Drop Dead Sexy(43)

“He does. You would know it if he didn’t.”

“I thought you said he was a bad watch dog?”

“He is. When he doesn’t like someone, he just pees on their leg and walks away.”

“Wish I could do the same sometimes.”

I laughed as I walked down the hall to the living room. After grabbing my purse, I came back to see Catcher sending Motown into doggy heaven when he started scratching behind his ears. “You know, I never would have imagined you with a dog like this.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“First off, you really seem more like a cat person.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Because I’m thirty and single aka a future cat lady in the making?”

“No. That’s not it at all. You just seem like someone who likes small, cuddly things.”

“Motown might be eighty pounds, but he’s a real cuddle bug.”

“Yeah, I also didn’t see you as someone with a pit bull that looks like he’s been through the wringer.”

“He has. After he started hanging around at the funeral home, I took him to the vet. She confirmed that he’d been used as a bait dog in a dog fighting ring.”

Catcher’s face clouded over with anger. “Bastards.”

“If I had my wish, anyone who attended dog fights or participated in them would have a machine gun fired at their genitals.”

With a bark of a laugh, Catcher said, “Easy there, Terminator.”

I gave him a sheepish look. “Sorry. I tend to get a little violent about people who hurt animals, children, and the elderly.”

“Don’t apologize. I totally agree with you about machine-gunning genitals of abusers. It’s just I’m not used to seeing all that rage come from you.” He brushed his thumb across my cheek. “It was a little scary and a little sexy at the same time.”

I laughed. “I think you’re one of the few men who find my scary side even remotely sexy.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Catcher replied.

As we stood there staring at each other, palpable electricity swirled in the air around us—the kind that made the hair on the backs of your arm and neck stand up. Even Motown sensed it because he came up and nudged his nose between us.

Catcher chuckled as he patted Motown’s head. “Easy there, boy, I’m not trying to take her away from you. Can we share?”

Motown glanced between Catcher and me before burrowing deeper between us. “Hmm, guess the answer is no.”

“We should probably get going,” I said. It wasn’t so much that I cared about tracking down the Ezra and Zeke Chester lead as it was I feared if I didn’t get some distance between Catcher and me, I would rip his clothes off and bang him on and off the furniture in my living room. There was also that nagging voice in the back of my head that it was about so much more than sex with the two of us. That we had a deep connection that had nothing to do with connecting my vagina with his penis. Although that part was certainly very nice.

After slinging my purse over my shoulder, I looked at Motown. “Be a good boy while I’m gone.” He licked my hand in acknowledgement before grabbing his bone and hopping up on the couch. I turned to Catcher. “Ready?”

“Yup. Let’s go get our holy on.”

I laughed. “Fingers crossed that this is an uneventful evening.”

Catcher snorted. “Babe, I think it’s safe to say that there is not going to be anything uneventful about this case.”

And once again, Catcher was right.



Ezra Chester held his tent revivals about forty-five minutes from Taylorsville. After getting off the interstate, we spent most of the drive on two-lane roads. It was fifteen minutes after we left the nearest town and any semblance of civilization that we came to our turn. Catcher grimaced the moment the gravel on the road started kicking up on the sides of his car, which I had been right in guessing was a convertible. It was a fire-engine red Mustang.

The road ended at what appeared to be some abandoned fairgrounds. There were so many people in attendance that the cars overflowed onto grass lot and were parked along the roadside. In the middle of the field, two giant tents had been erected. “Looks like quite the crowd,” Catcher noted.

I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Yeah, well, Patricia did say he had a big following.”

“My question would be how the hell does a guy like this get a following, least of all a big one? I mean, this doesn’t impress me as the type of thing you advertise in the newspapers or on Facebook. And I didn’t see any billboards on the way.”

Catcher was right. The only advertisement of any kind had been the small signs that said Tent Revival Ahead. “I guess word of mouth,” I replied, as I shut the door.

After coming around the side of the car, Catcher took my hand in his, which of course made me all goofy feeling, and we started walking down the road. We then cut through the high grass in the field.

Once we reached the tent, we found the rows of metal chairs had been filled, and it was standing room only. At the right side of the tent, a few musicians armed with banjos, guitars, and a fiddle were playing a hymn. In front of them was a small, wooden floor with a microphone stand in the center. Two middle-aged men in black suits with salt and pepper hair stood on the stage, surveying the people coming in. From time to time, the tallest one would throw up a hand in greeting and smile. Sometimes he would nod.