Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
He manages to look a little guilty. “Sorry about that. I freaked out a little.”
“I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You finish the kennel cleaning, and keep an eye on the new stray, okay? Her name’s Junkyard. If Travis calls, tell him I borrowed the van and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I want to run home and get changed.”
"Of course. Go make yourself human. I'll make sure she settles in." He nods his head towards Junkyard's kennel. He might be a scaredy-cat, but he’s really good with the dogs. In that I can trust him.
"And could you try not to freak out if more bikers show up, okay?"
Days like this make me wish I had my own car. I’m lucky that there’s a halfway decent bus line near the rescue, but it only comes once an hour. I go out the side, and when I come around the front of the building, I spot a man with a mustache leaning against the wall next to the door, smoking.
“We open in about ten minutes. Do you need help with something?” I ask.
He looks up and drops the butt of his cigarette, mashing it into the parking lot with his dirty sneaker. His jeans hang loose, but his t-shirt is stretched over a beer belly. Beady eyes glance at the front of my shirt where the rescue logo is, and linger there a little longer than I like. “You work here?”
“Yeah, it’s me and a co-worker today.”
“Travis?”
It’s not unusual for people to come looking for my boss, but usually it’s for something business related. “No. He’s not usually here on Tuesdays. Do you want me to take a message, or can I help you, maybe?” I put on my customer service voice, trying to sound as friendly as possible while actually hoping he says no and comes back later because there’s just something off about the guy.
“I’m looking for a dog.”
No dogs here, is what I want to say, but I paste on a smile. “Are you thinking about adopting?”
“What? No. I had a bitch get loose a couple days ago and I heard some assholes found a dog last night.” He mutters something about purple haired freaks.
I run a hand through my hair, just to annoy him, but keep my expression neutral. Time to play dumb. “Oh, sorry. I haven’t been in yet. Do you have a picture?”
“Why the fuck would I have a picture? She’s a fucking dog. Brown with some white bits. Kinda wimpy. I tagged her ear, should be fucking obvious.” He looks one more question away from taking a swing at me, but grabs the front of my shirt instead.
I can’t help flinching, but I stare straight into his eyes and wait. It wasn’t a lie when I told Piston and the others that we can’t steal people’s dogs just because we don’t like them. Maybe I can’t save her in the long run, but I can buy her some time.
In the distance, I hear motorcycles and smile. “Was she wearing a collar? What’s her name?”
"Are you fucking with me?"
Beast, Zero and Piston pull into our little parking lot. The guy’s hand pulls tighter, pulling me closer as they glide to a stop.
Zero is the first to put down his kickstand and dismount with a smooth swing of his leg. “Is there a problem here?” There’s just a hint of growl in his dark voice. An edge that says he’s half hoping the answer is yes.
Maybe my danger meter really is messed up, because I like it.
"She stole my fucking dog."
Piston’s eyes are fixed on the spot where the guy is holding me. “Let her go.”
“Or what?” The guy seems to start to realize what he might be up against, but he’s not backing down. Maybe he has a death wish.
Beast, who was so polite and concerned last night, is the first to step forward, but Zero and Piston are right behind him. “Or we’ll fucking make you.”
"You pussies wouldn’t d—"
That's about as far as he gets before Zero’s arm goes around my waist, pulling me backwards as Beast grabs the front of the guy’s shirt in both fists and slings him into the wall.
5
SANDRA
Beast just threw that man like a rag doll. I gasp as the guy’s head smacks the front of the building and he slides down like in a cartoon. To the jerk’s credit, he doesn’t crumple up and cry, which seems like the most sensible reaction. He shakes it off, staggering to his feet and grasping the back of his head, glancing down at a streak of blood on his palm before getting into a wobbly fighting stance.
"Buddy." Piston rolls his eyes. "You don't want to play this game."
Maybe, maybe not, but he’s not backing down. “Fucking Eagles. You don’t own this town,” he spits out with a roar, crouching and charging.