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“And you’re sure she knows?” Jake double-checks.
“Yeah, the past few years she’s stuck close to the coast and lets Stanton do what he wants. Could be by mutual agreement.”
“And there’s no kid of Cass’s they’re keeping hush-hush?”
I roll my eyes, sick of the twenty-questions. Sometimes it feels like being Jake’s sleazy on-call private investigator is my lot in life. I’m whoring myself out for the guy and the pay sucks. My wife and I are damn close to being no more than his lackey’s.
Amongst other things, I did surveillance in the Army. Carver backed my start-up when I got out. He gave me a place to live at the mill, and I met Kimber through the connection to Carver when she was one of Jake’s dancers. The single thing I fucked up was taking a measly loan from Jake. One that I’ve repaid several times over, both monetarily and otherwise.
I’m getting too old for this. I think about calling it quits constantly. I’ve pocketed enough cash that I wouldn’t have to work another day. And that’s part of the issue, isn’t it? I close up shop and don’t even jaywalk during my remaining years and I’m still apt to take it up the ass if Jake, or Carver for that matter, get taken down.
What the hell is the point in redeeming myself if I can still go to jail for shit I’ve done in the past?
And then there’s the fact that when Morgan fought his demons by defending Aidy against hers, his dumbass friend, Jasper, made an alliance with Mordecai. Jake’s small-time in comparison to the operation Mordecai runs. He’s a man you don’t trifle with or expect to forgive your debt.
I don’t know when Mordecai’s going to call in his chips or if Jasper’s debt will leave Kimber’s daughter’s boyfriend vulnerable. And the last thing I need is to go into retirement and find hell raining down on my family.
For better or worse, I’m stuck. There’s too much at stake.
No fucking wonder I sleep like crap and am plagued with nightmares.
“I’m out.” I say, standing up.
Too bad it doesn’t have the meaning behind it I’d like to have.
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3
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There’s a storm rolling through Brighton. It’s raining steadily on this side of town. The wind blows and the heavy door whacks me in the backside as I enter the modern barn. Disinfectant veils the scent of animals. Not one-hundred percent. Even if it weren’t for the barking down the corridor, it’s still obvious there are dogs here.
The slam behind me attracts Tallulah’s attention. She and Jovie are several strides across the linoleum. Jovie sits and says. Tallulah leaves the bone she’s been chewing and scampers over to me.
I chuckle at the way her floppy ears bounce with excitement. They fold in long triangles down the sides of her face, touching her collar. When she was little, I joked around with Byron, wondering aloud if she’d grow into them or if Tallulah would be more like a goofy basset hound pup. She was continually tripping over her paws, skidding to a halt, or tumbling over. That’s any puppy for you, though.
I squat down, giving her chin a scratch. “Miss me, girl?” I ask before standing and adjusting my slacks.
Tallulah takes my left flank, sits, and looks up, waiting to obey my first command. I tell her she’s a good dog while stuffing my toque in my back pocket.
“She knows you!” Byron claps. “I was going to redirect her, but wanted to see what she’d do.” Burne, my former Army buddy shakes my hand. He motions to the clothes I wore golfing. “Aren’t you looking smart on graduation day?”
I shrug it off. “No time to change. I would have worn my dress blues.”
Byron chuckles, slapping me on the back. “Y’all ready to bring her home to momma?”
My therapist suggested an emotional support animal may help me, and Kimber and I made the decision to get one almost a year ago. We timed the wait, wanting Owen to be the slightest bit older and trying to find the best dog.
I mentioned it to Byron in passing, who jumped on the idea. If there’s anyone I trust to know what they’re doing, it’s him.
When we served together, Byron was the soldier who went gooey-gooey for every roadside stray. He grew up a farm boy, surrounded by roaming animals. There’s not one he can’t find affection for. I swear he would have turned our Humvee into a third-world taxi service for any desert dogs we pulled up alongside.
That’s how he got Jovie. The dude literally rescued her as an emaciated foundling at the end of our last tour, then jumped through hoops to get her on US soil. The local paper did a feel-good write-up about it, which caught the attention of a non-profit that connects service dogs with vets. After separating, Byron went to work for them training dogs and he now also coaches new handlers through a vigorous program.
No different from any other vet, I didn’t get a say about Talulah. I’m Byron’s pet project. Byron matched Tallulah to my needs based on what he knew about my personality after we were bunkmates overseas. Having actually been with me during most of the worst incidents, Byron has a keen understanding of what my nightmares are like. Or at least, what they used to be like.
Byron had them too. But back then, our minds were convinced our patrol was under attack and, as the years go by, mine is telling me I can’t shield my loved ones from the heat and flames trying to outrun a blast. The more stress I add to my plate, the worse they get
