Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I snapped my fingers, and Lynyrd immediately collapsed onto the floor beside him with a dramatic groan, his head landing right where his body had been.
“They were just waiting for permission. They can be a bit… excitable,” I explained, ignoring Mark’s pointed glare as he attempted to regain some dignity. “They’re trained not to jump unless I give them the okay. Usually, that’s only when I want someone to leave.”
Mark barely had time to recover before Dog took things to the next level—by pouncing on his face and somehow managing his entire tongue inside Mark’s mouth.
Mark gagged violently, rolling onto his side and wiping his mouth violently. “It got my tonsils,” he choked out, face contorted in horror. “I got deep throated by a cat.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing as he staggered to his knees, shuddering like he’d just survived a near-death experience.
“Yeah, warning,” I said, completely deadpan. “If you yawn around him, cover your mouth. The same goes for coughing or sneezing.” I eyed his increasingly pale face. “Bathroom’s first door on the right if you’re gonna be sick.”
He bolted without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.
Left alone with my three furry delinquents, I crossed my arms and stared down at them.
“You just had to make out with the stranger, didn’t you?” I shook my head in disappointment. “I thought we talked about this after the first time. Don’t lower your standards, make sure they have a nice car, and at least let them buy you dinner first.”
All three of them wagged their tails, heads tilting in unison.
I sighed.
My story with these three wasn’t some fairytale about fate and destiny bringing us together in a heartwarming, movie-worthy moment. No, our beginnings were a little more chaotic.
Lynyrd had been a last-minute rescue. I’d gone to the pound with a buddy to adopt a dog on death row, and right as I was about to leave, I saw Lynyrd being led down the hallway to the “room.” One look at his sad resigned face, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I walked away.
Skynyrd’s story was even more of a mess. He’d been found at some abandoned property used for drug-fueled parties. When I first heard him, the sounds coming out of him made me think he was dying. I rushed him to the vet, ready to do whatever was necessary, only to find out he wasn’t dying—he just had the worst breathing problems the vet had ever seen.
Cue the most disgusting thing I’d ever witnessed: the vet using one of those bulb suction things to clear out his airways. The sounds and the snot...the sheer horror of it all.
On top of that, Skynyrd needed surgery to even have a chance at a normal life. And when the vet told me he’d be hard to rehome because he was, and I quote, “visually unique”—aka ugly as hell—I knew I was screwed. I couldn’t let him end up in a shelter, waiting for an adoption that would never come.
So, home he came. And a few months later, post-surgery, he no longer sounded like a 90-year-old chain smoker struggling to breathe.
Of course, in the beginning, both of them had been absolute assholes. I came home every night to destruction—furniture torn apart, cushion stuffing scattered like snow, shit, and piss in places it absolutely should not have been. I spent a small fortune on training spray, treats, and every positive reinforcement method under the sun. Eventually, we’d gotten there, but it’d been a process.
Mark reappeared then, snapping me out of my thoughts. His face was still pale as he pointed at his throat. “I can still feel the raspy tongue,” he croaked.
I chuckled and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, passing it to him. “Makes you feel slightly violated, huh?” Instead of answering, he just shuddered.
I motioned toward the front porch, and we both headed outside, where my beer had gone warm. Lynyrd, Skynyrd, and Dog lay in the doorway, watching us like tiny, furry sentries.
As always, the conversation drifted to work.
“So, the asshole floors the pedal, and his Ferrari clocks in at two-oh-eight. Carter’s cursing up a storm, radioing in updates while we try to push the Charger to keep up. But this guy? He’s just a little dot on the horizon.” Mark shook his head, laughing. “Alex and Raoul set up the stingers at the end of the road, and we block off behind them. Then, poof! The dot disappears right as we hear a muffled bang.”
I raised a brow. “Shit. Imagine writing off a Ferrari.”
“Oh, it gets better.” Mark grinned. “Dumbass crashed into a pile of hay bales.”
I snorted. “You’re kidding.”
“Farmer was moving them out of his field, but they weren’t loaded right and rolled into the road. Ferrari dude plows straight into them.”