Page 3 of The Dragon, the Bear, and Their Sugar Glider Omega

Up to my penthouse I went. I’d packed a bunch of things that I was bringing with me, and, if I was going to leave today, I needed to get a move on. Even with the help of my assistant, it took a good couple of hours to get everything packed into the car. It turned into a game of Tetris, and I won, even able to see out the back window.

I was going to miss my penthouse. It was the first thing I had bought when I gained control of my trust fund. It felt like a big deal. My grandfather always said to invest in real estate, and I took him perhaps too literally.

That month had been a lot of firsts, and it was great. But, now that I was leaving, I just gave the building to my assistant, Dean. He’d worked for years and was the only person I could trust. And yes, just like the alphas who tried to get close to me and the people who were “my friends,” he was in it for the money. But, unlike any of them, he never pretended not to be. He was always my assistant, always my employee, and he always treated me with respect. That was worth the largest severance package of his life, for sure.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said, and I believed him.

Ever since my 21st birthday, when I got full control of my trust fund, he’d been by my side. I’d never say we were friends—we weren’t—but he looked out for me, and I appreciated it.

“If you need anything, call, boss.”

I hadn’t been expecting that, and it had me wanting to hug the guy. Only Dean didn’t hug. Not me and not anyone else.

“I will, I promise. And if you need anything…same. The taxes are all taken care of for the year, as is the insurance, but if something comes up, let me know.” The place would earn him a solid profit from the get-go, but I wanted to give him the wiggle room he needed while he got his bearings.

He clapped my shoulder, the closest thing to affection he’d shown me in all these years, and we said goodbye.

I drove out of my parking garage, away from my multimillion-dollar penthouse, and toward the unknown. To a new place, a new city, someplace where I could just be Clay. And maybe, if I was lucky, I could find some friends who liked me for me.

I got a lead on a nightclub called Animals. It was a shifter-focused establishment and, while I might not be the fierce predatory shifter that usually fit in in shifter spaces, I was an adorable novelty and hoped that would be enough to get a job there. I mean, a sugar glider. What could be cuter? At least, that was the angle I planned to use.

Money wasn’t an issue. I had more than I could spend in many lifetimes, but working around other shifters, ones who didn’t know who I was? Yeah, that was the dream, and I crossed my fingers that Animals was going to be the place to make it come true.

Chapter Three

Armel

Those new to San Diego were known to swear they couldn’t imagine how they’d ever been happy anywhere else. With its seventy miles of coastline, orchards, and farms, forests, even the 100 peaks just waiting to be scaled by climbers of all levels, many of them in the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, there was something for everyone who loved the outdoors. Like my bear and I. Within all of these areas could be found just about any activity like hiking, swimming, and boating.

Of course, there was also a cosmopolitan lifestyle with live theater, concerts, the slightly less cosmopolitan slew of amusement parks, shopping, museums. San Diego had been my home for some years, and I had partaken of its many charms, but my bear was getting antsy. He longed for a mate, someone to grow old with, and he wasn’t sure we’d find them here in this town.

I’d had a vague idea that I might find them at Animals, the premier shifter nightclub, but I’d been going once a week or so since it opened, and if my mate was there, they must have been attending on a different night. But the people who went there were fun, and the staff was excellent. They had good food and great music, and I could let my hair down and be myself.

After the day I’d had at the office, I decided to make tonight my weekly visit. A deal I’d been working on for six months, one of the finest residences on the market, had crashed and burned when the buyer turned out to have criminal sources for his funding.

Who does that? Okay, criminals…but the shifter market in my experience tended to be a lot cleaner than that. Perhaps the particular area in South America from which the crocodilian family originated should have been a clue. Black caimans, the animal version, grew up to twenty feet long and were responsible for most of the aggressive attacks in that part of Ecuador. The shifter version, if they held true to others of shifter kind, would be considerably larger than the natural type, but as to aggression?

They were too rare to even have a reputation, or so I thought. After my client and his mate, a spectacled caiman, were hauled off to the federal detention center, I did some research on what the agent in charge called the most vicious cartel in their province. Damn. I had been so excited to make this connection and had been foolishly imagining myself as the premier Realtor dealing with shifters coming in from that region.

Now I was informed that I was lucky that had not come to pass. The agency assigned to investigations of this sort, an alphabet agency who chose not to tell me their letters due to secrecy, had done a deep dive into my dealings and found me clean. But the agent did warn me to be more careful in who I associated with in the future. At some point, “walks like a duck, hangs out with ducks” would come back to burn me.

Ducks, really? Guilt by association, was what it came down to. And while I did not intend to allow some shifters who threw their lot in with the human government to make my decisions for me, I knew good advice when I heard it. A very basic internet search after things calmed down this afternoon had shown me information that would have had me turning down the contract, no matter how much it would have made me. I didn’t need dirty money, and the meeting I’d scheduled for the morning would pass along that same advice to my agents. If they wanted to work at this office, they would know who they were dealing with. Particularly but not exclusively foreign citizens. Plenty of criminals lived in this country as well. We did not want their business.

I’d taken time to go home and shower and change before going to Animals because I felt grimy from the day and didn’t want to carry that with me to the club. But, as always, driving up the road to the parking lot, my mood rose. Maybe I’d never find my mate here, but it was a great place to spend an evening.

I looked around for friends on the main floor but didn’t see any in the area where we usually sat, not a surprise since this wasn’t a regular evening for me, but I did find a small unoccupied two-seater near the dance floor. Not my first choice, since the noise element could make conversation difficult there, but who was I going to talk to anyway?

But the music was great, and the dance floor hopping, full of happy shifters, some of whom were partially or fully shifted, and a show in themselves. The thought entered my mind that maybe some of them weren’t the innocents I’d always assumed, but I shrugged that away. I couldn’t start seeing everyone as a criminal, doubting my judgment because one really bad guy got past my defenses. I had only met him in person twice—when he made his offer, and yesterday, when he came into the country preparatory to the closing—with most of our conversations in video chat since he spent most of his time in Ecuador with his bask. At least, that was what I thought a group of caimans was called. But it was probably just a cartel anyway.

He’d presented me with everything required for a nonresident to make the purchase, which was basically the same as anyone else. Most people don’t know that. Lots of countries have restrictions for noncitizens, but not the US. Where many run into problems is finding financing—this man was planning to pay cash.

What I did need to look into was the deposit. Technically, it was nonrefundable, but the current owner would have to consider whether they wanted to make a cartel bigwig mad. A cash payment of this size was rare, but he’d said all the right things about inherited money and a successful local-food-industry company. He’d even brought me samples of some of his gourmet products, one more reason it all made perfect sense. A drawing of him was on the label.

“What can I get you?” The voice came from close by, no doubt to be heard over the music.

I shook myself out of my funk and lifted my face to smile at the server. “Mojito, I think. Seems like that kind of night.”

He grinned at me, showing a bright white smile under twinkling eyes. “The bartender does make them tasty. No apps?”

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