Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Jesus…
Last night…
“Don’t think about it,” I warn myself aloud as I pull over the bridge and make the final turn toward the shelter.
I’m almost there. I have to think calm, unsexy thoughts. I’ll think about how sad it is that Matty left Nora high and dry, after she was so excited to get to know him better. I’ll think about what a bummer it is that autumn is flying by so fast and soon Bad Dog will be in the grips of another brutal winter.
Or, even better yet, I’ll think about Sheila, and how pissed she’s going to be when she finds out that Stinkerbelle has flown the coop.
“Shit,” I murmur as the shelter comes into view to reveal Sheila standing outside on the wide front porch, a pissed-off expression on her usually cheery face.
With her permanently flushed pink cheeks, wide smile, and loud, fearless laugh, Sheila usually reminds me of a young female Santa Claus. But today she’s doing her best Grinch impression.
Crossing my fingers that she hasn’t somehow connected Christian and I to Bella’s disappearance, I pull in a bracing breath and swing out of my car. “Good morning, Sheila. How was your trip?”
“Great until three a.m. this morning,” she says, with still no trace of her customary grin. “When this guy decided to crash our campsite.” She jabs a thumb toward her feet, where a darkly furred creature is crouched at the back of a light gray carrier. “I can’t tell if he’s rabid or just really pissed off, but he’s one unpleasant customer.” She holds up her other hand to reveal several angry pink slash marks and what looks like a puncture wound, presumably from an animal bite. “Nearly took my arm off while I was setting his paw free.”
“Ouch,” I say, wincing on her behalf. I lean down, peering into the kennel to see two slitted—and oddly familiar—yellow eyes shining back at me. “A cat,” I murmur. “A black cat.”
“Big old black cat,” Sheila confirms. “And likely someone’s pet. He certainly didn’t get a pirate’s peg leg strapped onto his front paw on his own.”
“Killer,” I whisper, triggering a low, threatening sound from the kennel.
“You know him?” Sheila asks, hope lifting her tone.
I nod as I straighten. “I do. I mean, vaguely. I used to go to elementary school with his owner. I ran into her and Killer at the Ren Faire on Saturday. She had him dressed like a pirate. He was so pissed; he chewed through his lead and ran off.”
“But you know her name?” Sheila asks. “And you can get her on the phone? If we can verify that he’s had his shots, that’ll save the shelter the cost of a rabies test and spare me the stress of wondering if my squishy, animal-loving heart has finally earned me a round of rabies shots in the stomach.”
I wince again and shudder. “Oh God, no. Don’t think about that. I’ll track her down and get her to bring Killer’s shot records with her to pick him up. I won’t release him to her without them.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on her,” Sheila says. “If she says he’s up to date with his shots, that’s good enough for me. Especially if she promises never to dress him up in anything he can’t wiggle out of on his own again. I know people think putting a pet in a costume is harmless, but in a situation like this, when they run off and are all alone, it could lead to some bad outcomes. He definitely couldn’t hunt or properly defend himself against a predator with one paw shoved in a peg leg.”
I hum low in my throat. “I love your good heart, Sheila, but this woman isn’t the type you trust to do the right thing. She’s honestly kind of awful. If she doesn’t bring the shot records, she’s not getting the cat.” I prop my hands on my hips, sighing as I glance back at the crate. “Honestly, I wouldn’t turn Killer over to her again at all, but it doesn’t seem like he’s the easiest cat to get along with. And black cats are so hard to place.”
“Agreed. Though that always makes me sad. Black cats aren’t any more evil or unlucky than I am.” Killer lets out another ominous growl-moan-yowl and Sheila adds, “Okay, buddy. Maybe you’re a little more evil, but you’re still not a bad guy. I’d be cranky if I’d been out in the woods alone for two days in a janky pirate costume, too. Let’s get you some food and water while Starling tracks down your mom. Come on, sweetheart.” She bends to grab the carrier’s handle, lifting a hand at someone behind me as she moves. “Morning, Christian.”
“Morning,” Christian says as I turn to watch him bound onto the porch, a spring in his step that makes me think I’m not the only one who woke up with a happy orgasm hangover this morning. He glances between us as Shelia unlocks the front door. “What did I miss?”