Bigfoot’s Mate (Mates for Monsters: Sasquatch #3)

1. Deborah

CHAPTER 1

DEBORAH

Nineteen days ago...

The cold porcelain of the toilet stares back at me while I heave the remains of my breakfast into its bowl. Charming. Nothing screams professionalism quite like puking your guts out in the workplace restroom.

I emerge from the restroom stall, wobbly-kneed and light-headed, with the acrid taste of bile lingering. I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face before grimacing at my reflection in the mirror.

Good lord, I could be an extra from "The Walking Dead.”

With these dark circles under my eyes, I look like I've gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champ. My cheekbones practically protrude from my skin. The tailored business suit that used to hug voluptuous curves now hangs off my gaunt frame. This morning, I had to safety-pin the waistband to keep it from sliding off my hips.

After straightening my suit jacket, I push open the restroom door and plaster on my best "everything's fine" expression. Fake it 'til you make it, right? Or in my case, fake it 'til you...

Well, let's not go there.

As I make my way down the corridor of Lexington General Hospital, I ignore the shocked stares, wide eyes, and double-takes that point out just how drastically my appearance has changed. I could say something. Confide in one of my coworkers. But I’m not close enough to any of them to lean on them that way. I wish I’d spent less time focused on my career and more time building meaningful relationships. Too late now.

When I reach the oak laminate door of my office, I take a moment to run my fingers over the engraved letters that read Deborah Jackson, Director of Finance, remembering how proud I was the day they put that placard up there.

I've barely settled at my desk, ready to lose myself in spreadsheets and budget reports when there's a sharp rap on the door.

My boss, Leland Bernhardt, CFO and world-class jerk, doesn’t bother to wait for me to verbally grant him access.

He strides in and perches on the edge of my desk like he has a right to make himself at home. Which, technically, I suppose he does.

"Deborah." His voice drips with false charm. "We need to talk."

I bite back a groan. Nothing good ever follows those four words.

"I’m listening." I aim for casual and professional but land somewhere between irritated and mildly disgusted. Yes, in a display of incredibly poor judgment, I dated the jerk—for all of about five minutes. That’s how long it took to determine just how much of a dickhead he truly is. Five minutes of my life I can never get back.

He sighs dramatically, like he's about to deliver earth-shattering news. "I'm afraid we have a...situation."

We? Who’s we , motherfucker?

“A situation,” I repeat, sounding dumb even to my own ears.

"You've been implicated in some financial irregularities." He examines his perfectly manicured nails. "Embezzlement, to be precise."

“Em…” I blink. Once. Twice. Three times. "I'm sorry, what?" I manage to croak out.

He has the audacity to appear condescending. "I know, I know. It's shocking. But the evidence is quite damning."

My mind races. Embezzlement? Me? I'm about as likely to embezzle as I am to sprout wings and fly to the moon. I once felt guilty for taking two mints from the bowl at the reception desk instead of one.

"Wait a minute. Wait just a damn minute. I haven't embezzled. I’m not a thief.”

He tsks, shaking his head. "Deborah, Deborah, Deborah. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."

I shoot up from my chair. “But.. But… There’s been a mistake. You’re mistaken. I haven’t stolen anything." The room spins. My stomach roils. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself.

He meets my eyes and smirks. The asshole smirks!

Suddenly my brain fog starts to clear. Oh, no he didn’t!

Leland is a complete slimeball, but I never would have suspected he’d stoop this low.

“You set me up!” I manage to choke out, incredulity coloring every syllable. “You did this! You did it and you're going to try to implicate me."

He shrugs, like we're discussing the weather and not the complete annihilation of my professional reputation. "Your medical prognosis is grim anyway, right?"

For a moment I'm stunned into silence.

“How do you even know that? Medical records are confidential." Then again, if he's willing to frame me for embezzlement, I suppose a little HIPAA violation is small potatoes.

He sighs, looking like a disappointed father and I have the overwhelming urge to introduce the business end of my desk stapler to his face.

“There’s no way I’m taking the fall for?—“

Before I can finish my sentence, the door bursts open and two men in dark suits enter flashing badges. "Deborah Jackson?" one of them barks. "You're under arrest for embezzlement."

Strong hands grip my arms and as they start reading me my rights, my boss has the gall to look concerned. If I weren't so shell-shocked, I'd applaud his acting skills.

"You don’t understand. I'm innocent!" I protest as they lead me out. "He set me up! He's the one who?—"

My words fall on deaf ears as I’m handcuffed and dragged out of my office and down the long corridor. My cheeks burn like red-hot pokers, and I’m placed in the back of a patrol car while all my coworkers gather at the hospital entrance to witness my utter humiliation.

Eighteen days ago...

"The hearing tomorrow is for the judge to determine bail."

I eye my lawyer skeptically. The man’s beet-red face is either from the heat in here or from the exertion of climbing three steps to the detention center’s visitation room, possibly both. He's pudgy, has a shiny bald head, a tuft of salt and pepper hair above each ear, and looks like he sweats butter.

"Fantastic," I deadpan.

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. "Now, now. Let's focus on the positives. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you'll get bail, seeing as the judge will take into account you're a first-time offender and not a flight risk."

"I'm a ZERO-time offender," I snap. "I didn't do it!”

He waves a hand dismissively then mops his brow with a handkerchief. "That's for the jury to determine. Now, let me walk you through the timeline of events to come."

As he lays out tentative trial dates, one thing becomes glaringly obvious. Months. It'll be months before the trial even begins.

I don't have months. Hell, I might not even have weeks.

As he drones on about motions and discovery and other legal jargon, my heart sinks to my toes—as does my very last vestige of hope.

Seventeen days ago...

"What's going on?" There’s a note of panic in my voice.

I blink, focusing on the world outside the car window. We're supposed to be headed to the courthouse for my bail hearing. Instead, we pull up alongside an ominous-looking van. A grizzled old man with a craggy face, a long yellowish beard, and a felt hat who looks like he just emerged from the Kentucky backwoods leans against it, chomping on an unlit cigar.

"There's been a change of plans, Ms. Jackson," my lawyer wheezes. A change of plans? His expression is unreadable. "I've found a way for you to escape prosecution. A way out, if you will. All you have to do is follow Mr. Scruggs here and…um…keep an open mind."

Keep an open mind?

“An open mind about what?”

“Ms. Jackson, trust me on this.” His gaze is shifty. He moves his considerable weight from foot to foot nervously, refusing to meet my eyes. “It turns out, the evidence against you is damning and…well, as I said, I secured a way for you to escape prosecution. As your legal counsel, I strongly advise you to take it.”

And then it hits me. Escape prosecution. Escape. He means that literally.

He’s telling me to run. To go on the lam.

"But… But… What will everyone think?" Even I know I’m grasping at straws here.

"Probably that you skipped town with the embezzled funds and you’re sipping Mai Tais on a beach in Bora Bora.” He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

I toss this over in my mind for a few seconds and realize that no, it doesn’t matter. No one really cares one way or another. There’s no one in my life I’m close to. No one.

My mouth contorts into a bitter grimace as I think of that line from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner , something about there being water everywhere but not a drop to drink. I’m surrounded by people every day—yet I’m completely alone.

No one will sit at my bedside as I grow weaker. No one will hold my hand, and no one will mourn me when I’m gone from this earth.

I glance at my attorney, then at the old man leaning against the van, and heave a resigned sigh. I suppose following this sketchy-looking hill person is my best option. I almost laugh at the absurdity. If this were a movie, I'd walk out of the theater in disgust.

But it's not a movie. It's my life. Or, whatever’s left of it. So, with a deep breath, I approach Mr. Scruggs.

His rheumy eyes crinkle. "You ready for an adventure, missy?”

"Not even a little bit," I mumble, but I climb into the van anyway.

The drive is long and winding, and I zone out for much of it, staring out the window as we travel deeper into the Kentucky wilderness.

We pick up a few more female passengers along the way, but I pay them little mind and continue to stare at the trees outside until one of the women screams.

Out the front windshield, it’s easy to see what upset her. We’re barreling toward a sheer rock face—and we’re not slowing down. In seconds, we’re all going to die in a fiery crash! But at the very last moment, the impossible happens. The rock wall in front of us opens and we pass into a dimly lit tunnel.

“What in the world...?" I breathe, clutching my chest as though it might calm my racing heart. It’s like some sort of secret passage in a cheesy spy movie. I half expect to see lasers and a villain stroking a white cat.

The tunnel is the longest ever. In fact, we never emerge from it. After several miles, the van finally comes to a stop and we’re all instructed to disembark.

Tentatively, I step out and into some kind of massive underground cave system.

I blink, trying to adjust my eyes. And then I see them.

Oh.

My.

God.

My brain short-circuits, barely able to process. They're enormous, easily eight feet tall, covered in fur from head to toe. Except for their faces, which look disconcertingly human beneath all that hair.

The monsters—because what else can I call them?—are staring at us. And suddenly, a horrifying thought strikes me.

We're dinner.

They've brought us to this underground lair to be their meal. Dammit! While I sat in that jail cell, I swore to myself I'd be less trusting, less naive, more street-savvy. And what do I do instead? I unwittingly volunteer to become monster chow.

I feel nauseous, light-headed.

My vision starts to swim, black spots dancing at the edges. I'm going to faint. But you know what? I don't even care. It's better to be unconscious when I get eaten anyway.

I wonder how I'll taste? Probably sour. Maybe rotten, like spoiled meat, given that my internal organs are basically disease-riddled.

Ha! Joke's on you, hairy beasts.

The light fades to darkness, and I feel myself falling. But instead of hitting the hard stone floor, strong, fur-covered arms envelop me. Despite my terror, I can't help but notice how warm and comforting they are.

My last conscious thought, before I succumb to the darkness:

I’m home .