Bad Things(8)

I gathered the dogs’ leashes from the laundry room, slipping into flip-flops and heading to the front door.

Dot saw the leashes first, and rushed to the door, tail wagging. Bev had a huge backyard, but the dogs still loved their walks.

I got them all ready, intending to leave whether Tristan joined me or not. I didn’t need help, and I didn’t quite understand his need to keep me company for my chores.

He caught up to me as I was slipping out the door, holding it open for me. He held a hand out to me as we got outside, and I handed him Coffeecup and Pupcake’s leashes.

We were just moving onto the sidewalk when he asked, “So tell me about your issues with Coffeecup.”

I sighed. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why on earth do you care about my dog issues?”

“Because I’m curious, and I think it’s adorable that you have ‘dog issues’.”

That drew a small smile, and an answer, out of me. “He’s rambunctious. He’s made it his mission in life to try to rush out the front door every time I have to open it for any reason. He’s gotten loose in the neighborhood three times this week.”

He shrugged. “It’s a quiet neighborhood. It’s not like there are cars speeding around here. It’s gated. What’s the big deal?”

I grimaced. “It’s a big deal because of the chicken lady.”

That surprised a laugh out of him. “The chicken lady?”

I laughed too, knowing how ridiculous it sounded—how ridiculous it was. “Yes. The crazy chicken lady.”

He had to stop walking, he was laughing so hard. “Okay. You have to tell me this story. What exactly is a crazy chicken lady?”

I shook my head, but I told him. “Well, there’s a community stable in the center of the neighborhood. Residents can rent out stalls. Most of the stalls are used for horses, but this one lady uses them for her prize chickens.”

He arched a brow. He had a way about him that was so hard for me to resist, especially the way he gave me every ounce of his attention with single-minded focus. I drank up that attention as though I’d been starving for it.

I really needed to get out more.

“Prize chickens?” he asked.

“Yes. She has prize chickens. She lives right by the stables, and as far as I can tell, spends most of the damn day there. She lets them roam the stables while she’s there, so they’re loose a lot of the time….completely unprotected.”

He started laughing again. “Oh no,” he said, seeing where the story was headed.

I nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ve timed it. Coffeecup can get to the stables in under two minutes, and nab a chicken just seconds after that. He’s taken out three of her chickens just this week alone.”

“Taken out?”

I nodded. “He eats them. He has their necks snapped before I can catch up to him, and I’m a fast runner.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Yes, I know. This is why Coffeecup and I have issues. Crazy chicken lady goes ballistic on me when she loses a chicken. Bev has to pay her fifty dollars every time it happens, but that’s no consolation to crazy chicken lady, since the damn chickens are her life.”

We started walking again, but we were both smiling..

“Well, if he gets loose while I’m around, I’ll catch him before he can murder any chickens. I promise.”

“He’s really fast,” I warned, not believing for a second that he could catch the crazy dog if it got loose.

“So am I.”

I just shook my head, laughing.





CHAPTER THREE





We got through my chores in record time. Tristan even folded laundry with me. I thought he was bizarre…and really kind of sweet.

Within short hours of meeting the strange man, I found myself rifling through my closet, looking for Vegas club gear. The dirty Vegas club scene was so not me, but I still found myself excited about going out. Tristan was just…fun, and I was excited for fun. The candid conversation that had set us up as friends right off the bat eased any reservations I might have had about hanging out with someone like him.

I didn’t have a lot of friends my own age. I’d adopted most of Bev’s circle of friends as my own, and besides myself, the youngest of them was thirty-two. I felt comfortable with older people. I attributed that to Bev. Being around her had just always been so good for me; so safe. She was mature, and she knew how to be healthy. She was stable, and I needed stability. I clung to it. And people my age living in sin city rarely belonged in the same sentence with stability. I knew that Tristan was no exception, he likely didn’t belong in the same book with stability, but still, he was hard to resist.