited.  They did mention he was a mess, that I shouldn't expect much and shouldn't plan to tackle any big cases for a while.

      He just got out of the military, explained the tall one, Ralstead, who's a shifter and kind of amazing in general.  He's not in very good shape at the moment, so our main focus is on getting him healthier before we try to solve any crime with him.  He's very skilled, but not stable yet.  He looked at me closely.  Do you think you'll be able to give it a good try, even knowing there are going to be extra challenges?

      Yes sir.  I looked him in the eye just as firmly.  I'd been waiting for my chance for years.  I wouldn't have turned down a one-legged, one-eyed partner with a shady past, as long as it was a shifter.  Hell, I was jealous of Tom Langley for getting partnered with Sean Goods, who's a wolf shifter — and Sean drives me up the wall most of the time.

      He's also a fox, said Ralstead, frowning a little.  Up till now, we've only worked with wolf shifters.  But this guy is brilliant, and we could use all the brilliance we can get . . . if he can handle the job.

      I blinked.  Are foxes much different, sir?

      Commissioner Singh is the short Indian guy who works with Ralstead, coordinates with agencies and gets shit done.  He has a big chip on his shoulder most of the time, except for lately when he's all lovey-dovey with Ralstead.  The gay dudes are everywhere lately, let me tell you. 

      Singh hooked his arm through Ralstead's and grinned up at him.  He thinks they are, but that's because he's a wolf.  They don't always get along, do they?  He nudged Ralstead, grinning.

      I hope you're not saying I'm prejudiced against foxes, said Ralstead.

      A little bit, yes, said Singh.

      I'm not.  Ralstead sounded as grouchy as I'd ever heard him.  He's usually like a genial version of Batman, powerful and wealthy but nice to everybody all the time.  With his wolf superpowers, he could probably snap my neck without breaking a sweat if he wanted to.  But I was surprised to hear him sounding less than Julie Andrews-level happy.  Maybe it was a good sign they really were including me in the program, if I was getting to see the real deal.

      Well, they're not very different, no, said Singh, addressing me and no longer smiling.  More sensitive in some ways, less in others.  You can come over and see him tomorrow morning, see if the two of you click.  If so, you can work together — or just spend time together — for the next six months, to see if there's a good chance of this working out on both sides.

      So I have six months to make him into a real partner, I said, trying to feel my way through it.

      He hesitated.  No.  It's not that.  It's just . . . we don't want either of you to feel trapped if it's not going to work out.  He looked at me seriously, weighingly.  "Working with shifters is a lot less clear cut than you'd probably like.  There's only so much that can be tested for.  You need to be flexible and . . . considerate. 

      "The Army wasn't able to take into account this shifter's special needs, and they ended up losing a valuable resource.  Things became bad enough that, if he wasn't a shifter, he'd have been court-martialed.  He wasn't listening to orders, he wasn't able to concentrate, and he started doing crazy things like going out at night in his fox form, wandering around in enemy-occupied territory. 

      "He got yelled at and called on the carpet, and finally brought to an Army doctor, who sedated him.  The sedation reacted poorly with his shifter physiology, and he ended up nearly catatonic. 

      They finally flew him home to a hospital here, and we were given the information.  Ralstead checked him out and into our care.  He's doing much better in a controlled environment.  Most likely he was over stimulated — he's apparently a bit hyperactive even normally — or allergic to something he was over-exposed to.  Many shifters have extreme sensitivities — to noise or pollution, to crowds or chemicals.  Perfume is a big one, or anything chemical.  Even things like cleaning products can overwhelm a sensitive shifter or send them into a toxic shock.  It looks like for our new fox friend, it's food additives — probably dyes and artificial flavors — but it could be a multiple array of issues.  He's doing better on a more natural diet, though.

      Singh looked like he meant to go on, in full lecture mode, but Ralstead touched his arm lightly.  And if that's not too much to scare you off, let's let you meet him as soon as we can, said Ralstead, giving me his benign smile. 

      Singh looked at him quickly, and gave a short, sharp nod. 

      #

      Now, I'm nobody's starry-eyed kid, but when I was, I had a thing about foxes.  Every cartoon, movie, or book with foxes in it, I gobbled it up.  I drew foxes in the edges of my homework.  I had a favorite stuffed toy, a fox with worn-down fur and dirty ears from being rubbed too much.  I couldn't get to sleep without it when I was little. 

      When I got too old for things like that, I still found foxes fascinating.  I used to watch documentaries and read up about those silver foxes people had domesticated in Russia — Belyaev's work.  I'd fantasized about owning one as a pet someday.

      Time passed, and I got into sports, girls, and plans for my future.  I decided to be a cop.  I certainly put away thoughts of owning a fox.  It's legal to own foxes in some states, but they aren't domesticated, just hand-reared.  I don't think that's right, and I wouldn't ever buy one.  It's a wild animal: it's not going to be happy in captivity like a domesticated dog or cat, even if you treat it right.

      So I grew up, became a cop (I've got the scars to prove it, and the divorce), and after a while, when there was an opportunity to try out for this new human-and-shifter squad of teams that would assist the police and other governmental problem solving agencies — basically, rushing in like badasses to solve crime, just your average movie heroes — I was all in.

      I worked my ass off, and I swear I aced every test.  But I'd never made the cut. 

      Now, even if I was only making it on a trial basis with a shifter who was a mess, it was a dream come true.

      But to have it be a fox shifter?  Now that . . . well, I had to be dreaming.

      Anyway, I was all ears, wary and alert, when they finally took me in to see him the next afternoon.  It was a quiet room with wide windows and a bed with soft flannel sheets and blankets on it.  There was nothing else — no TV, no books, nothing.  Only the light from the broad windows and a very dim light overhead.

      A guy sat on the bed, leaning forward, looking at the floor like he was deep in thought.  I stopped at the sight of him, but he looked up at the sight of me.

      He had red hair.  I hadn't expected that.  The other shifters I'd met didn't look much like their animal forms when they were human.  But this guy, you'd think there was something foxy about him even if you didn't know.  He had red hair, bright as a girl's, a pretty shade of red that almost didn't look natural, like that girl on Doctor Who, the tall one with the mouth on her.  Her hair looked too bright to be real, and this guy's was a lot like that, a fiery, fox-fur color, not the faded, dry red-brown or red-blond that most redheaded guys seem to have.  It was very lively hair, with a life all its own.  I swear it glowed a little in the sun, like a girl's hair treated with all kinds of conditioners and oils to make it shiny.

      He wasn't very big.  More skinny and lithe and . . . there was no other word for it . . . pretty.  He was awfully pretty for a guy.  He looked up, and his eyes searched mine, startlingly alert.  They were a soft, clear brown color, pale like the color of light passing through a strong malt whiskey.

      After a second, he broke into a shy smile at the sight of me.  You're Joey? he asked, rising hesitantly from his bed.  He was only a few inches shorter than me, but built along far sparer lines.  He moved jerkily, like he wanted to move forward quickly but wasn't sure it was okay.  He had a shy, welcoming smile, hopeful and young-looking.

      He looked about eighteen, but that couldn't be right, could it?

      Hi.  Yeah.  How old are you? 

      Those were the first words out of my mouth as I reached forward to offer to shake his hand.  My voice was gruff, too.  Had I failed the test already?  I was supposed to be sensitive or some such shit.  I'd never been very good at sensitive.  As my ex-wife could tell you.

      Twenty-two.  Why?

      You look younger.

      He cocked his head, regarding me.  Even though he had great eyes and hair, his skin was a mess.  It looked raw from wind-burn and sunburn, with angry freckles here and there, and his lips were chapped.

      He shook my hand, and his handshake felt stronger than he looked.  Par for course, with a shifter.  He regarded me as if trying to figure me out.  How old are you?  No, let me guess.  I can't think you're more than ten years older.

      I'm thirty, I admitted.

      Oh.  Okay. So that's . . . 

      He seemed to count in his head; his lips were even moving.  Damn it. 

      Nine.  He looked at me carefully.  That's right, I think.  Twenty-two to twenty-three, twenty-three to twenty-four . . .  He started counting on his fingers, muttering the words.  No, twenty-two to twenty-three . . .

      That's close enough, I muttered.  Don't worry about it.

      Sorry.  He flashed me a grin, quick and sly and charming, catching me off guard.  I'm not good with numbers.  Nor words either.  I guess you could say I'm not good at much of anything. 

      He went back to his bed, his steps light, almost a skip and hop in them, and sat down again.  He was nimble, slender, pretty as a girl, and he had alert eyes.  Aside from being a fuck-up about math, which let's face it, a lot of people are if you catch them off guard, he seemed pretty ordinary. 

      His eyes looked intelligent, and I didn't see any sign of somebody who'd lost it and disobeyed direct orders or had to be sedated.  If anything, he seemed young and innocent, not harrowed by the horrors of war.  Or food additives — whatever.

      He swung his legs, not taking his eyes off me, but there was a hint of something lurking there now, a question, a fear, something he didn't try to say.  His fingers were twitching, plucking at something.  At first I took it to be part of the flannel bedding, but then I saw it was a different sort of flannel, like a shirt.

      A very familiar shirt.  He was plucking at the edges of my favorite pajama top.  I'd left it under my pillow this morning before heading in to work.  I took a step back.  He made a quick, jerky movement, his dry, cracked lips parting, and then he looked down.  He started picking at the hem faster, harder.  He was fraying it, ruining it, and it was already pretty worn out.

      How . . . ah . . .  I cleared my throat.  How'd you get that?

      Ralstead said smoothly, We keep things from all our prospective human matches on hand, things that carry their scent.  If a shifter can't stand the smell of a human, it means there's not going to be an emotional compatibility.

      I did remember having to handle and hand over a handkerchief.  But . . . wow.

      The fox was watching me; Ralstead and Singh were watching me.  This, I realized, was part of the test.  They could've easily told me earlier, but I needed to be flustered, to see how I'd respond.

      But why my shirt? I said.

      Dylan seemed to respond well to your scent, but it was faint and old from the last time you were tested.

      I gave a small nod.  So somebody broke in and stole my pajama top? I asked slowly, trying to feel my way through the weirdness of this situation.

      Yes, said Singh looking at me, his eyes hard, boring into me.  It was a gaze you could never ignore or feel comfortable under.  I realized what they were trying to tell me.  If I worked with Dylan — so that was his name — it would take over my life.  I couldn't have much privacy anymore. 

      They must've dug deeply into my life before even considering me.  But somehow I hadn't thought about them breaking in to take something of mine, to test the smell.  It threw me for a loop.  I found myself blinking, nodding, and locking it away to think about later.

      All right.  I'd accept this for now.  If it happened a lot, I'd have to re-evaluate.  But I really thought it was part of the test.

      Dylan looked up, his face suffused with light, his wide smile full of delight.  You'll take me? 

      Uh . . . to work with.  Yes.  Why was he acting like this was a great chance for him?  I was the lucky one being given a chance.

      Then again, I didn't know what his other options were.  If it was a court-martial or being locked up in a mental hospital or something like that, then I had to be a better choice.

      He hopped up and ran to me, draped his arms around my shoulders and neck and leaned his slender body against mine.  He was warm, lithe, and very alive: hard-muscled despite the willowy look to him.  He pushed his face against my collar, a little nudge-nuzzle that made his nose just barely touch my skin.

      Wow, he did like my smell, even in his human form.  His eyes shut, and his arms around me felt loose and gentle, like he couldn't help hugging me but knew he probably wasn't supposed to.

      What was I getting myself into?  He was like a child, or a pretty girl or something, and yet I saw the manliness in him as well.  He was a mess, fragile and weird.  I was probably his last shot at working in a good job.  Possibly any job.  And he was hugging me, sniffing me, and acting delighted by my very presence.

      The weirdest thing of all?  I kind of . . . liked the smell of him, too.  It wasn't a musky weird body odor scent, and certainly nothing overpowering.  He smelled dry and clean, like some kind of faint, earthy powder.  Dry earth in the sun, maybe. 

      He sniffed at my collarbone, which tickled.

      All right, all right, I groused and guided him back, my hands on his arms gently.  We stared at each other, and he grinned, looking happy and proud of himself. 

      I like you, he said.  Can I keep your shirt?

      I blinked.  Um.  No.

      Ralstead touched my sleeve and drew me aside. 

      Singh said something to the fox shifter, who paid attention, his eyes serious and a little unnerved.  He nodded quickly several times. 

      Meanwhile, Ralstead spoke to me.  I'm afraid that, for this to work, you'll need to live with your new temporary partner.

      Don't say temporary! called Dylan from across the room.  He was listening to us more than Singh now. 

      Singh scowled, looking pissed off.  I was surprised such a little guy could hold so much anger.  Then again, maybe I shouldn't be.  Sometimes little guys have the most to be angry about.  Angriest man I ever met was a little person just over half my height, a watch repairman who'd been robbed.  I'd felt lucky he didn't gut punch me, and I was just the cop taking his statement.

      Dylan, said Singh, and Dylan lowered his head, immediately cowed.

      I started forward, towards them.

      Ralstead put a hand on my arm and closed it, holding me there.  He'll stay here until we can either clear your place as hazard-free or move you both into a safe place.

      "What . . . what do you have to do to my place?  It's kind of dusty,

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