Waiting On You (Blue Heron #3)(57)

“Don’t change the subject.” He sat on the floor; Rufus, the whore, rolled onto his back and presented his stomach (and other parts) for admiration. Connor flinched. “You should get this dog neutered.”

“He is neutered.”

The twins were quiet for a moment. They didn’t fight often; well, they bickered constantly, and Mom still complained about it, but they hardly ever really disagreed. “You shouldn’t have punched him,” she said.

“He broke your stupid heart,” Connor grumbled.

There was no lying to her brother.

She’d done her best to hide her feelings last time. She certainly didn’t want to be like Mom. Didn’t want people to know she’d been dumped. She was supposed to be smarter than that.

But Connor knew anyway. Despite her playing it lightly with most people—You know how fickle young love is. Hardly ever lasts—Connor knew.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Collie Dog Face,” her brother said now.

“Me, neither.”

“Be careful.”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

Connor scratched Rufus’s tummy another minute, then stood up and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “See you.”

“Wait. Who’s your girlfriend? Do I know her? Is she a prostitute? I won’t judge either of you. Please tell me,” she said.

“Good night,” he called from the door. Tossed her a grin and left, his feet thumping on the stairs.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE CHICKEN KING lived in a beautiful old Victorian house that had once belonged to Mark Twain’s wife’s aunt, legend had it. Colleen was here to go over the planned encounter with Bryce. And just to hang out a little because, let’s face it, she really liked Paulie.

The blue-and-cream-painted house sat high on a hill in a heavily wooded neighborhood overlooking Keuka Lake. Their driveway was long and shaded, and the house had to have at least twenty rooms.

However, the yard—grounds, really—were littered with giant metal chicken statues in lurid colors, like a terrifying dream you might have as a kid when you’re running a very high fever. As the breeze blew, it made a strange whistling sound through the, uh, artwork, making it sound like the chickens were moaning. And those beaks looked mighty sharp.

“Dad collects these from all over the world,” Paulie said. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Colleen said, trying not to look. She’d always been a little afraid of chickens, personally. The polka-dotted statue seemed especially hostile.

Inside, the house was just as beautiful, carefully restored and extremely elegant. Not what you’d picture for the Chicken King; well, no, there were a lot of paintings of chickens on the walls, as well as Mr. Petrosinsky dressed in chicken garb standing next to various local celebrities...and some national celebrities, too. “Is that Meryl Streep?” Colleen asked.

“Oh, her. She’s so nice. Loves the Sweet Home Alabama Triple Batter Honey Dijon,” Paulie said.

“And Vladimir Putin?” Perhaps the Russian Mob rumors were true, after all.

“Make-Mine-Miami Cuban Spice.”

Paulie’s bedroom was a Maxfield Parrish–blue, deep and poignant. A dressing room bigger than Colleen’s entire bedroom, filled with clothes.

“Yeah, I don’t wear much of this,” Paulie said. “If you see something you want, take it. You know me. I mostly wear gym clothes.” She was, in fact, now clad in spandex shorts that showed her ripped muscles in great detail, and a Cabrera’s Boxing T-shirt.

“You shouldn’t. You have a great figure. Very girl-power strong. Here. Put this on. My God, it’s Armani! Hello, gorgeous! Dog, don’t chew on that,” she added as one of Paulie’s rescue dogs, this one looking like a dirty mop, began gnawing on a boot.

A few minutes later, Paulie frowned at her reflection.

“See how it hugs you here?” Colleen asked. “You look taller and leaner.”

“These shoes are killing me.”

“Offer it up to God. And this belt is funky and young and surprising. You look incredible!”

“Are you sure? I feel weird.”

“It’s just an adjustment, trust me. Where’d you get all these clothes, anyway?”

“My dad. He does a lot of online shopping.”

“He’s single, right?” Colleen asked. Hey. If she was going to have a sugar daddy, she was going to have one who bought Armani.

“Yeah. Ever since Mom left, you know.”

Colleen squeezed her hand. “Okay, so on to Operation Flat Tire. This is how it’s gonna go.”

“Oh, God. Will this really work?”

“Of course!”

The plan was simple. Bryce was home, a little benign stalking had shown. Joe was at dialysis, Evil Didi was at work. Lucas—not that she was thinking about him too much (pause for laughter)—was out at the public safety building, according to Levi, who’d come to the bar for lunch just half an hour ago.

“So,” Colleen said. “You get a flat tire, and heck, what’s this? You’re right in front of Bryce’s house, and Bryce is home! What do you do?”

“Change the tire.”

“No, Paulina. You don’t change the tire.” The pug barked, backing her up.