Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I warned this woman on the phone that I would not be paying top dollar. She said, “Just come out and look. You just come out and look.”
And I thought, OK. She was warned. But this… dear God. The house at the end of the long, smooth blacktop driveway is made of stone too. River stone. It’s gorgeous. A sprawling rambler that fits neatly into the curves of the hillside.
I’m instantly irritated because I know she’s gonna have good stuff in that house. And I also know that I’m not gonna get much, if anything, because I’ve got a flea-market budget and this is boutique-class all the way.
But I’m here, so I might as well take a look. I get out and she’s already coming down the front walk saying my name. “Welcome, Miss McBride. Welcome! I’m Sassy. So good to finally meet you.”
Sassy’s middle-aged. Maybe forty, maybe a little older. Well-kept, with make-up and blonde hair in an old-fashioned updo that is just the right amount of messy. She’s wearing a long cotton dress with a muted floral pattern that drops just below her knees so she can show off her designer cowboy boots.
She’s a country fuckin’ music star, I just know it.
“It’s just Lowyn.”
“Lowyn, come in! Let’s talk.” Then she grabs my hand and takes me inside.
There is no way I can stop my gawking once I go through that door. The stone fireplace, the wide-planked salvaged floors, the gray and black tones, and the view of the forest outside just about takes my breath away. Her home is so beautiful. It’s something out of a magazine. “Do you sing country music?”
She laughs. “I did, I did. You got me. What gave it away?”
“Well, everything. But listen—”
She puts up a hand. “Ah, ah, ah. I already know what you’re gonna say.”
“Ya do?”
“I’m too fancy for your blood.”
“Well, you are. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no. You’re jumpin’ the gun. I’m not interested in making top dollar.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need the money, sugar. I’m not selling this stuff for money. I’m selling this stuff for revenge.”
I smile, then giggle. “Divorce?”
She points at me. “Nailed it. That bastard. He was a lying, cheatin’ fool. But I got the house, and the horses, and the guitars, and the toys.”
“What he’d get?”
“The yacht. The mansion in the Bahamas. And the dog.” She makes a face, a sad face that turns into an angry face. “I’m pissed off about the dog.”
“I see.”
“I loved that dog. She’s my baby. And he’s taken her prisoner. Don’t worry!” Sassy puts her hand up again. “She’s gonna be fine. I’m gonna steal her back as soon as I can find someone to do that for me. But first, I’m gonna sell his toy collection and”—she pauses to wink at me—“make a little country-music comeback.” Then she takes my hand and starts leading me through the house. “Now listen, I’ve got a proposition for you, Lowyn McBride…”
When I come outside the next morning, I stop short on my porch. The whole place is crawling with people. Hundreds of them. Even from here I can see the front part of the property is filled with cars. Amon and Nash are talking to a group of men in the road that leads down the middle of all the houses, and there has got to be about a million dogs barking.
I forgot about the fuckin’ dogs.
That was Amon’s thing in the Marines—for the short time we were legit with them. Right out of basic they hooked him up as a Marine Corps dog handler. He was not qualified for this, of course. Same way I wasn’t qualified to be a counterintelligence specialist. But nonetheless, this is where we ended up.
How they found us, I never did figure out. Or why. I still don’t know. But the moment Amon and I got off the fuckin’ bus and stepped onto the base in San Diego, they were there. Two MP’s came up to us. Called us privates and everything. “Private Creed, Private Parrish, please come with us.” As if we had a choice.
And that’s how this shit started.
We didn’t do anything but show up. The rest of it was the US fuckin’ government.
Of course, we didn’t stay in the Marines. That’s why we had to agree to the dishonorable discharge as soon as our second year was up.
All that is beside the point. The point is, Amon is dog-crazy. Never had a dog growing up, his daddy’s allergic, so he didn’t even know he was dog-crazy until he got his first partner, Angel, a beautiful black German Shepherd who was probably smarter than most of the people in this town.
The only time I’ve ever seen Amon Parrish cry was when he walked away from that dog. And when he said he wanted our private security business to offer up K-9 protection for sale, I didn’t even blink. I just said yes. We got four breeding pairs, seventeen juveniles, and eleven puppies. They’ll be staying in an outbuilding just past Amon’s house, in the woods.