Crowbar (Howlers MC #2)

Chapter One

Spencer

I glanced into the gerbil pen and counted six of them running on a wheel like their lives depended on it. Which, given the state of my employment history, made us kindred spirits.

Day one at The Cat Nap and I was already sweating through my polo.

The shirt was a medium because they didn’t stock smalls, and the extra fabric billowed around my torso like a sad green parachute.

SPENCER was stamped on the name tag in crooked block letters, courtesy of the label maker I’d wrestled with for ten minutes before my manager, Deb, had taken pity on me and done it herself.

Deb was somewhere in the back, doing inventory. She’d left me alone on the floor with a cash wrap, forty fish tanks, an entire wall of squeaky toys, and a parrot named General Patton who had called me an asshole twice since nine a.m.

“Right back at you,” I muttered, passing the bird on my way to restock the cat litter display.

General Patton ruffled his feathers and fixed me with one beady orange eye.

The bags of litter weighed twenty-five pounds each. I weighed 105 soaking wet. Doing the math on that ratio was not encouraging.

“You can do this. Just drag the bags from the pallet to the shelf. Engage your core muscles, not your back.”

Gripping the first bag by its handle, I dragged it off the pallet, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as the stubborn bag slid across the floor with all the grace of a body bag being disposed of.

My little pep talk wasn’t working.

A family browsing the hamster aisle glanced over. Their kid pointed at me. I smiled like this was a totally normal way to transport cat litter and not at all a cry for help.

By the fourth bag, my arms were trembling and a line of sweat had carved a path from my hairline to my jaw. A goldfish in the nearest tank pressed its face to the glass and stared at me with what I could only describe as pity.

“Don’t judge me,” I told it. “You live in a box.”

The store smelled like cedar shavings, kibble, and the faint musk of animals who hadn’t consented to being displayed under fluorescent lighting.

Somewhere near the reptile section, a heat lamp buzzed.

A lovebird whistled three notes of something that sounded suspiciously like a car alarm.

Two kittens in the adoption window by the front door were engaged in a wrestling match that had drawn a cluster of teenagers with their phones out.

This was my life now. I’d applied to fourteen places in two weeks, and The Cat Nap had been the only one desperate enough to call back.

During the interview, Deb had asked if I had experience with animals.

I’d said yes with the confidence of a man who had once fed a neighbor’s cat and only gotten scratched four times.

She’d hired me on the spot, which said more about her staffing crisis than my qualifications.

Stacking the last bag onto the shelf, I stepped back and admired my work. The display leaned dangerously to the left. I nudged the bottom bag with my foot, which made the top bag slide sideways and land on the floor with a thud that echoed through the store.

General Patton laughed. An actual laugh. Like a person.

“Noted,” I said, hoisting the bag back into place. “You and I are going to have problems.”

A bell chimed over the front door. I straightened, wiped my palms on my khakis, and plastered on the customer-service smile I’d been practicing in the bathroom mirror. The smile that said I am competent and love animals and definitely know the difference between a cockatiel and a cockatoo.

The man who entered did not belong in a pet store.

Everything about him screamed wrong building.

A leather cut hung open over a black T-shirt that strained across shoulders wide enough to block the doorway.

Dark hair fell across his forehead, pushed back from a face half-hidden by a full beard.

Tattoos crawled from his wrists and disappeared under his sleeves, and another line of ink peeked above his neckline, disappearing into the shadow of his jaw.

A small hoop earring caught the fluorescent light.

Between his lips, a toothpick rested like it had been born there.

But the eyes.

God, the eyes.

Storm-cloud blue, dark-lashed in a way that had no business existing on a man built like that. His gaze moved across the store in a single sweep—exits first, then occupants—like the habit was older than he was.

When they landed on me, I forgot every word I had ever learned. Two full seconds of open-mouthed silence, a bag of cat litter propped against my hip like an infant.

His expression said don’t start with me before coffee, which was both terrifying and deeply relatable.

Lines bracketed his mouth, the kind carved by years of squinting or frowning or hopefully smiling.

He moved silently through the store. It should have been impossible for someone built like a refrigerator.

His boots barely made a sound on the linoleum.

“Hi!” My voice cracked on the single syllable. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Welcome to The Cat Nap. Can I help you find something?”

Those blue eyes found my name tag, lingered there, then traveled back up to my face. The toothpick shifted from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“Looking for a puppy.”

“A puppy. Right. I know what those are.” I set the cat litter down before my spaghetti arms gave out and it crushed my foot. “Great. Love puppies. Huge fan. We have several.”

I had no idea how many we had. Deb had given me a tour that morning, but most of it had been a blur of feeding schedules, cage-cleaning protocols, and a stern warning about General Patton’s biting habit. The puppy section was somewhere past the fish tanks and to the left. I think.

I’d heard them yapping on and off all morning, but this place had an echo and the tour had been quick.

I guess I’m about to find out.

“Follow me.” Confidence was ninety percent performance and ten percent not tripping over your own feet. I led him down the main aisle, past the wall of leashes and collars, past the cat tower display that looked like a modernist sculpture, and past a tank of hermit crabs that gave me the creeps.

A cockatiel—or was that a cockatoo?—screamed from its perch as we walked by. Neither of us flinched, which felt like a bonding moment. Those were the rules.

“Big breed,” the man said behind me. “Something with size.”

“Right. Big dog. Big breed. Absolutely.” I had no idea what distinguished a big breed from a regular breed. Dogs came in sizes, like T-shirts. That was the extent of my canine knowledge. “Any particular type, or are you open to whatever calls to you?”

“German shepherd, if you’ve got one.”

Thank god he’d narrowed it down. “Let me check what we have in the back.”

I’d actually found it but “back” was a generous term for the section behind the frosted glass partition where Deb kept the puppies in individual pens.

I rounded the partition and was immediately hit with the smell of puppy breath, newspaper, and the sweet funk of animals who had been fed recently.

Eight pens lined the wall, each one containing a ball of fur in various states of consciousness.

Some were sleeping. One was chewing on what used to be a stuffed duck.

Another was spinning in circles for no discernible reason.

I scanned the cards on each pen, searching for anything that said German shepherd. Golden retriever. Beagle. Something labeled “Labradoodle,” which sounded made up. Pomeranian. Another beagle. Pit bull mix.

Bottom row, second from the end. German Shepherd. Female. 10 weeks.

“Got one,” I called out then realized Crowbar was standing right behind me, close enough that I caught the scent of motor oil and sandalwood.

Spinning around, I nearly collided with him. My face was level with the center of his chest.

“She’s right here.” I sidestepped, gesturing at the pen like a game show host revealing a prize. “Ten weeks old. Female.”

Inside the pen, a German shepherd puppy with ears too big for her head looked up at both of us. Her fur was a black-and-tan pattern, her paws comically oversized, and she had a streak of something suspicious on her nose. She tilted her head, studying the large man curiously.

I studied him too. It was hard to ignore all those muscles.

The stranger crouched down. The leather cut shifted across his shoulders, and the toothpick rolled to the center of his mouth. That’s when I noticed the name on the back of his leather.

Crowbar.

Did I want to know why he was called that? My attention swung back to him as one massive hand reached slowly through the pen’s opening, fingers extended.

The puppy sniffed his knuckles. Then she licked them. Then she wiggled her entire back half with enthusiasm, the kind that only baby animals and drunk people could pull off.

Crowbar’s eyes softened, and the line of his mouth eased into a smile.

My stomach did a small, unexpected flip.

“She’s great,” I offered. “Very energetic. Loves people, obviously. Eats well, I’m sure. Probably needs a lot of exercise, you know, because you were looking for a large breed, and those kind need to run around.”

The longer Crowbar stared at me, the more I talked, pulling random facts out of thin air.

“They’re working dogs. Very smart. Used in movies, I think. Rin Tin Tin? Was that a German shepherd? I feel like it was.”

Crowbar looked up at me from his crouch, one eyebrow raised, and the toothpick tilted at an angle that communicated amusement without his mouth moving at all.

“You always talk this much?”

“When I’m nervous, yes. Also when I’m not nervous. And when I’m sleeping. My old roommate complained about it constantly.” Stop talking. “She snores, by the way. The puppy. Probably. Most dogs snore. I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m more of a...” I searched for the right word. Cat person sounded wrong given the store’s name and the fact that cats terrified me. “Indoor person.”

His lips twitched. Just barely, like he was fighting something. “Indoor person.”

“I appreciate animals from a respectful distance. Like art.” Why was I still talking? “You don’t touch art. You admire it.”

“You work in a pet store,” Crowbar pointed out in a softer tone.