46. Preview for Book 4
Love and Loyalty
Poop bags, check. Collapsible water bottle, check. Giant-ass bottle of water, check. Belly bag with water bottle holster, check. Carabiners, check. Cell phone, check. Keys.
I pat down my hips and look around me. Nope, not in eye line. Okay, replay the last five minutes. Checked all the stuff for work—I look down at my belt to confirm—then I glance at the floor. I put on my shoes. My cellphone is in my pocket, which means I had it in my hand when I left my bedroom. Before I was in my bedroom, I was in the kitchen heating up a Hot Pocket. Before I did that, I came back from getting the mail. I had to use my keys to get into the apartment.
I head back into the kitchen and scan the counters—nope, not there. But the Hot Pocket sleeve is next to the trash can but not in it. Damn. Put it away, don’t put it down.
The keys aren’t in the microwave because they would’ve blown up and caused a fire, and I would’ve noticed that.
No.
I open the freezer.
Motherfucker.
My Amanda Chase keychain with the glitter snow globe glares at me as if to say, “Again?”
“Sorry.” I don’t know why I apologize to the inanimate object, but I think it’s rude not to. I’m punished with cold metal in my pocket. Glancing at the clock, this only set me back two minutes—plenty of time to get to my favorite client. Double-checking that Jenny from the Past hasn’t set Jenny from the Future up for failure, I give myself a satisfied nod and head out of the apartment.
First stop is Kingston. He’s a little Klee Kai. He looks like a husky puppy, but he’s five years old. He has the pointed ears and nose of a dog clearly descended from a wolf, but his tail curls into a little cinnamon roll. The happier he is, the tighter the curl gets. He always looks like he’s smiling, and I’m not supposed to have favorites—but I do, and it’s 100% him.
His owner is a super cute little old grandma who just left for a trip to Italy. She would’ve brought Kingston, but there was a quarantine issue, so she asked me to check on him. I don’t love leaving such a human-focused dog alone for long, but she assured me her family would be coming by to watch him. Her house smells like old lady—roses and garlic. Normally we would sit down for a few minutes, she would make me some tea, and we would chat. I know her family visits her a lot, but I think I might be the only person she speaks to who isn’t related to her or at least nine billion years old. Either way, she’s fucking amazing and exactly who I want to be when I grow up.
Oh, and she tells me the best stories about her super hot grandson, Nico. Okay, I don’t know for sure that he’s hot because I’ve never seen any pictures, but in my mind he is. Blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw like one of those Hemsworth brothers—but better, because he lives in my mind where he doesn’t fart or smell or have any flaws.
Kingston greets me at the door. He hops up on his hind legs and puts his front paws on me.
“Down,” I say, even though I sort of love it when he does this. But rules are rules.
He bounces from the front door to the kitchen. He knows the drill. I pick up his food dish and his water bowl, wash them out, and put them in the dishwasher. I’m not sure why Nonna—that’s my client—insists on running everything through the dishwasher, but I stopped questioning her.
Once Kingston is all harnessed up, I lock the door behind me and we’re off to meet his friends. Five dogs and six bags of poop later and over half my steps done for the day. My stomach drops when I see road closed for a street festival. Do I bring the dogs through it, or do I walk up two blocks just to go around it?
Yes, there is an easier path. I could walk down Carver Street, but it’s not raining and I’m not being chased by a madman, so there are no other reasons to go down that street. Nope—I take the longer and safer route and drag the doggos the long way.
All in all, the afternoon is pleasant. I return the dogs home one by one, leaving Kingston and me to walk home together. He’s dragging a little bit, sniffing and peeing on every leaf or blade of grass he can find. I call it leaving a comment on the doggy internet.
There are a few more cars on the street than when I left this morning—some nice ones too: a big-ass SUV and one of the luxury cars that’s trying to be low-key about it.
I punch in the code to get into Nonna’s house, but there’s a weird second beep, which means it was already unlocked. Might be a glitch, because I know I locked it.
Several things strike me as odd when I walk in:
1 The house smells less like roses and more like sandalwood.
2 There’s a light jacket hanging up that wasn’t there before.
3 There’s a man standing in the middle of the living room.
Last time I checked, he isn’t supposed to be here.
Other things I notice in the moment: He’s wearing a nice suit—it might have been off the rack, but it was tailored to fit him. He has dark hair, sort of slicked back, and deep brown eyes—almost black, but not quite ready to make the commitment into a straight-up mythical creature. He’s also upset. His emotions fluctuate between sadness, confusion, and rage.
Oh, and the most important detail—he’s pointing a gun at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says as he stares down the barrel at me.