Page 4 of Crocodile Tears
I catch my reflection in the lab window—hair frazzled from the morning’s drama, a small piece of raw steak clinging to what’s left of my lab coat, and the faint shimmer around my eyes that appears when I’m stressed and my shifter biology is close to the surface.What do I have to lose, indeed?“Fine,” I hear myself saying, “but I’m not making any promises about this actually working.”
Margo claps her hands together like she’s just won a scientific grant.“Dr.L, you’re going to love this.Trust me.”
I finish my raw steak and wonder if anyone could possibly match with a woman whose idea of “dressing up” might literally involve scales.Yet as I look at the testimonials from other professional shifters who’ve found happiness, I feel a shred of hope.
Maybe Margo’s right.Maybe I don’t need to tone down my ambition.Maybe I just need to find someone who appreciates the full spectrum of what I am—brilliant scientist, dedicated researcher, and occasionally furniture-destroying crocodile shifter.
That evening, I find myself at home organizing my specimen cabinet while on hold with Romance Expected.Each jar and container is labeled with my characteristic precision: “Potentially toxic: DO NOT EAT,” “Yes, this WAS alive once,” and my personal favorite, “Unknown sample—definitely don’t lick this.”
When a cheerful voice finally answers the phone, I take a deep breath and make an appointment for the following week.After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
Chapter 2
Cal
Theburnerphonebesidemy head blinks accusingly at me, displaying three missed calls from Ellis Hammond, my former commander and current pain in the ass.I roll over in the hotel bed that’s seen better decades and check the time.It’s 0430 hours.Of course, Ellis is calling before dawn.The man operates on military time even when he’s technically retired from active duty.
The hotel room in Bogotá is exactly what you’d expect for someone in my line of work—functional, forgettable, and boasting enough exit routes to make a paranoid ex-soldier feel comfortable.My duffel bag sits half-packed on the single chair, and my tactical gear is organized with the kind of precision that screams “former Special Forces” to anyone who knows what to look for.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and grab the notebook I’ve been keeping since my last therapy session.Dr.Martinez insisted I write down goals for “civilian reintegration,” though I suspect she never imagined I’d approach psychological adjustment like a military operation.The list currently reads:
Find apartment with normal number of locks (completed—only four deadbolts)
Buy furniture not designed for rapid deployment (in progress)
Learn to make small talk that doesn’t involve tactical assessments
Stop automatically cataloging weapon potential in everyday objects
Date someone who won’t run screaming when they discover what I do for work
I pull out my pen and add: “6.Learn appropriate first date topics that don’t involve weapons or tactical maneuvers.”
The memory of my last attempted date still makes me wince.Sylvi, a perfectly nice kindergarten teacher, had been telling me about her students when the waiter approached our table carrying a steak knife.Something about his movement pattern triggered my training, and before I could stop myself, I’d disarmed him and had him pinned against the wall with the blade secured.
The waiter turned out to be bringing Sylvi her requested steak sauce and knife.She turned out to be someone who doesn’t appreciate dinner companions who can neutralize potential threats in under three seconds.The relationship lasted exactly as long as it took her to grab her purse and flee the restaurant.
The burner phone buzzes again.Ellis is persistent as always.“What do you want, Hammond?”
