Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Oh dear God, he’s making a whore of himself. Take him out already.”
I couldn’t help it, he was too cute, and when I opened the cage, he leaped at me and I had to scramble to catch him. Once I had him secured, he rubbed his nose on my stubble and then licked my nose again.
“Holy crap, that is love at first sight,” she said with a sigh. “You need to take him with you or you’ll break his little heart.”
But I had no idea what my place looked like or— “Wait, what the hell is a Morkie?”
She laughed. “He’s part Yorkie—Yorkshire terrier—and part Maltese.”
“Huh.”
More chuckling. “We’ll give you everything you need for him.”
“I don’t have—”
“He clearly adores you, and that’s as large as he’s gonna get, so how much trouble could he be?” She made her eyes big.
“You said he was a demon.”
“Again, I meant as in little angel demon.”
“No such thing.”
“Oh please, you didn’t even know what a Morkie was.”
That was true. “Who are you?”
“Linda.” She crossed her arms.
“Well, I’m not buying the innocent act there, Linda. I can tell from looking at you that he’s a demon dog.”
Her smile lit up her whole face. “And you are?”
“Maks,” I replied, shaking my head at her. “He’s gonna get as big as a cow, right?”
She snorted. “No. Not at all. That’s the top stop, I swear. He’ll probably end up weighing maybe thirteen pounds total. Maybe less.”
I went back to giving him scratches. “I can’t have a dog.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t even know where I’m living yet.”
“Don’t make excuses, Maks. I can see you’re in love.”
She couldn’t see a damn thing, and I was going to argue with her, but there was a noise from out front. A woman came rushing into the back, pulling a little girl, maybe six or seven, behind her. The woman was bleeding from her nose and very split lip, and the little girl had red splotches on her face, like maybe she’d been slapped. Both of them were sniffling and wet like they’d run through the rain.
“Oh thank God,” the woman, who had to be Viola Berry, gasped, starting to cry then, rushing first to Peanut, petting him and kissing his head, and then quickly moving to Delilah.
The little girl went directly to Peanut, wrapped her arms around his neck, and started to sob.
Before explanations could be given, we all heard a car come to a screeching halt outside. The little girl screamed, which made the dog growl. The fact that the child was afraid of whoever was in the car spoke very poorly of that person.
Passing Misha to Linda, I asked her if there was perhaps a bat in the office, or maybe a golf club. Rushing over to a cabinet, opening the bottom drawer, she came back with an expandable ASP baton.
“Nice,” I told her and got a quick smile.
I flicked it open and started for the front door. There was a man there, about to throw it open, but I kicked it instead, which hit him in the face and chest and sent him flying backward to the ground.
Outside, I stood between him and the door and waited for him to get up. Another man got out of the passenger side of the pickup truck they’d both come in—it was still running, so it wasn’t hard to figure out—and another came from the seat behind his.
“Who the fuck are you?” the passenger guy barked, and I saw the rifle leveled at me.
“I’m the new bouncer for the vet,” I answered sarcastically, because what was with those kinds of questions? They were just so stupid.
“You’re the what?” the third guy said, charging around the man with the rifle.
As soon as he was close enough, I hit him in the gut, and when he stumbled forward, I got him in the face—heard his nose pop—and then smacked him in the left knee, which sent him crashing to the ground.
The first guy, who I could only assume was Bruce, having gotten back to his feet, charged me, and I did the same as to the previous guy: gut, face—his nose didn’t break, though—then I hit him in the groin, which had him crumpled in a fetal position at my feet.
“I’m gonna kill you,” the guy with the rifle warned me.
“Best get on with that,” I growled, rushing him, moving faster than I was certain he thought I would—he was probably used to people freezing when he threatened them—shoving the rifle up, hitting him in the knee with the baton, and easily wrenching the weapon from his hands.
Since he didn’t go down, I stepped to the side, hit him across the throat, and when both of his hands went there as he gasped for air, I clipped him in the gut and then in the groin. Was it overkill? Yes. Was that the way I was raised and was it absolutely ingrained and instinctive? Yes again. It was muscle memory of violence without a doubt. Again, this civilian life was still very new to me. I couldn’t be expected to change my entire way of being after only two months away from the blood and death I used to live in.