Chapter Four
Jock
The loud racket of the garage’s air compressor was a steady backdrop to Jock’s thoughts as he bent over the engine of a vintage motorcycle, wrench in hand.
The bike was the one Twisted had alluded to in the meeting about the dogfighting ring.
As Twisted already knew, Jock had managed both the paint job and the acquisition of gorgeous chrome for the bike.
Jock knew better than to let a single scratch mar the newly pristine bike.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, tightening a bolt, but his mind was elsewhere.
It was split between the rhythmic snoring of Tank and Maynard tangled on a blanket in the corner of the shop and the nagging question of who could’ve hurt a dog like Maynard so badly.
The pit bull’s burns were already healing, the raw patches less angry under the oversized doggie pajamas, but every time Jock looked at him, a slow burn of anger flared in his gut.
It had been three days since Silly left for Charlotte, and the house felt too quiet without her laugh echoing off the walls.
Two more days. Only two.
Tank had always been a good companion, but Maynard’s soulful eyes and tentative trust were something else entirely.
The dog followed Jock everywhere, even here in the garage, where he’d set up a makeshift dog bed to keep the pair close.
Tank, ever the stoic mastiff, tolerated Maynard’s clinginess with only an occasional grumble, but Jock could see the bond forming.
It was like they were both keeping him grounded, especially on nights when the dreams crept in.
Dreams filled with sand and blood and voices that wouldn’t shut up would be broken by a wet swipe of Tank’s tongue, the weighted-blanket feel of Maynard sprawling out on top of Jock.
When I need them most.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him out of his thoughts.
After wiping grease off his hands with a rag, he fished it out and saw Wrench’s name on the screen.
His gut tightened. Wrench had been digging into the alley incident, leveraging his connections as President of the Caddo Hobos to see if anyone had seen anything.
Jock answered, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the dogs.
“Brother.” Wrench’s gravelly voice came through.
“Got something you’re gonna want to hear.
Miss Danielle was about ready to close shop the day you found Maynard.
You were her last customer, and she says not long before you rolled up, she saw a pickup peel out from that alley beside her place.
Older model, rusted fender, no plates she could make out. But she recognized the driver.”
Jock’s grip on the phone tightened. “Who?”
“Some lowlife named Ricky Calder. Was a Common Enemy MC prospect who didn’t survive the club folding into IMC.
He’s turned into a bitter little man, a small-time dealer, likes to hang around the edges of our territory.
Not affiliated with anyone, but he’s been on our radar for causing trouble.
Word is he’s got a thing for pit bulls—likes to use ’em for fights.
Makes me wonder if Maynard was one of his. ”
Jock’s jaw clenched, and he glanced at Maynard, who lifted his head as if sensing the shift in his mood. “You got a bead on where this asshole is?”
“Working on it. Dyno’s pulling some strings with his contacts at the sheriff’s office. If Calder’s still in town, we’ll find him. You want in when we do?”
“Yeah,” Jock said without hesitation. “I want to look him in the eye.”
Wrench chuckled, a dark edge to it. “Figured. I’ll keep you posted. How’s the pup doing?”
Jock’s gaze softened as he watched Maynard nudge closer to Tank, who let out a dramatic sigh but didn’t move. “He’s tough. Healing up, thanks to Kent. Tank’s playing big brother, keeping him in line.”
“Good. Keep those boys safe. We’ll talk soon.”
The call ended, and Jock shoved the phone back in his pocket, his mind racing.
Ricky Calder. The name landed like a splinter under his skin, sharp and irritating.
He didn’t know the guy, but the thought of someone burning Maynard and then leaving him to die in that alley made his blood boil.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, remembering every one of the grounding techniques Dr. Jaagr had drilled into him.
He pulled out his favorite, running the prompts through his head.
Something I can see: the dogs, safe and sound. Something I can hear: the compressor’s rattle. Something I can feel: the wrench in my hand.
The exercise helped pull his focus back to the garage, but the anger didn’t vanish, didn’t really even diminish. It just simmered, waiting.
He crouched next to the dogs, running a hand over Maynard’s head and neck, careful to avoid the tender spots. “We’re gonna find who did this to you, boy,” he murmured. “And they’re gonna wish they’d never laid eyes on you.”
His phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Silly.
*Just finished a killer session with a client. Got a new design idea I can’t wait to show you. How’s our boys?*
Jock smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. He snapped a quick photo of Tank and Maynard, the pit bull’s head now resting on Tank’s massive paw, and sent it back.
*They’re plotting world domination from the garage floor. Miss you, baby. Tell me about this design.*
As he waited for her reply, he stood and returned to the bike he was working on, but his focus was split.
Part of him was here, in the grease and metal of the garage, with two dogs who trusted him to keep them safe.
Part of him was with Silly, imagining her sketching furiously in a hotel room so damn many miles away.
And part of him was already out there, hunting for Ricky Calder, ready to make sure justice wasn’t just a word.
***
Home with the dogs, it was feeding time, and both of his canine roommates were excited. Silly had happened on a good thing with the ideas for their food, and both dogs loved having a spoonful of the special wet food mixed into their kibble.
“All right, boys. Come sit.”
Maynard was first, but Tank wasn’t far behind as the dogs lined up in front of Jock, butts on the floor.
“Good dogs. Tank, down.” With a groan, the big mastiff lowered his belly to the floor, then twisted to cock out one hip, finding a comfortable position.
“Good boy. Okay, let’s do the food stuff.
” He placed their bowls in their respective holders, Tank’s several inches taller than Maynard’s. “We’ll do more training stuff after.”
He yawned.
“Y’all finish that, come find me. I’ll be in the backyard.” Both dogs’ ears twitched at the word, so he knew they’d heard him and recognized the instructions.
Jock strolled outside and stepped off the concrete patio, burying his toes into the grass.
“This is it, man. Nearly perfection.” Head back, he stared at the sky painted with the red-and-orange hues of sunset.
On the far eastern edge, he could see the moon, small but bright.
“Faithful as always.” No matter what happened down here on earth, or even in his life, the universe would go on.
A single click of a toenail on the patio caught his attention just before Tank leaned heavily on his leg in the heel position. A second later, Maynard appeared at his other side, the dog looking at the pair for a few moments before moving tentatively closer.
Jock patted his leg, and the dog came near, still giving Tank the side-eye.
“Bet you tried to steal his food, didn’t ya? Learn that lesson once. Hope it sticks.”
Maynard tilted his head at Jock, looking devious and innocent all at once.
“Oh, you’re going to be a fun one.” He grabbed the ball thrower and a yellow tennis ball. “Wanna run some? Tank, you can go lay down if you want.” The weight pressing against his leg increased, then disappeared as Tank searched for a comfortable place to rest.
For the next ten minutes, the back yard was full of laughter and exertion as Maynard ran after the ball. Half the fun was getting it back from him once he returned with it, and while Jock was careful with how he handled the still-healing dog, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t wrestle a little.
At the end, the winner was up in the air because while Maynard had brought every ball back, Jock had then gained possession of the ball before tossing it again. Jock threw himself on the grass near the patio and spread his arms wide.
The red and gold was gone now, replaced by indigo and purple, the sun no longer visible along the western horizon. In addition to the moon, now looking significantly larger, there was a blanket of stars coming into view.
“What a grand life we have, Maynard.”
Weight covered his lower legs, heat from knee to ankle. He lifted his head to see Maynard stretched out over him. A groan from nearer the house announced Tank pushing to his feet. A couple moments later, the mastiff was stretched out beside him, head on Jock’s shoulder.
“Grand life.”
***
He’d found a great little dog park not too far from the house, and a couple of days before Silly would be home, he loaded both dogs into the truck and drove over.
He’d already taken care of the paperwork to be able to access the park.
All it took was putting the dogs’ vaccine history on file at a local vet.
Kent sent everything over email, and within the space of a single phone call, he’d sorted it.
The parking lot was nearly deserted, only two additional cars he could see. Inside the fence, a lone man was throwing a stick for a big happy-looking lab.
“Looking like we picked a good time to visit for the first time.” He got out of the truck and retrieved both dogs, and they made their way to the gate.
Built like a sallyport, he opened the outside gate and arranged both dogs inside the small space.
With one dog it wouldn’t have been an issue, but with Tank and Maynard? It was a tight fit.