Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
She’s fucking incredible.
“Three,” I answer as I move toward her. She moves for the refrigerator, but I grab her arm, spin her into me, and kiss her hard.
When I pull back, she’s breathless. “What was that for?”
“Because you’re awesome.”
Her hand rests against my chest, and she rubs a thumb over my breastbone. “I think you’re awesome too.”
CHAPTER 20
Abby
For someone who was disdainful of coming to the flea market, Kellen acts like a damn kid in a candy store. He stops at practically every stall to check out the wares for sale.
“Look at these porcelain dolls,” he says, holding up one with a chip in the side of its face.
“Creepy.”
“It’s historical,” he says, setting it down gently and giving an apologetic smile to the woman behind the table.
“Hey… look at this,” Kellen says, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. “Lego. I used to love these when I was a kid.”
The vendor has boxes and boxes of Lego sets, some still in their cellophane wrap and others offered ridiculously cheap, but a handwritten sign warns there’s no guarantee all the pieces will be present.
Kellen picks up a sealed box that says Star Wars on it, and I can see it’s a spaceship. Displaying it for me to inspect, he says with genuine reverence, “The Millennium Falcon. And it’s only twenty bucks.”
Kellen thrusts the box at me as he digs for his wallet. He pulls out two tens, gives them to the seller, and beams at me. “Guess what we’re doing tonight?”
“Guess what you’re doing tonight?” I counter with a smirk.
Kellen takes the box from me and hands it to the seller who slides it into a handled paper bag. He then leans into me, his voice low and husky. Shivers dance up my spine. “Help me build the spaceship, and I’ll do that thing with my tongue and your—”
“Okay, fine.” I clap a hand over his mouth because he was loud enough to be heard. “I’ll help.”
He laughs and pulls me in for a rough kiss. “Come on. Let’s see what other treasures await.”
The massive flea market is held at the county fairgrounds the first Sunday of every month from April to October. I let Kellen poke around until I finally lead him to an area near the rear where the puppies are sold.
I have no clue which of these pups, if any, come from Hellman’s operation. I know he sells to pet stores, which is far more lucrative, so he might not even mess with this place.
But the puppies sold here come from the same manner of excessive breeding operations. While some breeders might have livable conditions for their animals, most don’t and repetitively force their females to birth litters until their poor bodies just wear out.
The pups are always unvaccinated, and because they live in filth, they have a host of gastrointestinal issues, eye infections, and skin rashes. Many are underfed, and because it’s a hot end-of-July day, some are dehydrated. These morons don’t even provide water for them.
I can’t berate these people for it, though. I want them to allow me to treat their animals, so I have to play nice. I’ve been doing this for so long, I’m actually almost expected to show up when the flea market opens.
The puppy peddlers set up under a huge corrugated metal shelter, and sometimes there are upward of twenty vendors selling dogs. They’re all billed as “purebred,” and maybe they are. Any buyer gets documentation for registration with the AKC, which is all people seem to care about when they’re shelling out five hundred dollars for a Yorkie with feces-matted hair and listless eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” Kellen mutters in disgust as we approach the structure.
Card tables sit adjacent to wire exercise pens filled with puppies clamoring for attention. The roof provides shade, and there is electrical hookup. Some of the sellers have fans blowing, not to cool the puppies but themselves.
With a quick count, I note only nine pens set up today. The first one we approach is a breeder of goldendoodles—not an AKC-recognized breed but a crossbreed so popular, they sell for more than most of the other dogs here.
This breeder has let me treat her pups before, but she doesn’t offer a warm welcome. “You bring medicine for the dogs?” she asks without preamble.
“I did,” I reply brightly and indicate to Kellen to hand me the large backpack he’s been carrying. He puts his bag with his Millennium Falcon on the ground and shrugs off the pack.
From inside, the first thing I do is pull out a pack of silicone travel bowls that flatten for easy storage. I hand one to Kellen and nod toward a water hookup. “Can you go fill this?”
Kellen looks to the pen of sweet goldendoodles who have their paws up on the edge trying to get my attention while a few wrestle in the dirt. His expression communicates that he’s stunned to see no water in with them, while the breeder sits in a folding chair with a large iced coffee in hand and a fan clipped to the edge of her chair to blow in her face.