Running Free (Woodland Creek)(10)

I push away thoughts of the sexy detective and roll all of my anger into a menacing stare that has Cliff stuttering.

“I, uh, I’ll… ” he trails off when the door opens.

A deep chuckle vibrates its way all the way to my core and I slip off the counter. I turn to glare at the one who had stolen my thoughts only moments ago. In the broad daylight, he’s even better looking. Today he’s wearing a fitted black shirt which hugs his perfect frame and another pair of dark jeans which showcase his impeccable body. When I finally meet his eyes, he’s smirking at me.

Fucking smirking.

“Oh,” I groan, “It’s you. Officer Doolittle.” Even though I’m attempting to trick myself that I’m not happy to see him, that’d be a lie. Something about his strong presence draws me in like a damn magnet.

His smirk falls and he approaches me, sadness eating at his expression. “About that, Frankie. Listen. Your friend Acey was found murdered last night. I’m so sorry.”

Of course I already know. I knew before I met him but he doesn’t know that.

“Yeah, Otis told me,” I lie. “Any leads on who killed my friend?”

He frowns at me and I sense that he knows I’m lying. It only serves to agitate me.

“No, but we’re working on it,” he promises. “Are you in the market for a dog?”

I sigh and nod. Another lie. “Yep.”

“Every f*cking day,” Cliff mutters under his breath.

Snapping my gaze over to him, I flip him the bird and then use it to point to the back. “Let me in lazy-ass and show me what you’ve got.”

He stands and tugs the lanyard full of keys from his neck. Cliff used to hit on me but I’m not into ginger porn addicts who smell like bologna and piss.

“What about you? Cop need a little protection?” I sass over my shoulder as I wait for Cliff to let me in.

His laugh is back and it irritates me how my flesh reacts to it, rising in a scattered mess of goosebumps.

“Actually, I get kind of lonely sometimes. I was looking for a little companionship.”

My heart squeezes at his words and I bite my lip to keep from asking why a good looking cop like him is lonely. How a man with such a beautiful laugh has no one to share it with. And why he sounded so vulnerable when he uttered those words.

Then I remember I don’t care.

But sometimes I do care. And that’s the part about myself I wish I had more control over. I want to compartmentalize everything in my everyday life. Helping the kids is something I want to do because they’re like me — lost and afraid.

Humans though. I could care f*cking less.

Joe was a human who hurt his foster children.

Clarice was a human who liked starving the kids she took care of but the fat bitch never missed a meal.

Gunnar Mason is a human. And he probably sucks too.

“Hmmm.” It’s the only response he gets as Cliff opens the side door to usher us inside.

“Knock your socks off, Frankie. Show the big boy the rules. I have work to do in the office,” Cliff says blandly before leaving us alone in the stinky-ass kennel full of dogs.

As I approach the first cage, Gunnar suffocates me with his heat as he stands a little too closely behind me. The animal in me craves to lean back against his chest — begs for him to roam his large palms all over my chest and belly.

Shit!

“Am I really that big?” he questions in a whisper, his hot breath tickling my hair. “I’ve been watching what I eat.”

The playfulness in his words combined with the warmth enveloping me distracts me and I risk a glance over my shoulder at him.

Would it be playing with fire to have sex with the god of a man behind me?

Of course it would.

Shifters don’t f*ck humans.

“What a cutie,” he mutters and casts a glance at the mutt in the cage. I follow his gaze and shake my head.

“Seriously? He’s not cute. At all. Poor thing’s been here for months. I wonder why they don’t just put him down and out of his misery.” My words are cold and harsh but truthful. If it were up to me, I’d euthanize them all. They’re sad and unhappy. The only ones that ever get adopted out are the ones I find. The shifters.

Gunnar reaches a thick arm past me and his chest brushes against my back. His finger pokes through the cage and the dirty, bony dog sniffs at him.

“Don’t get his hopes up.” I sigh and sidestep out of his confusing closeness. Everything about him — his scent, his natural body heat, his beautiful stature — muddies the water in my head. I need to think.

Scanning the cages, I inspect each puppy and dog. I’ve managed to do a pass through the whole kennel area, ignoring Gunnar all the while, until I lock eyes with two frightened brown ones. A toy poodle, with the blackest of curly hair whimpers and cries, begging me with words only another dog would understand.

She’s a shifter.

“Oh, honey,” I coo as I approach, “Everything’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

But just as I near her cage, Gunnar steps in front of me and pops the latch on it. “Frankie, check this one out. Her eyes. Shit, it’s like she knows what we’re saying!”

His excitement unnerves me and I try to shoulder past him to reach her but he’s already tugging her out of the cage and into his arms.