I leave the door open for Owl to follow me out of the truck. We walk along the fence, making sure it’s stable enough, checking to make sure there’s plenty of water for the goats, and finally find the gate.
“Looks good,” I tell Owl while opening it.
Always the first thing on the to-do list.
I’ll never make the same mistake again I made on the first day.
“Let’s get the crew together,” I say.
Owl barks and runs to the back of the trailer, eager to do his job. What would I do without him?
I unlatch the ramp, then open the door.
The past three places, I’ve stayed on the ramp, only letting several goats out at a time so it’s easier for Owl to manage. But this time, I pull the mesh gate all the way back and walk down the ramp.
Owl runs up and darts into the trailer to shoo the goats out.
“Hey! What in the shit-hell do you think you’re doing?” someone shouts.
A very unpleasant, harsh someone I can’t bring myself to call a lady, judging by the sound of her voice.
I walk to the other side of the trailer and squint.
Sure enough, a bleached blonde who looks like a washed-up model with a facelift gone bad—very bad—is barreling toward us.
Well, crud. It wouldn’t be any kinda business without those customers. Keep your cool, I tell myself.
“Howdy. I’m with Dean’s Rent-A-Goat,” I say to Miss Nasty, pointing to the name painted on the side of the trailer in slashing green letters.
Wearing tight, white, and very short shorts with an even tighter hot-pink tank top, she walks past a beat-up pickup truck parked in the driveway.
“Try again. I didn’t order any fuckin’ goats,” she snarls.
Yikes. Tough crowd.
Owl already has the goats, including Hellboy, inside the fence…which means I need to get the gate shut pronto before this nut sends them scattering.
“Are you the landlord, ma’am?” I ask, hurrying around the trailer to the fence.
“What do you think, Tinkerbell? I live here,” she says, stomping around the front of my pickup like a bear trying to figure out the best place to claw it open. “I don’t want those nasty-ass things on my property!”
“Do you own this property?” I ask, wondering if the husband ordered the goats and the wife—God help him—doesn’t know.
“I pay rent. Same damn thing!”
No, it’s really not, but arguing that point would be useless.
It’s not my job, either, reciting North Dakota tenants’ rights to pissed off, irrational screamers.
Owl comes out of the gate with his tail wagging, and I close it, just in time to keep Hellboy inside.
Latching the gate, I say, “Well, you’ll have to take it up with your landlord. He’s the guy who hired us. I’m just here to do my job.”
She marches over then, shoulders squared, thrusting her hilariously fake double-D’s forward by planting her hands on her hips. “And I’m telling you to take those mangy, smelly, monkey-butt bastard things out of here. Right now.”
Really? Like I’m going to take orders from a chick who thinks eyelashes that false look natural?
Hardly. Her rudeness is no threat either.
I’ve dealt with bigger bitches by far on the Chicago L-line, where being rude is an art and a religion for some people.
“Enough of this crap. You deaf?” She grabs hold of the gate and tries to shove me aside. “I said get them out of here now!”
“And I said you’ll have to take it up with your landlord, lady.” My hands fly out, straining to keep her from moving the gate.
She’s got a brute strength I don’t have.
“What’s all the screaming out here?” Another voice shoots over us, deeper and male.
Owl lets out a low, menacing growl as a rough-looking character walks between the back of the beat-up truck and the front of mine.
Wifebeater muscle shirt underneath the flannel hanging off his shoulders, unkempt mullet, torn jeans, no belt. Pretty much every bad redneck stereotype rolled into one wannabe badass with an attitude.
But he’s also tall, packing lean muscle, and covered in tattoos that look like they were stripped off a whacked-out heavy metal rocker and glued to him. Snakes, thorns, skulls, dripping blood, swords, the works.
It’d be a little ridiculous if it weren’t for the sneer on his face, and thick, calloused hands that look like they’re used to calling the shots. He flexes one hand against his palm so loud the knuckles crack like splintering wood.
“I told this whore I don’t want no damn livestock next to my house!” the woman growls. “They’ll stink up everything and shit everywhere.”
Sure. As if I totally wouldn’t think to clean that up in a residential zone.
I also wouldn’t call a few goats livestock, and they can’t possibly smell worse than her.
The whiskey stink rolls off her so strong it makes me gag. Reeks like she’s been on a three-day drunken bender. Her bloodshot eyes hint at it, too.