Sizzling desire and office politics don't mix ... do they?
Forensic specialist Stevie Daniels will be day-shift supervisor. She's earned that promotion. But first, her boss has tasked her with digging up dirt on Vin Vasher, the rebellious night-shif...
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WWWWWWEEEEERRRRNNN!
The digitally created tornado siren invaded Vin's ears, jolting his brain out of its comatose state. Flat on his back, he flung an arm in the direction of the nightstand but came up short. His brain hammered against his skull, as the horrendous noise wailed away, screaming at him to get the fuck up.
Mustering a scant bit of energy, he rolled his corpse-like body onto its side. Fighting against the pulsating blare pushing him away, his fingertips stretched for the damn button. Flopping on the nightstand until his middle finger found and pushed the correct button.
Silence.
Except for the ringing in his ears.
Vin lay there breathing, the only thing he could do.
He wondered if Ren had escaped the terrarium and made a home in his mouth? He stuck out his swollen and fuzzy tongue, but no lizard fell out of his dry mouth. Muscles he didn't even know existed ached. Toenails too. He didn't need to wipe away the dried gunk cementing his eyelids shut to check the time. He knew. Eight-fucking-thirty. Great.
Any other night, he would've been up, showered, and dressed long before the alarm went off. For the past dozen years, he'd gone against the body's inherent schedule and lived his life in reverse, where day is night, and night is day. But despite the body's ability to adapt to an inverted schedule—it was still wise to have an alarm as backup.
For the first time in several years, Vin had needed backup.
Not wanting to face the night, he rolled over in the king size bed and curled up around a pillow. He knew pleading for a few more hours of sleep wouldn't help. Short of dying, nothing would make him feel better.
What he needed was something to shock his body into some sort of functioning state. Maybe, Ren could get the jumper cables from the garage and hook them up to his testicles. The long list of 'how would' a lizard manage such a task, had him mumbling into the pillow, "Details, details."
With no threat of another alarm going off, he pulled the covers up to his chin. He hadn't experienced this kind of misery since his freshman year in college. A voice joined the drumming in his head, with a perpetual nag of—Ms. Daniels is waiting, better get up.
Vin had to do something to alleviate the hellish feeling. Plans of aspirins, a cup of stick-to-your-ribs coffee, and a shower in whatever order he could manage loitered in his obtuse brain. Because tonight, calling in sick was not an option—period.
* * *
With her butt resting against the wall outside Vasher's office, Stevie turned the page on the article, "Psychological Profiling of the Disorganized Killer." Yep, more often than not, alcohol abuse and indiscriminate violent crimes went hand in hand.
"Hellooo beautiful," an unfamiliar voice said. "The man of your dreams is in the house."
She peered over the trade journal, to see a wannabe club kid. "Sorry, I don't think so."
