planted his front paws on the couch and tried to lick David’s face. The dog’s breath was so foul it nearly knocked him back against the cushions. “You did not just name it.”
“Why not? He looks like a Buford.”
Shit. He named the damn dog. Now he’d never get rid of it. David watched as the dog unceremoniously plopped down on the living room carpet and began gnawing on his right hindquarter. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of that thing?”
Adam folded his arms across his chest and gave David the evil eye. “Excuse the shit out of me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little busy.” Before David could respond, he frowned and added, “Don’t worry, I’ll put some flyers out in the morning.”
Oh yeah. That’ll do the trick. Folks will be lining up around the block for the chance to take home a ninety-pound fleabag that drools like a leaky faucet and smells worse than the county landfill.
David considered pushing the subject but decided to let it drop for the time being. In all fairness, the kid had performed well under pressure. Yanking a steel rod out of someone’s chest was not a task for the faint of heart, and Adam pulled it off without puking or passing out. Plus, he’d been fast on his feet with the bullshit cover story.
“You’ll have to go next door and thank Sarah later,” Adam said as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Budweiser.
“Thank her?” Was he out of his mind? “For what?”
Adam leaned against the counter and cracked open his beer. “For putting your mangy hide back together.” He chugged half the can and then let out the mother of all belches.
David rolled his eyes and felt a wave of residual dizziness. “I didn’t ask for her help.” Not to mention, he’d tried his best to discourage her. He’d sent her a variety of mental suggestions in an attempt to influence her mind, to convince her that he didn’t need her help, to make her uncomfortable and uneasy. But for some reason, none of them worked.
Odd, he’d never experienced that problem before, which disturbed him more than his injuries. Maybe he was losing his touch, or maybe he’d just lacked the mental strength to be effective. He’d have to test the theory later. “By tomorrow morning, I’ll be good as new.”
Already, he could feel the prickly sensation of his wounds healing. Cells were regenerating, while tissues stitched together at an accelerated rate, all part of the grand scheme to keep a reaper operating at peak efficiency.
Try explaining that to an emergency room physician.
Adam finished the rest of his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it in the recycling bin. “Yeah, but she didn’t know that. She thought you were one step from going toes up.” He opened the refrigerator again and began rummaging around for something to eat.
Good point. Truth be told, she’d done a pretty good job removing the shrapnel and treating his injuries, and for that David was appreciative. And he had to admit, she was easy on the eyes. He couldn’t help but notice the subtle edge to her delicate features, the way she bit her lower lip every time he flinched. Those beautiful brown eyes, forged with resolve but softened by empathy.
Still, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of an outsider sticking her nose in his business. Inquisitive neighbors asked too many questions.
“There’s something else I don’t quite understand,” Adam said as he pulled a package of cold cuts from the fridge. He gave it a sniff, scowled, and then tossed it to Buford, who wolfed it down without chewing.
“What’s that?”
“You said we can’t die, right?”
David nodded. “Right. You can’t kill what’s already dead.” God knows he’d tested the theory enough times over the years. If he were a cat, he’d have spit through all nine lives before Kennedy took the oath of office.
“But if we can’t die, how come you got so banged up?”
“There’s a big
“Why not? He looks like a Buford.”
Shit. He named the damn dog. Now he’d never get rid of it. David watched as the dog unceremoniously plopped down on the living room carpet and began gnawing on his right hindquarter. “Didn’t I tell you to get rid of that thing?”
Adam folded his arms across his chest and gave David the evil eye. “Excuse the shit out of me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little busy.” Before David could respond, he frowned and added, “Don’t worry, I’ll put some flyers out in the morning.”
Oh yeah. That’ll do the trick. Folks will be lining up around the block for the chance to take home a ninety-pound fleabag that drools like a leaky faucet and smells worse than the county landfill.
David considered pushing the subject but decided to let it drop for the time being. In all fairness, the kid had performed well under pressure. Yanking a steel rod out of someone’s chest was not a task for the faint of heart, and Adam pulled it off without puking or passing out. Plus, he’d been fast on his feet with the bullshit cover story.
“You’ll have to go next door and thank Sarah later,” Adam said as he walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Budweiser.
“Thank her?” Was he out of his mind? “For what?”
Adam leaned against the counter and cracked open his beer. “For putting your mangy hide back together.” He chugged half the can and then let out the mother of all belches.
David rolled his eyes and felt a wave of residual dizziness. “I didn’t ask for her help.” Not to mention, he’d tried his best to discourage her. He’d sent her a variety of mental suggestions in an attempt to influence her mind, to convince her that he didn’t need her help, to make her uncomfortable and uneasy. But for some reason, none of them worked.
Odd, he’d never experienced that problem before, which disturbed him more than his injuries. Maybe he was losing his touch, or maybe he’d just lacked the mental strength to be effective. He’d have to test the theory later. “By tomorrow morning, I’ll be good as new.”
Already, he could feel the prickly sensation of his wounds healing. Cells were regenerating, while tissues stitched together at an accelerated rate, all part of the grand scheme to keep a reaper operating at peak efficiency.
Try explaining that to an emergency room physician.
Adam finished the rest of his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it in the recycling bin. “Yeah, but she didn’t know that. She thought you were one step from going toes up.” He opened the refrigerator again and began rummaging around for something to eat.
Good point. Truth be told, she’d done a pretty good job removing the shrapnel and treating his injuries, and for that David was appreciative. And he had to admit, she was easy on the eyes. He couldn’t help but notice the subtle edge to her delicate features, the way she bit her lower lip every time he flinched. Those beautiful brown eyes, forged with resolve but softened by empathy.
Still, he wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of an outsider sticking her nose in his business. Inquisitive neighbors asked too many questions.
“There’s something else I don’t quite understand,” Adam said as he pulled a package of cold cuts from the fridge. He gave it a sniff, scowled, and then tossed it to Buford, who wolfed it down without chewing.
“What’s that?”
“You said we can’t die, right?”
David nodded. “Right. You can’t kill what’s already dead.” God knows he’d tested the theory enough times over the years. If he were a cat, he’d have spit through all nine lives before Kennedy took the oath of office.
“But if we can’t die, how come you got so banged up?”
“There’s a big
Similar Books
