Having let go of the man she loved and her most valued personal possession, Roxy figured the toughest part of her departure was behind her. She lifted the duffel to one shoulder and prepared to walk away for good when a black furball streaked through the open door to the laundry room and padded over to sit at the tips of her biker boots and stare up at her.
“Wooo,” he warbled in his low howl. He lifted a paw and pressed it to the shaft of her boot in a classic, “Me, too,” move.
Pressure rose in her chest. Who knew this would hurt, too? “No.” She shook her head. “No walk, Lucky. Go upstairs.”
“Woo-woo,” he repeated, not budging.
“I mean it, pupper. Back upstairs.” Without thinking, she gave him a little nudge with her boot.
He let out a high-pitched squeak and retreated, cowering behind a kitchen stool.
“Oh, God.” She dropped her bag and went down on all fours. “I’m so sorry! So sorry, boy.” She crawled toward him, one arm extended, palm up. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I swear. Lucky…” She stilled her body and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth to coax him out. “Here, boy.”
He inched closer, head and belly low in a cautious approach that broke her heart.
“Good boy,” she whispered. “Such a brave, good boy.” When he raised his round snout toward her outstretched hand, she petted his head and then scratched his ears. “What a good dog you are. Good dog,” she repeated as he scooted closer on his tummy. She scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his short fur. “I’m sorry.” After kissing his round head, she went on, “I didn’t mean to scare you or hurt you. I love you, boy. All I want to do is keep you safe.”
The dampness of the fur she nuzzled told her she’d failed in her attempt to get out the door with mature dignity. She snuffed the worst of it back through her nose and murmured, “I need you here, Lucky. I need you to look after West. Don’t let him get too set in his ways. Steal his socks when he comes home all gruff and cranky, and don’t give them back until he lets you sleep in his bed. And for a little while—maybe a year or two—bark at any woman who comes around like you mean to piss on her shoes if she crosses the threshold. Okay, a week or two,” she relented, trying hard not to think about West replacing those dents she’d left in his bedding with a new impression. The shape of some law-abiding woman with an easy smile and nothing to hide. Somebody that would earn Lucky’s trust, and West’s, and make them both so happy they’d find it hard to remember the impulsive woman who blew through their lives like a summer storm and left just as suddenly.
…
If one was in the market for a pre-owned engagement ring, West suspected the glittering selection beneath glass at the front counter of Music City Pawn & Loan wouldn’t disappoint—though to his mind the meticulous shine of the precious metals and gemstones didn’t hide the tarnish of disappointment inherent in every piece.
No clerk currently attended the diamond and platinum orphans, which had an approximate value of twenty- to twenty-five thousand, by West’s mental addition of the visible price tags. But any reasonably observant visitor with less than above-board intentions would surely spot the small domes of ceiling-mounted cameras strategically placed throughout the shop. A twitch of awareness between his shoulder blades had West looking over his shoulder, and he found himself staring into the unblinking eyes of a mannequin modeling a cowboy hat and a leather jacket.
He hated pawn shops.
“Donovan.” A voice dug from a pit quarry came from behind him.
West turned and watched Central Casting’s version of a Hell’s Angel circa 1976 amble out of the back room on the other side of the counter. If the sheer size of the guy, coupled with the shoulder-length dark hair shot with gray, and overgrown beard didn’t positively ID him as William Boudreaux, the weathered assortment of coiled-snake-around-dagger and flaming-skull-themed tattoos stretched over still impressive arms would have done the job. Since Boudreaux expressed no uncertainty concerning West’s identity, West didn’t bother confirming or going through the unnecessary preliminary of introduction. “William Boudreaux. Thanks for seeing me.”
The man folded his forearms across his chest, so the empty sockets of the flaming skull stared blankly at West. “A thanks implies I did you a favor, which I did not. I made the least offensive of my limited choices. Tran told me you and I could do this here or down at the station. The only thing I like less than cops in my house is me in theirs. Let’s get this done.”
That suited West fine. He stepped up to the counter and placed his badge and ID on the glass. Boudreaux glanced down then back at West, his shaggy eyebrows high. “What does Kentucky law want with me?”
“You’re the registered owner of a red 2020 Mustang GT convertible, license plate MCPAWN?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Not stolen recently, or borrowed?”
“No. What’s this abou…? Oh.” Hard blue eyes narrowed. “Hold on.” The big man turned his head toward the back room and bellowed, “Randy Fucktard Boudreaux, get your thieving ass out here!”
Randy Boudreaux, AKA person of interest number two. He watched a younger man in pricey jeans and a black leather blazer slither through the door and over to the older Boudreaux. This one matched the “slick fucker” description provided by Kenny and Dobie to a T, although his even-toothed, obsequious smile didn’t quite hide the impatience behind his eyes. “What’s up, Uncle Billy?”
“Did you take my car? And keep in mind that if you lie, you’re lying to me, and you’re lying to this here lawman, who likely has the shit to go
