“Sir, the owner of this lot hired me to place several goats here to clean up some overgrown weeds,” I tell the man, trying to defuse the situation. “Just doing my due diligence. If she has a problem with that, she needs to call her landlord. We’re on a tight schedule.”
The man shakes his head and shoves a hand through his long, greasy hair.
“Wrong,” he grunts, pulling open his unbuttoned plaid shirt, revealing the gun tucked in his waistband. “If the lady said she doesn’t want those critters here, then they ain’t staying.”
Holy hell.
Seriously? A gun? Over goats?
This is going sideways in so many ways.
But I’m also getting more than a little freaked. Another glance at the wild-eyed woman and her partner says something’s just off.
They could be on drugs, past the point of any reasoning.
Owl growls again and puts himself between me and the man.
Tattoo Guy practically growls back, laying his hand on the gun, his eyes snapping to mine. “You got any sense, you’ll get your mutt out of here. Don’t think I won’t if he starts coming at me or Carolina.”
Shit.
I grab his collar, urging him back, desperate to get us both away just as my cellphone rings.
Yanking out the phone, I hope it’s Uncle Dean so I can tell him I quit. This is way more than I signed up for.
Glancing at the screen, I’m shocked at the name.
FAULK.
Quinn?
Is he psychic now? How the heck does he know the exact instant when I need help?
However he knows, I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs, swiping my finger across the screen.
4
Someone Got His Goat (Faulkner)
I don’t want to be upset with her, but fuck.
Why? Why didn’t she call me when she was going to pick up the goats from Ridge’s place? She could’ve slipped off that bridge and messed up her knee for good.
For a couple days, it’s been radio silence, except for that halfhearted reply she sent about being busy.
Zero interest shown in a my bad apology dinner at Libations.
Am I that cursed?
First hearing about the men casting their lures after me, and now, without even trying, I’ve fucked up everything with my old friend?
I should’ve called her before this morning.
Then again, I hadn’t thought it’d take Grady and I so long to look through the pictures on the intel link an old FBI contact sent to me.
I’ve spent the past two days trying to stitch together intel on the thugs asking around back at the Purple Bobcat.
It doesn’t make sense.
Bart “Bat” Pickett still lives in the cramped Oklahoma prison system, up for a suspiciously early parole hearing soon.
Still, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be buying information on my whereabouts through his vast seedy network. I think he’d crawl through hell for a taste of revenge, considering our history.
Tory picks up on the third ring, shattering all other thoughts.
“Hey,” I tell her. “Sorry to keep blowing up your phone, but I’m hoping we can talk. You were supposed to call me back the other day when you did the pickup at Ridge’s place.”
“Ah, yep, I-ah…I didn’t have a chance.”
My spine instantly stiffens.
She doesn’t sound like herself.
“Where are you?” I bite off, gripping the steering wheel. I’m still in traffic after picking up a couple cans of paint for the house.
“I’m, uh, dropping off goats again…right in town, actually,” she stammers.
“You aren’t swinging from another gate, are you?” A bite in my gut tells me that’s not it before she even answers.
“No. Not really. I’m just…Quinn, where are you?”
Not really? What the hell? My heartbeat increases as my she’s in trouble instinct kicks in.
“I’m driving right past the pharmacy now. What’s wrong?”
“Ohhh, just a little customer complaint. A minor misunderstanding,” she whispers, grinding out strained laughter.
Bullshit.
Not minor. I’m sure of that.
“What’s the address? I’ll be right over,” I tell her.
She rattles off a house number.
I don’t recognize the address, but I know the street she mentioned and there’s only one Rent-A-Goat trailer in this town. It won’t be hard to find her.
“Give me five minutes, Peach,” I growl, punching my foot on the gas pedal.
“That would be great,” she says, this odd tension in her voice again.
Almost like she’s cornered, alone, afraid.
Shit. Her tone has me shoving the pedal to the floor.
Whatever’s going down, she doesn’t want to say it, which tells me I’m wrong about the alone part.
“I’ll be there soon. Hold on,” I tell her again.
“Okay. Bye.”
“No! Don’t hang up,” I yell back.
Dammit. Too late. She already has.
Pinching my teeth, I barrel down the road through town. Why didn’t I man up and call her this morning?
I know. Because I haven’t wanted to pull her any deeper into my life and compound whatever woes she’s already got hanging over her.
Being with Quinn Faulkner isn’t exactly a safe place to be when I don’t know who’s after me, or why, even if I have a pretty good idea it involves a maniac very, very interested in his own freak brand of vengeance.