Carlos

"Damn, Martinez. You move fast."

Chief Coleridge eyes the backpack of belongings beside my chair and Turner scowls. He'd brought me with him to the station, where I hung around awkwardly while he wrote a lengthy report before hauling me into the chief's office.

"It's temporary," Turner says. "Just until we figure this out."

Coleridge leans back in her chair and fiddles with a pen. "So, Martinez. Who did you piss off this time?"

"More than usual?" I give her a weak smile and shrug. "No idea."

"Hm. Well, all I can say is you better get this case wrapped up air tight, Turner. I don't want it falling apart in court because someone finds out the key witness has been living with the lead detective."

Turner's scowl deepens. "It's just until we can get him in a safe house."

"A safe house?" Coleridge barks a laugh. "What kind of budget do you think we're working with here, Turner? You want him in a safe house, you're it."

"What about Witness Protection?"

Coleridge shakes her head. "You know the hoops we'd have to jump through for that to happen. Might as well say it's not happening. You want my advice? Solve this case fast, and use every asset available to you."

She turns to me.

"Speaking of assets. You ready to sign that consulting contract?"

I see she's already got it printed out for me, and reach for a pen with a sigh. A wise man knows when he's beat.

~ ★ ~

"Make yourself at home."

I look around. Usually, when I visit a friend's place, and they say, "make yourself at home," or something along those lines, it's easy enough to tell what they mean. They'll indicate a squishy old sofa, or open the fridge to show what's on offer, or gesture at the state of chaos as if to say, "See? Go ahead. Nothing you do could possibly make this worse."

Turner does none of those things. He just hangs his jacket on a peg by the door and sits on a cushioned bench to remove his shoes. Mimicking him, I do the same.

"Wow," I say, "I didn't know police work paid this well."

I'd been surprised when Turner took the highway out of town and up into the mountains to one of the gated communities where rich people have second homes, and even more surprised when he'd parked in the garage of one of the more ostentatious examples thereof. The placed looked like a mansion pretending to be a bungalow.

Whole pine log pillars and a river-stone facade gave it the illusion of being built from the land, and quaint touches like shuttered windows and a steeply gabled roof gave it cute mountain cabin vibes. At the same time, there was no mistaking it for anything but a luxury home.

"It doesn't," Turner says, rising and padding through the flag-stone entryway in his sock-clad feet. "This is my brother's place."

"Oh." I follow him into a spacious living area of cream sofa sets, polished pine floors, large glass windows, and tasteful accents. A painting of birch trees in autumn hangs above a stone fireplace, and the coffee table looks like a piece of modern art. "This doesn't seem like your style. What's your brother do?"

"Nothing. He's dead."

"Oh. I... I'm sorry. When did he...?"

"Last year. Before that he was a high-powered attorney in L.A. He left all his money and property to his partner, but for some reason, he left his vacation home to me."

"Wow. I guess it's lucky he vacationed in the town where you work."

Turner shoots me a look, and I wince. "Lucky" isn't a word to use right after someone tells you someone close to them died.

"What I mean is—"

"It's not a coincidence," he says. "It's the reason I took this job. But you're right. I don't believe in luck, or fate, but the fact is everything happened at once. My brother died, my wife divorced me, I inherited this place, I saw a job opening. I needed a place to live and a fresh start. Things worked out."

"Still... I'm sorry for your loss."

Turner shrugs and surveys the room, as if taking it in for the first time. "Quin and I weren't on good terms. When I got the letter of inheritance, I expected it to contain a big fat 'fuck you,' not the deed to a house. Come on — I'll show you upstairs."

Thrown by the abrupt change in subject, I follow him up a broad, curving flight of stone steps with a banister of light, natural wood. At the top is an open area overlooking the floor below and a brightly lit hallway with a huge, sliding glass door at the other end, which opens onto an expansive redwood deck.

"That's my room," he says, pointing to a door along the hall. "You can go anywhere in the house, except in there."

"Is that where you keep the enchanted rose?"

"What?"

"You know. From Beauty and the Beast."

He scowls at me, unamused. "No. It's where I keep my private shit, which I don't want strangers poking their noses in. Understand?"

I raise my hands and take a step back. "Yeah, yeah. I understand."

"Good." He points at the three doors on the opposite side of the hall. "Two spare bedrooms. Bathroom's in the middle. Take your pick. I'll let you get settled in."

He returns downstairs, leaving me a bit lost. Nothing more awkward than feeling like an unwanted guest.

I turn to the spare rooms. Both doors are paneled in light wood with brushed bronze knobs.

"Eenie, meenie, minie, mo," I say, and pick the one on the right, nearer the sliding glass doors.

The room is nice — probably the nicest place I've ever stayed — and after sitting on the big four-poster bed for a bit, and standing at the windows to admire the expensive view, reality starts to catch up to me.

I can't stay here.

Aside from the fact Turner can barely stand to look at me, I can't just hide while someone else solves my problems. I got bills to pay, and mouths to feed (if you count the stray cats who live in the empty lot out back). No rest for the wicked.

Suddenly exhausted I flop back on the bed and shut my eyes.

One night, I tell myself. You can play Cinderella for one night, Carlos. Then it's back to work. Don't think the prince is coming for you either, because this shoe clearly doesn't fit.

~ ★ ~

"You got a death wish, Martinez?" Turner asks, staring at me over a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza.

He'd had it delivered, which I'd discovered when I awoke from an accidental nap and came downstairs to find it was already dinnertime.

We're sitting at the long dining room table, and with the blinds drawn, some blues playing from a hidden sound system, and the news playing muted on a giant TV, it feels almost cozy.

"No, I want to live, obviously; but if my business fails, I don't know how I'll afford to do that."

"You see ghosts, right?"

"Yeah...?" I lift a brow at him.

"You ever met a ghost who runs a business?"

I chomp on a bite of pizza and scowl at him, point taken.

Turner huffs. "I didn't think so."

I set my food down. It's good — really good — and I haven't had really good pizza in a long time, but I don't have much appetite at the moment. "You own this place free and clear?"

He frowns, but answers me. "Yeah. My brother did, anyway."

"Must be nice. Someday I'd like a place of my own. Not as big as this, but more than a room over an auto-garage. You know what I mean?"

He leans back in his chair, regarding me. "I do, actually."

I lean forward. "Look... John," I say, taking his first name for a spin. "I get paid to fix cars. No fixed cars means no money. No money means no food, or utilities, or phone, or anything. Understand? I can't afford to hide."

He lifts a brow at me and takes a swig of beer. "Did you even read all those forms you signed?"

"Huh?"

"The consultant contract. Did you even read the terms?"

I wince. "No. It was a little hard to concentrate."

"So I'm guessing you didn't notice the rate of pay."

I shake my head.

"Fifty-six dollars an hour, Martinez. That's a few bucks above the national average for a police consultant. Granted, the hours are irregular. Some days you might work sixteen straight. Other days, none. But it evens out to a fair wage."

I frown at him. "Even so. How am I supposed to work at all if I'm hiding out here?"

"You won't be. You'll be with me."

"I... I will?"

He nods. "I haven't been here long, but one thing I've already learned is that the chief gets what the chief wants, and for whatever reason, the chief wants us to work together. So, we'll work together, and I'll keep you safe. Tomorrow, for example, I'd like to retrace Kyle's steps on the day of his murder — try to piece together everywhere he went, everything he did. I'd also like to interview all of your mutual acquaintances — I'll need a list, if you don't mind. That's a twelve hour day, at least. You up for it?"

I do the math and my eyes go wide.

Turner's mouth quirks in a sharp smile. "That's more than you make in most weeks, with all the discounts you've been handing out."

"How you know that?"

He shrugs. "Had a look at your books. I thought you were my guy, remember?"

He makes eye contact and holds it, and I feel my face flush. He's more relaxed than I've seen him so far, and as I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the armor, warning lights go off in my brain. He's smoking hot, and dangerous like fire, and I can see myself falling hard and getting badly burned.

"So, why you doing work on the cheap if you need the money so bad?" he asks.

I shrug and take another drink of beer to steady my nerves and get my wandering thoughts in line. "Gotta build my customer base. I lose some money upfront, but I get their loyalty in the long run, you know?"

Turner shakes his head. "Nah. In my experience, you give people something for free, and they come to expect not to pay. So, are you my guy, or not?"

I blink, and then the rational part of my brain kicks in and tells me he's talking about working together. "I'm your guy, yeah. But I'm not doing it for the money."

For the first time since I met him, he grins wolfishly.

"Now that, I believe."

I clear my throat. "Uh, can I ask something, though?"

He nods. "Shoot."

"Call me Carlos, okay?"

He stands and walks towards me, pausing by my chair. I find myself frozen in place and keep my eyes on my plate as he rests a hand on my shoulder, hot as a brand through my shirt.

"Know your worth, Carlos, and don't ask for anything less."

Mouth dry, and feeling like my life hangs in the balance, I nod.

He pats my shoulder. "Be up by six. I like to get an early start."

I remain where I am as he wanders off, not daring to move until I hear a door open and shut somewhere deeper in the house.

As far as I know, I've only met one alpha werewolf in my life, and despite the stereotype, he's a pretty chill guy.

John Turner is closer to what I'd imagined. I feel like if he snapped his fingers he could have me on my knees, and like he knows it, too.

My life might be safe with him, but my heart?

I let my head hang back on my shoulders and release the tension with my breath.

"The fuck have I gotten myself into now?"