Chapter 1
One
Roque
T hat damned woman never did anything predictable. Ever. But moving deeper into Piersville was extreme, even for Sayla Du Plessis.
I wasn’t sure if it was fate, sheer coincidence, or just Murphy’s law screwing with me, but I’d ended up buying the house directly across from hers on Magnolia Road. And the kicker was that we’d closed on our homes within fourteen hours of each other. She’d beaten me to it—only because of some last-minute paperwork holdup on my end—but the result was the same. We were now neighbors, and she had absolutely no idea. I’d made sure of that.
Even Evie—my sister and her best friend—hadn’t been let in on my little secret. Sure, I’d told her I’d bought a house, but I’d been deliberately vague about where. The last thing I wanted was to put Evie in the middle of whatever reaction Sayla was about to have. Because there would be a reaction, that much I was sure of. She was going to kill me, possibly in my sleep.
Glancing around my half-unpacked living room, I noted the haphazard placement of furniture and the stacks of boxes that still needed to be dealt with. The guys from work who weren’t on shift today helped me move everything in, loading up two trucks and knocking them out in record time. This meant the furniture had been placed in whatever spot seemed convenient at the time, with zero thought given to practicality.
Anyone who’s ever moved house knows the difference between where you think something should go and where it actually needs to be. It all looks seamless in your head—or even on a perfectly curated online vision board. Reality, however, has a way of smacking you upside the head.
Case in point: the couch, currently positioned in the direct path of the afternoon sun, meaning my TV screen was now more glare than the picture. If I kept it there, I’d be baking in a personal sunspot every day, sweating through my shirt like a germaphobe in a public bathroom. And at night, the paranoia would kick in—because there was nothing worse than feeling like someone was watching you through the slats of your blinds while you tried to relax.
Yeah, this would take some work, but that was a problem for later.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the front porch, settling into one of the chairs with a slow exhale. Lifting my boots, I propped them against the railing and took a swig, my gaze settling on the quiet street in front of me. Magnolia Road had a picturesque charm—tree-lined sidewalks, well-kept lawns, the kind of place that felt welcoming but had just enough space between houses to avoid nosy neighbors.
Except for Sayla, who had no idea her new neighbor was me. Sayla, who was about to drive up any second now and see the U-Haul parked in my driveway. That was going to be fun.
I smirked to myself, already picturing her reaction. Sayla had been in business with Evie for years, but for the longest time, the only things I could get out of her were a blush, a squeak, or a sarcastic comeback. She’d had a crush on me—something she’d been horrible at hiding—but I hadn’t been in a place to entertain it. I wasn’t blind, I’d noticed, but my job in Palmerstown had required absolute focus. What we’d been up against back then wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Now, things were different.
We weren’t operating blindly at Palmerstown P.D. anymore, just waiting for the next storm to hit. But the damage had been done. I had no idea where things stood between Sayla and me, but I knew one thing for sure: she wouldn’t be happy when she found out I’d moved in across the street.
That thought alone should’ve entertained me, but my mind veered down another track. One that made my grip tighten around my beer bottle, dirty cops. The phrase alone made my jaw clench.
Anyone in law enforcement knew the struggle. ACAB—All Cops Are Bastards—was something we heard constantly, and it pissed me off more than I could put into words. Because while there were plenty of bastards wearing badges, there were also men and women who took the responsibility seriously. Who wore that badge with honor. I’d wring the neck of any cop who abused their power.
The Palmerstown Police Department had two officers currently under close surveillance. They weren’t allowed to take callouts alone, and they weren’t partnered with each other anymore. A dozen measures had been put in place while our sheriff, Judd Bailey, gathered enough evidence to nail them to the wall. Firing them now would only allow them to cover their tracks, and we couldn’t afford that.
But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. The thought of them made my fists itch. The abuse of power, the unchecked corruption—it made me sick. A badge wasn’t a free pass to do whatever the hell you wanted. And the higher-ups who turned a blind eye were just as bad as the ones getting their hands dirty.
If I ever got five minutes alone with either of them…
“Yo!”
The call snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned to see Mark Montgomery strolling up the porch steps, a knowing smirk on his face.
“Looking mighty serious over there,” he drawled, leaning against the railing. “Did she find out already?”
I snorted, flipping him off as I took another drink. “Don’t think so. But if you hear screaming and cursing later, that’s probably it.”
Mark let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’d be more concerned if everything stayed peaceful and calm.”
I raised a brow. “How come?”
“Means she decided to smother you in your sleep.”
He said it so casually, like it was a genuine possibility, and hell, maybe it was.
I narrowed my eyes. “Why hadn’t I thought of that?”
Mark shrugged, his grin widening. “Probably because you’re still high off the thrill of playing Secret Neighbor. Give it a few hours. The reality check’s coming.”
He wasn’t wrong. But for now, I lifted my beer and wiggled it in his direction. “Want one?”
“Water, if you’ve got it, please. I have to have dinner with the Townsends in an hour and trust me, it’s always better to be sober for that.”
With a snort, I pushed up from my seat and motioned for Mark to follow me into the kitchen.
“I’m disappointed the previous owners didn’t leave you any mirrors,” he snickered as we walked through the living room, referencing the insane number of mirrors on his house’s walls. “You don’t know what y?—”
His sentence cut off with an audible snap of his teeth, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
I stopped dead, my stomach twisting. That was never a good sign. “Please don’t let it be snakes,” I muttered, half-praying to whatever deity handled these things. I fucking hated snakes. One of my buddies had bought a house once, only to discover two of the slithery bastards had been living rent-free inside his air vents. Since then, I’d made it a personal rule to give vents a wide berth.
Judging by the look of sheer horror on Mark’s face, his gaze locked on the pile of boxes next to the air vent in my living room, I suddenly regretted not getting the place checked before moving in.
My throat went dry. If there was a snake in my house, I was grabbing a bag and checking into a hotel until a professional searched every last inch of my home. No vent, mattress, or dark corner would be left unchecked. Hell, I’d make them burn the place down if necessary.
Mark, still frozen, whispered, “Please tell me you didn’t breed a dog as a science experiment.”
That was not what I expected him to say. My brows knitted as I turned, making sure my movements were slow and controlled in case whatever it was had launching abilities. God forbid I get taken out by some nightmare hybrid creature with a built-in slingshot.
“What kind is it?” I mumbled, bracing myself.
“I have no idea,” Mark breathed, his eyes still locked on the same spot. I was grateful he hadn’t blinked yet—at least one of us would see death coming.
“Rattler? Mamba? King Cobra?”
“Snakes on a Plane is a comedy if that’s a snake.”
A violent shudder wracked through me. Just hearing the name of that cursed movie sent a chill down my spine. Planes were already bad enough, but then some asshole had to go and make that viral clip where a snake fell out of an overhead compartment mid-flight. Seven years later, I still double-checked the bag hold every time I boarded.
Slowly, carefully, I turned my head, bracing myself for venomous fangs, beady reptilian eyes, or something equally horrifying, only to be met with an entirely different sight.
A deep sigh of relief rushed out of me, immediately followed by a solid smack to Mark’s head. My free hand clutched my chest like I was steadying my poor, abused heart.
“Jesus Christ, you asshole, I thought it was a snake.”
Still looking more horrified than relieved, Mark whispered, “What is that?”
I blinked. “The biggest one is Lynyrd, he’s a Chow mix. The middle one is Skynyrd, a pug cross, probably with about five other things. And that little guy?” I nodded toward the last one, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off Mark. “That’s Dog.”
Mark’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a dog?”
I grinned. “No.”
His head snapped around so fast I almost heard a crack. “Please, God, tell me you didn’t breed a cat with one of your dogs.”
I understood the confusion. Dog did resemble Skynyrd to a disturbing degree—scrunched-up face, similar coloring, an oddly smug expression—but I still felt personally offended.
My lip curled. “I don’t think that’s physically possible,” I muttered. “And even if it was, who in their right mind would try? No, he’s definitely a cat. He just… doesn’t know it, so I call him Dog.”
Mark turned back to Dog, who had apparently decided this was his moment to shine. Wagging his tail, he gave Mark the same eager, expectant look Lynyrd and Skynyrd wore.
Mark pointed. “He thinks he’s a dog?”
Scratching the back of my head, I sighed. “He plays fetch, barks, begs, lifts his leg to pee, rolls over, and pretty much does everything a dog does.”
Mark’s narrowed eyes slid back to me. “You didn’t get him from the Townsends, did you?”
I snorted. “No. Found him in a garbage can in an alley last year when we were searching for a weapon. Someone had filled it with water, probably trying to drown him.” I shook my head at the memory. “He was so tiny, barely fit in my hand. I took him straight to the vet, and they were initially stumped. He was all skin and bones, but he fought like hell.”
Mark was still scrutinizing Dog, who was now sitting at his feet, panting happily. Instead of purring or rubbing up against Mark’s legs like a normal cat, he just sat there, tail wagging.
Mark crouched down, whistled once, and—sure enough—Dog came bounding over like a retriever.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I crossed my arms, watching with amusement as Dog promptly sat down, tongue lolling out in happiness. No feline grace, no aloof attitude, just pure, dog-like enthusiasm.
“Uh,” I added, “he was only about five weeks old when I found him. I had to carry him everywhere for his feedings, and Lynyrd and Skynyrd pretty much adopted him on the spot. He learned everything from them.”
Mark shook his head, exhaling a laugh as Dog lifted his paw, offering it to him. “You know,” he murmured, shaking Dog’s paw like this was the most normal thing in the world, “I feel like this could either be the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen or the start of a horror movie where animals evolve past what we understand.”
I shrugged. “Hey, if Dog figures out how to drive, I’ll never have to call an Uber again.”
Mark smirked. “Yeah, but then you’ll be dealing with a dog-cat with road rage.”
Glancing at Dog, I tilted my head. “That tracks.”
Dog, as if proving my point, let out a single bark.
Mark sat back on his heels, staring at him like he’d just seen a ghost. “Man,” he said finally, shaking his head, “at thirty-six, you’re living in a sitcom, and I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”
I lifted my water bottle in a mock toast. “Welcome to my life.”
“You sure it wasn’t some kind of brain damage from being in the water or whatever led up to him being in that trash can?”
Mark eyed Dog with clear suspicion, as if, at any moment, the cat might sprout another leg or start reciting Shakespeare.
I shook my head firmly. “Nope. The vet ran a whole battery of tests—muy expensivo tests, I might add—and nothing out of the ordinary turned up. Malnourished? Yeah. Skin and bones? Absolutely. Anemic, full of worms, barely hanging on? You bet. But brain damage? Nada.”
Throughout our conversation, Lynyrd and Skynyrd had remained in their corner, watching Mark like security deciding whether he was on the guest list or about to get thrown out headfirst.
“They aren’t as friendly as Dog?” he asked, nodding toward them.
I smirked. “Oh, they’re friendly, all right.”
To prove my point, I whistled and gestured toward Mark. In an instant, both dogs launched across the room like furry missiles. Before Mark had time to react, Lynyrd barreled into him, knocking him off balance, while Skynyrd went straight for his face, licking enthusiastically.
Not wanting to be left out, Dog dashed over and wedged himself into the chaos, mirroring Skynyrd’s licking frenzy.
Flattened under eighty pounds of canine enthusiasm, Mark wheezed out, “Help… me.”
I snapped my fingers, and Lynyrd immediately collapsed onto the floor beside him with a dramatic groan, his head landing right where his body had been.
“They were just waiting for permission. They can be a bit… excitable,” I explained, ignoring Mark’s pointed glare as he attempted to regain some dignity. “They’re trained not to jump unless I give them the okay. Usually, that’s only when I want someone to leave.”
Mark barely had time to recover before Dog took things to the next level—by pouncing on his face and somehow managing his entire tongue inside Mark’s mouth.
Mark gagged violently, rolling onto his side and wiping his mouth violently. “It got my tonsils,” he choked out, face contorted in horror. “I got deep throated by a cat.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing as he staggered to his knees, shuddering like he’d just survived a near-death experience.
“Yeah, warning,” I said, completely deadpan. “If you yawn around him, cover your mouth. The same goes for coughing or sneezing.” I eyed his increasingly pale face. “Bathroom’s first door on the right if you’re gonna be sick.”
He bolted without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.
Left alone with my three furry delinquents, I crossed my arms and stared down at them.
“You just had to make out with the stranger, didn’t you?” I shook my head in disappointment. “I thought we talked about this after the first time. Don’t lower your standards, make sure they have a nice car, and at least let them buy you dinner first.”
All three of them wagged their tails, heads tilting in unison.
I sighed.
My story with these three wasn’t some fairytale about fate and destiny bringing us together in a heartwarming, movie-worthy moment. No, our beginnings were a little more chaotic.
Lynyrd had been a last-minute rescue. I’d gone to the pound with a buddy to adopt a dog on death row, and right as I was about to leave, I saw Lynyrd being led down the hallway to the “room.” One look at his sad resigned face, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I walked away.
Skynyrd’s story was even more of a mess. He’d been found at some abandoned property used for drug-fueled parties. When I first heard him, the sounds coming out of him made me think he was dying. I rushed him to the vet, ready to do whatever was necessary, only to find out he wasn’t dying—he just had the worst breathing problems the vet had ever seen.
Cue the most disgusting thing I’d ever witnessed: the vet using one of those bulb suction things to clear out his airways. The sounds and the snot...the sheer horror of it all.
On top of that, Skynyrd needed surgery to even have a chance at a normal life. And when the vet told me he’d be hard to rehome because he was, and I quote, “visually unique”—aka ugly as hell—I knew I was screwed. I couldn’t let him end up in a shelter, waiting for an adoption that would never come.
So, home he came. And a few months later, post-surgery, he no longer sounded like a 90-year-old chain smoker struggling to breathe.
Of course, in the beginning, both of them had been absolute assholes. I came home every night to destruction—furniture torn apart, cushion stuffing scattered like snow, shit, and piss in places it absolutely should not have been. I spent a small fortune on training spray, treats, and every positive reinforcement method under the sun. Eventually, we’d gotten there, but it’d been a process.
Mark reappeared then, snapping me out of my thoughts. His face was still pale as he pointed at his throat. “I can still feel the raspy tongue,” he croaked.
I chuckled and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, passing it to him. “Makes you feel slightly violated, huh?” Instead of answering, he just shuddered.
I motioned toward the front porch, and we both headed outside, where my beer had gone warm. Lynyrd, Skynyrd, and Dog lay in the doorway, watching us like tiny, furry sentries.
As always, theconversation drifted to work.
“So, the asshole floors the pedal, and his Ferrari clocks in at two-oh-eight. Carter’s cursing up a storm, radioing in updates while we try to push the Charger to keep up. But this guy? He’s just a little dot on the horizon.” Mark shook his head, laughing. “Alex and Raoul set up the stingers at the end of the road, and we block off behind them. Then, poof ! The dot disappears right as we hear a muffled bang.”
I raised a brow. “Shit. Imagine writing off a Ferrari.”
“Oh, it gets better.”Mark grinned. “Dumbass crashed into a pile of hay bales.”
I snorted. “You’re kidding.”
“Farmer was moving them out of his field, but they weren’t loaded right and rolled into the road. Ferrari dude plows straight into them.”
Mark was laughing so hard he had to hold his side, but I was trying to picture the damage. Sure, it wasn’t a tree or concrete, but Ferraris weren’t built for impact.
“When we pulled up behind him,”Mark gasped between laughs, “he’s just sitting there, head on the airbag, while his meditation app is playing this soft, soothing voice: ‘Today is the day you gain control of your life. Stress, anger, heartache, and pain are all part of the past. The future is an open road?—’”
I lost it, nearly choking on my beer.
Mark wiped at his eyes. “Dude starts punching his airbag while the voice is like, ‘Turn your anger into something productive…’”
I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. “What did Carter do?”
“He called for backup, totally serious, while I was about to pass out from holding in my laughter.”
I shook my head. “Was the guy injured?”
Mark smirked. “Couple of bruises, some scrapes—but the best part? Pieces of straw got embedded in his skin, he looked like a freaking scarecrow. Paramedics kept telling him to stop pulling them out as they were loading him up.”
I leaned back, still grinning. “See, those are the stories I like to remember.”
Mark nodded. “Same. Though I’m never trusting your cat again.”
I smirked, taking another sip. “Jesus.”I took a long swig of my now-warm beer, wincing slightly but pushing through it. “Those are the kind of incidents I prefer to remember. The ones that make you question how some people function as adults.”I set the bottle down and smirked. “I had a case like that once—kid launched his dad’s car straight into the back of a truck carrying a prize bull.”
Mark blinked. “He what now?”
I nodded. “You heard me. The kid was joyriding andthought he had everything under control—until he didn’t. Ended up wedging the car into the back of the trailer so tight the damn thing was practically part of the frame. Metal sides buckled outward like a soda can.
“And to make matters worse?”I leaned forward, grinning. “His windshield shattered, which meant he got a front-row seat to the bull standing on the hood, just shitting and pissing away, completely unbothered by the chaos.”
Mark let out a wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Please tell me there’s more.”
“Oh, there’s more.”I stretched my legs out, shaking my head. “By some miracle, the kid managed to avoid killing the bull, but he was stuck in that car for a solid forty-five minutes while they figured out how to cut him out. And when they finally did? They lifted him out on a gurney, covered head-to-toe in bull shit and piss, strapped into a neck collar because they weren’t sure if he’d jacked up his spine. He screamed for hand sanitizer and a baby wipe the entire time.”
Mark wheezed again, slapping his knee. “You’re messing with me.”
“Not even a little. Everett Hale’s story is a true one.”
He was still shaking with laughter when something seemed to dawn on him. A slow, knowing smirk pulled at his lips. “Oh, man. You’re gonna love this.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Love what?”
“That kid’s dad?”Mark said, still grinning. “Driving instructor. One of the best in Piersville.”
I snapped my head toward him so fast I nearly pulled something. “Bullshit.”
Mark threw his hands up. “I shit you not, he’s top tier. Just, you know, unfortunately, burdened with an absolute dumbass for a son.”
I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. “Well, that explains why the kid had confidence in his driving skills—too bad he had zero actual skill to back it up.”
Mark laughed again, but his phone rang before he could add anything. The moment he saw the name on the screen, his expression changed.
A slow, almost sheepish grin spread across his face as he answered. “Hey, baby, are y—”He barely got the words out before cutting himself off, quickly changing his approach. “Oh, sorry, yeah, there was an issue with the faucet in the kitchen. I fixed it, and I’m on my—”Another pause. This time, he winced, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. With a long, resigned sigh, he mumbled, “Yeah, see you soon.”
I wasn’t sure how long we’d been sitting out here talking, but judging by that reaction, there was no doubt who was on the other end.
I smirked. “Late for your very important date with the in-laws?”
Mark sighed dramatically, pushing himself to his feet and rubbing a hand down his face. “How’d you guess?”
I snorted, giving him a lazy, two-fingered salute as he stepped off the porch. “Catch you later, man. And welcome to the neighborhood.”
Mark turned back as he reached the bottom step, a devilish grin stretching across his face. “I hope she doesn’t stab you in your sleep when she realizes who her new neighbor is.”
“Funny fucker,”I muttered. “Sayla doesn’t have that in her.”
Mark just raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t mess up your pretty face too bad. You know, so we can have an open casket.”
I scoffed. “Joke’s on you, I’m getting cremated. It’s in my will, and I’ve made sure my family knows it.”I shuddered at the thought. “Knowing my luck, snakes would get into my coffin, and I’d be stuck in purgatory with them for the rest of my bony afterlife.”
Mark pretended to salute me. “Got it. You want to be buried in snakeskin. Bit pimpy for my tastes, but whatever floats your boat.”
A full-body shiver wracked through me. “You’re a sick man.”
Mark just laughed as he jogged to his car, waving over his shoulder as he climbed in.
Shaking my head, I turned to head back inside, ready to feed the ‘kids.’But just as I grabbed the door handle, the low hum of an engine reached my ears.
Expecting it to be Mark coming back for something, I turned and raised a finger, ready to let him know exactly where he could shove his snake jokes—only to lock eyes with Sayla.
And judging by the absolute fury blazing in her dark eyes, I was about to have a whole new set of problems to deal with.