Bears Behaving Badly
Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!
You are just one click away from…
• Being the first to hear about author happenings
• VIP deals and steals
• Exclusive giveaways
• Free bonus content
• Early access to interactive activities
• Sneak peeks at our newest titles
Happy reading!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by MaryJanice Davidson
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Aleta Rafton
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Cover
For Lily Allen, who tells it like it is, and doesn’t especially care if you don’t like it.
And for all the good people at Godiva Chocolatier, because…well. Chocolate! (Duh.)
Chapter 1
He tells her he wants her and proves it
his hands are everywhere his hands are magic they make the world fall away
and that is just what she craves and she is desperate to do her part she is wild to make the world disappear for him
and he is easing her onto her back and filling her up with all of him and all of her knows that is fine, just fine and the only thing she wants is for this to never stop
never stop
never
oh
oh my
oh
god
“Beautiful dreamer…wake unto meeeeeee… Starlight and dewdrops…are waiting for theeeeee!”
The world was falling away—no, was wrenched away. And by Stephen Foster, no less. “Nnnnnfff?”
“Sounds of the rude world…heard in the day…lulled by the moonlight…have all passed awaaaaaaaay!”
“Gah.” She swiped, missed, found the thing, smacked it. Opened her eyes—and her fist—and the crushed components pattered to the carpet. Oh, hell on toast.
Annette Garsea, twenty-seven, single, IPA caseworker in need of a shower and a new alarm clock, sat up, pawed at her blankets, and finally freed her legs. She glared at the nightstand drawer, which stayed closed more often these days than her libido liked. Especially last night, when she had gotten home so tired she’d barely had time to undress before doing a belly flop onto her (unmade) bed and succumbing immediately. And even if she had made the time
(note: buy replacement batteries. lots.)
it wouldn’t have made much difference. She and David had just missed each other…again. And even if she’d seen him, nothing would have happened. It wouldn’t have changed anything, including the fact that her sex life was barren and mornings were…yuck. It was like thinking through honey for the first ten minutes. Which wouldn’t be so bad if there was actual honey, but she hadn’t had a chance to go grocery shopping this week. Eggs were good several days past their expiration date, right? Right.
He tells her he wants her and proves it…
From long practice, she pushed the fantasy away, stretched, yawned, padded though her messy den toward the bathroom. Showered, shampooed, watered down her conditioner again (at this point, it was water that vaguely smelled like conditioner), hopped out, toweled, ran a comb through her shaggy locks
(note: grocery shopping and conditioner and haircut)
and dressed. Black office-appropriate slacks she could stand, sit, and run in; ditto her shoes, which were plain black rubber-soled flats. Sports bra, dark-blue turtleneck. Dad’s wristwatch. Or as her partner called it, “that quaint clock you strap to your body for some reason.”
Breakfast. She loved their sun-filled kitchen, with bold, black appliances (easy cleanup) and lots of counter space (room to spread out the junk mail, tape, more mail, books, pens, junk mail), and the island, which was usually Pat’s domain for his project de la semaine. She went straight to the fridge, took inventory of the pitiful contents, and grabbed staples. She sniffed at the eggs and, satisfied, cracked three, whisked them, added the last of the half-and-half, then swirled them into the softly bubbling butter.
“Oh, Gawd, I can’t watch.”
“So don’t.”
“And yet,” Pat whispered, round-eyed, “I cannot look away. This is what people see just before they die.”
“Stop it.” Annette added chopped onions, ham, tomatoes, and sprinkled half a cup of cheese over the glorious mess. She let it cook for a minute, then grabbed a rubber spatula and ran it around the edge, lifting the bubbling, thickening omelet up here and there so the raw eggs could run beneath. A minute later she plopped the thing on a paper plate
(note: dishwasher soap)
and sat across from Pat, who took one look at Annette’s repast
“Want some?”
and shuddered. “You’ve gotta know the answer is a vehement ‘Oh dear God, not even on a bet.’”
“And yet.” She took a bite, relishing the overcooked bottom and the undercooked top. “It’s important to start the day off right.”
“Self-induced salmonella is not starting the day off right. Are you okay?” Pat was 55 percent legs, 20 percent hair, and 25 percent heart, and had a horror of people discovering the latter. So before Pat could express concern—who’d know better than her lunatic roommate that Andrea’s job was dangerous?—he had to insult her breakfast. “You got in late.”
“One of my kids got pinc
hed for shoplifting. I went out to make sure they had a decent bed for him.”
“Let me guess.”
“Don’t guess. You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Dev Devoss.”
“What did I just saaaaay?”
“You talk about that kid in your sleep. Seriously, you yell at him in your dreams.” Pat drummed his fingers on the countertop, already involved in early-morning plotting. “I’ve gotta meet him.”
“Never happen.”
“And here I was the idiot hoping you were out on a date with Donald.”
She almost dropped her fork. Pat had a tendency to read her mind, and she was in no mood to be teased for her recurring fantasy, which had now invaded her dreams. “David.”
“I honestly don’t care, Annette. Stop playing with your food before you eat it. That’s literal and figurative, by the way.”
“I’m not following.”
“Call or text Derwood—”
“David.”
“Still don’t care. Call him or text him or homing pigeon him and then brutally and enthusiastically shag him silly.”
Oh, sure. As if it were that simple. “And then?”
Her roommate looked taken aback. “How should I know? I’m all about the setup, not what comes after. Give him cab fare? Or a wedding ring? My point is—”
“I know what your point is.” She brought the flat of her butter knife down on Pat’s knuckle just as the duplicitous wretch was about to snitch some ham. “Nice mani, by the way.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t kill you to sit still for one, either.”
“Never. If I can’t read during a procedure, I won’t endure it.”
“God help us if you ever need surgery, then.” Pat inspected his nails, which were spade-shaped and the color of glossy pink pearls. “Got an interview.”
“I figured. The suit and all.”
Pat was wearing one of his brother’s navy-blue pin-striped suits with a crisp white shirt and a pale-blue tie dotted with poppies that looked like blood clots. Though he wouldn’t leave the house, Pat was a big believer in “dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Which led to some confusion the month he wanted to be a park ranger. (“I don’t care if it’s five below; this is what rangers wear!”) And the following month, when he wanted to be a hippotherapist. (“If you’re going to do physical therapy with horses, this is what it takes!”)
“I’m letting you change the subject in your clumsy and obvious way because I’ve said my piece—”
“Oh God, if only that were true.”
“—and because I want you to get what this means. No longer will I be the homeless parasite suckling at your 24-acre teat!” Pat declared.
“Okay, gross.” Not to mention inaccurate. Pat insisted on paying $666.66 every other month, and he was far from homeless. “You know you don’t have to get another job on my account.”
“This isn’t about you or your account. It’s about me getting a job within these four walls before I go crazy within these four walls.”
“Good for you,” she said, snarfing the last of her runny omelet. “And stop with the matchmaking-roommate trope.”
“I’m the original, dammit! Tropes come from me, not the other way around. Take. That. Back.”
“Nuh-uh. And good luck on your interview. Knock ’em…uh…” Argh. Because once upon a time, she and Pat had knocked ’em dead. It was why he wore his straight blond hair shoulder-length, when his preference for years had been a buzz cut. “Knock ’em good luck.”
“Gosh, it’s such a treat to see your razor-like mind in action.”
“You wait. ‘Knock ’em good luck’ will be in the national lexicon within the month,” she said, and stifled an eggy, hammy burp.
Chapter 2
Annette waved and smiled at the second person to cut her off (always fun to see them confused by a cheerful countenance instead of a jabbing middle finger), drove straight past the Ramsey County government building, turned left into the parking-garage ramp at the end of the block, flashed her ID, drove down three stories, flashed her ID again, and drove down one more story into the Interspecies Placement Agency, which had much in common with the State of Minnesota’s standard foster-care system, except that IPA had a bigger budget and a sundae bar on Fridays.
She grabbed her purse, her case, the bakery box, and her drink, and managed to get her big butt into the elevator with minutes to spare. Minutes! Who knew, perhaps she could while away that spare time looking for David while simultaneously pretending she was not looking for David. That’s not pathetic, right? Right.
The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and her fine mood fell away as she stepped off into chaos. The melee reminded her of the scene from Resident Evil when the good guys finally got the doors open, only to walk straight into a horde of slavering zombies.
Honestly, zombies couldn’t be much worse.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Did you see the memo about Secret Santas? It’s barely fall!”
“Hiya! Whatcha got for me today?”
“Devoss has instigated yet another debacle, and you’ve got a new lamb—”
“Like there isn’t enough pressure with the holidays? I’ve gotta worry about Secret friggin’ Santas—”
“Pleasebecupcakespleasebecupcakesplease—”
“—who will certainly keep you on your toes—”
“—before Halloween?”
“And the bloody server’s down, so we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way, which I know you despise.”
“Well, that’s it. I know I say this every year, but I’m out.”
“—becupcakespleasebecupcakes.”
“And you owe a tenner for Helen’s get-well meat tray.”
“Good God,” Annette muttered into her hot chocolate. She literally fought her way past the figurative horde (there were only three of them, but still), spotted the edge of her desk—just the edge, because she was behind on her paperwork—and dropped her purse in the middle of the maelstrom. “How can three people be a horde? Let me get my coat off.”
“Hey! I’m having a Secret Santa crisis! There’s no time to let you disrobe, dammit! I can’t believe they didn’t check with me before just…just announcing it.”
“So get rid of the program,” Annette pointed out. “End of problem.”
“Beginning of migraine. Everybody loves the Secret Santa thing.”
“They don’t, though.”
“They look forward to it all year!”
“They absolutely don’t, Bob. Cross my heart and hope to, et cetera. Besides, you’re the one in charge, nominally speaking. You can blitz this problem in three seconds.”
“I won’t squash their dreams,” the agency supervisor declared, then ran away.
She turned and handed off the box to Oz Adway. “It’s not cupcakes.”
“No! My Monday is ruined!”
“It’s Tuesday, Oz.”
“Eclairs! Well. Three-point-five eclairs. This box was full when you bought it, wasn’t it?”
She snickered, which was answer enough, apparently, as Oz wasted no time fleeing back to the bowels of Accounting from whence he was spawned.
That’s one problem solved. Annette sighed and stared at her desk, briefly entertained the idea of turning all her paperwork into origami swans, then turned to Nadia, her facilitator-slash-colleague-slash-bane. “So. Dev Devoss and Caro Daniels?”
Nadia, who stood a foot shorter and dressed like she was the only one in the room worth looking at (which might be true), peered up at her. “How did it go?”
“What?”
“Your date with David Auberon.”
Annette stared. “Why does everyone think I went out with David Auberon?”
“We don’t. But speaking only fo
r myself, I feel if I pretend it’s happening, eventually you’ll succumb.”
Annette rolled her eyes. “How romantic.”
“Oh, darling. Who said anything about romance?”
“One, it creeps me out when you call me ‘darling.’ Two, it also creeps me out when you decide to create an alternate reality in which you have arbitrarily decided that David Auberon and I are going out. Three, talk about work now.”
Nadia shrugged elegantly, which Annette hadn’t thought possible. The woman could probably clean the wax from her ears with verve and elegance. “As you like.”
“Dev Devoss and Caro Daniels,” Annette prompted.
“Dev got punched for shoplifting again.”
“Pinched, Nadia. Not punched. Your grip on American slang is greasy at best.”
“Don’t slang-shame me.” Nadia ruffled her hair, then settled. “Now about Dev—”
“Death by nagging—pretty sure that’s his immediate future. Apparently, I yell at him in my sleep.”
“It’s better than strangling him. And Caro Daniels is downstairs in holding.”
“My new lamb.” From force of long habit, this was more murmured than spoken aloud. The adults Annette worked with didn’t take it personally, but if it got back to any of her kids, the ones with a high prey drive might see it as an invitation to fight. “Did she sleep?”
“Yes. Almost immediately. And it seems to me that she’s been living ralph, too.”
“Living ‘rough.’ We just went over this.”
“My point is that I believe she ran away.”
“That would have been my guess, too. Hardly unusual.” Troubled teens often bolted; that had been true for generations. But she’d noticed werewolf cubs were especially prone to it. And while she hated generalizing and stereotypes more than she hated those big puffy orange circus peanuts, more than one teenage Shifter had rebelled against the pack hierarchy, even if only for a few days. It was as if they needed to make a run for a solitary life before settling in.
She couldn’t relate. At all.
“Ah. There you are.” She’d rummaged through the sea of papers and come up with two files: Caro’s slim one, likely just the arrest report, and Dev’s vastly thicker one, which necessitated a three-inch binder. And tabs! Annette glanced through Caro’s arrest report: she’d been read her rights, made no statement, did not ask for a phone call. Endured an exam, weight and height—she glanced up at Nadia. “Malnourished, underweight, small build.”