~ so i was checking details in games during the pixel overhaul and while i was slowly zooming out i noticed a weird shadow on the ground .... found it out to be a wrecked ship that spawned up (@ u @’‘‘)
So... this madness is the result of a Fic Whining Circle discussion about Velocipastor and cheap shapeshifter romance novels. (It’s complicated, don’t ask.)
Anyway, long story short, @myevilmouse suggested I write a cheesy, overblown romance fic with the following summary:
Marta was a naive paleotologist at a dig in the Montana tundra, Bob was a shape-shifting dinosaur fighting to become his tribe's alpha. What could go wrong?”
Turns out the idea is just too hiliari-bad to resist. So I’m going to experiment with writing it in serial form here for as long as I can make it last. You’re welcome. (Part I under the cut.)
Part I: Bob
“Boss? Boss, the new Tweed is here.”
“Of course he is,” I grumbled. Pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers, I blew out a breath. Glancing back down at the mess of papers scattered all over my desk I cursed under my breath.
“Boss?” Ricky stuck his head through the tent flap this time. “You want me to get them settled?”
“No,” I growled, irritation flaring. “I’m coming.”
Ricky ducked back out of the tent and I cursed again, ruthlessly shoving all the papers spread out across the rickety folding table that served as my Field Desk into a messy pile. If I didn’t get this damn grant figured out, we’d run out of funding by the end of the year. If we ran out of funding, I’d lose control of the site and that would put my people at risk. If I did get the grant, I’d have to keep working with these damned academics for another year.
The prospect was enough to make me glance longingly toward my battered foot locker. There was a bottle of my cousin’s moonshine in there strong enough to strip paint off military- grade industrial equipment. Tempting.
The rumble of bang of the ancient pickup Mickey used to ferry the academics to and from town sounded and I swung myself up off the crate that functioned as my chair and headed for the tent flap. I could get drunk after I’d met the new idiot.
Liaison, I corrected myself sarcastically. Such a fancy term for such a useless person.
Pushing out of the tent, I stalked across the dusty ground to the center of camp just as the truck lurched to a stop. Mickey slid out. Two years on the dig and he still had the same “stoned surfer” vibe he’d exuded when he wandered in that first day. It’d be admirable if it wasn’t as irritating as shavit.
Catching sight of me, he grinned. “Hey Boss. Did you know the new guy’s a girl?”
I glowered at him non-plussed. “If this is more of that West Coast gender-identity crap,” I started.
“No, I’m serious!” He waved his hands. “Look.” Turning with a flourish he struck a pose I could only assume he got from watching too many re-runs of Wheel of Fortune.
I stared. Not at him, he was always an idiot. But at the stunningly gorgeous woman in cut-off shorts, work boots, and a flannel shirt tied around her slender midriff who had just rounded the truck. Hair the color of spun gold spilled down her back, accented her perfectly tanned skin and bright eyes as she gazed up at me with interest.
“You’re in the wrong camp,” I said, automatically.
She pursed her lips — was she wearing lipstick? — and said decisively, “I’m quite sure I’m not. You are Director Samuels, arne’t you?”
“You can call him Bob,” Mickey said, helpfully, staring at the woman like an infatuated puppy. “Not Bobby, though, he hates Bobby. Something to do with —“
“Shut up, Mickey.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“I’m Dr. Marta Brentwood,” the woman announced, striding up to me and sticking out her hand. “I’m replacing Dr. Bartholomew as your resident paleontologist for the remainder of this session.”
This close, her scent flooded my nostrils. She smelled like desire. My body reached out on autopilot to shake her proffered hand. My brain, meanwhile skittered directly toward a fathomless pool of dread.
They’d sent a woman. To the middle of my camp in the heart of the Montana tundra. Just as the pack was hovering on the verge of devolving into an all-out war of succession. This summer was going to be hell.
