Hi, y'all! Bet you thought you'd seen the last of old Tyler. Well, the reason I've been AWOL is due to the fact that I'm in the process of publishing a bonafide novel. That's right. Got an agent and everything! When the book is published, I will let you all know so that anyone's whose interested can crack it open.
For those who still follow And The Little One Said Roll Over, I haven't abandoned Nate and our favorite brothers. Expect an update.
In the meantime, though, Jurassic World and Chris Pratt dragged me down this whacky rabbit hole for another adventure. It won't be as angsty as my other fics (Owen Grady doesn't really allow for that), so if you're up for some fluff and fun, sit back and enjoy the ride!
Reviews are an author's lifeblood. It takes ten seconds to post a thumbs-up (or down) and leave an impression. Please review. - Tyler
In Loco Parentis
Claire Dearing forced a calming exhale. A traitorous smile tugged at her lips, shifting her delicate freckles.
She smothered it in a tight-lipped expression.
This was not funny.
It's a little funny. Claire could hear his southern drawl, picture his cocky smirk as he hiked the steps to his Sunrio bungalow.
To their Sunrio bungalow. Owen Grady was all about sharing. What was his had become hers, and vice versa. The only problem; Claire had considerably more than Owen of just about everything.
Except patience. Right now, she felt in short supply of that particular asset. Owen Grady, on the other hand, was just brimming with the stuff. The man had probably – no, definitely – siphoned off her tank while she was busy averting yet another InGen crisis.
"Um, Owen?" Claire hoped she sounded calmer than she felt, "You've been in there or over half an hour. I assume the coast is clear!"
A moment passed. A scuffle, a crash, a curse later and Owen Grady – Alpha Raptor, former soldier and InGen's shining star – stumbled out of his semi-collapsed bungalow.
This time, Claire allowed herself to smile. He was coated from head to mucous-colored slime.
"Man, that is just nasty!" Owen smeared a hand across his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision.
Claire folded her hands in front of her primly, "I take it you finally got around to clearing out the refrigerator."
"Oh, this?" Owen fumed, snatching up a discarded rag (which, Claire noted, was caked in motorcycle grease), "This is what a Pterodactyl embryo sac looks like."
"Or…smells like." Claire waved at the air, crinkling her nose as Owen strode past her.
"Or feels like." He paused mid-wipe and extended the slimy rag towards her, grinning. "Want a sample? Y'know, for research purposes."
Claire's hands shot up and she backed away, regretting her decision to wear a Gucci jumpsuit that morning, "I think I'd rather track down Henry Wu and get my real samples back!"
Owen's back stiffened, the broad muscles in his shoulders bunching tightly.
"Masrani's guys still got you on the trail?"
Claire winced, "I…thought we had decided not to talk about this." She'd decided – after Masrani Corps had threatened to take Claire to court for her involvement in the I-Rex's rampage if she didn't cooperate with a hunt for Henry Wu.
"Right. We decided." Owen muttered, swiping at the slime a little too forcefully, "Just like we decided to join InGen on their latest crusade for asset containment…"
"There are thousands of herbivores roaming this island unprotected." She argued, "If we can quarantine the predators to a single zone…"
"Just like we decided that I'd sign up for another Alpha program once the new Raptors hatch!" Owen tossed the slimy rage across the overgrow grass, turning fierce eyes on Claire.
She huffed, "You have to admit that your control of the Raptors…"
"Relationship!" Owen clarified loudly, "My relationship with the Raptors!"
"It was crucial in defeating the Indominus!" She stuck to her guns, "And I'm only working with InGen's clean-up crew to get information about Wu. You didn't have to come along!"
It was his turn to huff, "Yeah. Like I was gonna let you go off on some misguided 'sleuth' mission to Isla freakin' Nublar alone!"
Claire blinked, "You didn't have to make quotation marks with your fingers. It is a sleuth mission."
Owen squinted condescendingly, "It's not."
"Yes, it is!"
"You're wearing a yellow…whatever that thing is." He waved a finger at her outfit.
"A jumpsuit?" Claire raised her eyebrows patiently.
"Sleuth missions are stealthy."
"It's saffron."
"People wear black." Owen crossed his massive arms across his chest and threw her a triumphant look. She glared at him.
"I wish I had a flare. I would throw it right in your smug little face and watch the T-rex eat you."
Owen cast her an almost bashful smile – before it warped crooked and cocky and Claire was dodging a slimy rag.
They both knew not to laugh too long or too loudly. InGen troops had been busy for the past year, using helicopter and ground assaults to drive the carnivores off to the South side of the island. A giant wall was well underway, securing the peaceful species and research teams that were still settling in.
Owen had suspicions that InGen wanted the herbivores rounded up with the hopes of opening yet another attraction in the future.
Claire knew for a fact that that was the plan, although she did her best to keep Owen in the dark about it. His righteous wrath, as Barry jokingly dubbed Owen's explosive temper, would do no one any favors.
"Give!" Owen yelled gloriously, after pinning Claire under his impressive frame and wiggling the rag dangerously close to her face.
"No! You're…ugh! You're such a cave man!" She shrieked, writhing uselessly under him as the stench assaulted her nose.
"I think what you meant to say…" He grunted as Claire's elbow caught him in the solar plexus, "is 'Owen Grady is the sexiest, most manly hunk alive, and also, board shorts are totally acceptable for Central American dates'!"
"You...Oh! Get off me, Owen!"
"Give!" The rag dropped closer.
"Alright, alright! Milk carton! You can drink from the milk carton!"
Claire had him. She knew it by the way his body froze astride her.
"Keep talkin'."
Oh, he was infuriating! Claire winced as a rock dug into her pelvis, racking her brain for another card to play.
A roar, faint but growing stronger, made them both freeze.
Claire hated the way her heart began to pound a mile minute and her mouth turned dry whenever she heard a noise like that. Her therapist said it was PTSD.
Owen said it was common sense.
"Is it…?" She whispered as her beau rolled off her and tugged her to her feet.
"It's just an engine." Owen reassured her, but the sharp look in his eyes told her he'd felt the panic too.
The roar approached, sputtering as the four-by-four shifted over unkempt terrain. Claire brushed off her jumpsuit and smoothed back her hair.
Owen folded his arms and squinted suspiciously at the approaching vehicle, slimy rag still clenched in his fist.
"Aw, hell." He bit out, "It's that ass-hat Tucker."
Claire threw him a reproachful look, "You're not going to throw the rag at him."
"Don't count on it."
A jab from Claire's elbow silenced any further complaints from Owen as the jeep pulled up in front of them. Dust clouded at its fender, enveloping the stout man who descended from inside.
A year ago, Claire would have dreamed of working under a man like Roland Tucker. He was one of InGen's brightest stars, and was rumored to have been mentored by John Hammond himself. Tucker was heading up InGen's containment program on Isla Nublar, and had so far shown himself to be a well-educated individual with little tolerance for stupidity.
"Except his own." Owen's words rang in Claire's memory, "That hobbit's margin for error is as tiny as his…"
"Mr. Tucker!" Claire forced a smile, stepping forward to shake the pudgy hand outstretched to her, "What brings you out here?"
"Yeah, thought they didn't let you out much after that little incident with the triceratops last week." Owen's arms were still crossed. Claire noted that Tucker didn't bother extending his hand in his direction, either.
Men. She pursed her lips and resigned herself to role of diplomat once more.
"Ms. Dearing," Tucker tilted his head, "Owen." The contempt in his voice rang clear, "I thought I'd find you back on the reserve heading up your separate divisions."
"We were just doin' a bit of recon." Owen waved the rag at his disheveled bungalow, "By the way, who's a guy gotta strangle to get a hammer and nails in this outfit?"
Tucker narrowed his eyes. His nose, the only sharp feature on his otherwise rounded face, crinkled at its bridge, "Mr. Grady, are you aware that a CWS helicopter with a military escort touched down in Isla Nublar not two hours ago?"
"Say what?" Owen's squint deepened, morphing from suspicious to incredulous, "What the hell is CWS?"
"Child Welfare Services." Claire felt a lump in her throat as she stepped forward. Visions of Zach and Grey flooded her consciousness, "Mr. Tucker, is everything alright?"
"No, it is not alright!" Tucker responded turgidly, mopping at his sweaty brow. Claire noticed Owen subtly his filthy rag as a peace offering and gave him a fierce, tight-lipped expression.
His hand resting on her shoulder reassured her that happy-go-lucky Grady had just been replaced by Alpha Grady. Claire could count on Alpha Grady. She sucked in another calming breath.
"Mr. Tucker, what exactly is going on? What are Child Welfare Services doing in Isla Nublar?"
"Maybe some rich hipster wants to adopt a baby dinosaur." Owen drawled in her ear. She recognized the attempt to soothe her nerves. "Hell, could be Brangelina for all we know."
"It is not Brangelina!" Tucker snapped.
"Well, I'm sorry, Tucker – why the hell don't you enlighten us as to what exactly Child Services are doing in the middle of a restricted area?" Owen's voice, in contrast to Tucker's, dropped two octave as he waved an arm at the expanse of land surrounding them.
"I was hoping, Mr Grady, as the alleged father of the young man in question, that you'd have the answer to that question!" Tucker glanced up sharply as a shriek pierced the air.
A Pterodactyl on the cusp of adolescence had appeared out of nowhere. It dropped into a nosedive, powerful wings beating the air as it headed straight for the earth-bound trio.
"Look out!"
"Oh my god!"
"Where's my goddamn gun?"
The three separate hollers came from Claire, Tucker and Owen in that self-same sequence.
The first half-dove, half-fell to the ground at a protective shove from Owen.
The second turned tail and made a beeline for his vehicle.
The third dropped, rolled, snatched up his weapon and shot the prehistoric reenactment right between the eyes with a sawed-off shotgun.
As the magnificent beast sprawled, lifeless, at his feet, Owen Grady blew out a breath before turning to yell at Tucker, who was quaking behind his windshield.
"What the hell d'ya mean – alleged father?"
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