Running Free (Woodland Creek)(9)

“Frankie, darlin’, I know you would never hurt anyone without good reason. And I know those boys didn’t deserve what happened to them,” he says in a soft tone that warms me. “But I do know that both of them were kids who you’d helped. It may be coincidence but it concerns me that this could somehow involve you. Did you upset anyone in town? Anyone who could be trying to get back at you?”

My heart sinks at the thought of those guys getting hurt because of me. I wrack my brain and try to determine if I’ve done anything that would warrant such behavior. I come up empty.

“I don’t think so.”

He turns his attention outside. An autumn thunderstorm is brewing, I can sense it in my bones. When I follow his gaze, I’m satisfied to see that I’m right. Dark clouds swirl in the sky above the parking lot and the trees sway as the winds grow stronger.

“I’ll keep my eyes open and an ear to the ground,” he says. “In the meantime, be careful Frankie. I smell a rat and I don’t want something terrible happening to you. You’re my girl.”

Tightness in my chest nearly suffocates me and I blink away the burn in my eyes. I don’t cry. I absolutely do not cry.

Instead of answering him, I nod. Otis never needs many words — he simply always seems to know. If I could have chosen my own father in this life, I’d have chosen Otis. He’s like a dad to me in every sense of the word. Without his guidance and help, I’d probably be dead too.

And that’s why I help these kids.

They’re lost. Scared. Alone. Much like I was many years ago.

But they don’t have to be.

They have me and Otis. Together we’ll save as many as we can.

“I’ll catch you later before my shift,” I tell him when he turns back to regard me. “I want to go to the shelter and see if I can find anyone who needs help.”

Otis smiles at me — a smile that radiates with pride. Pride only a father would have for his daughter.

My heart does that wicked thumping thing again and I slip out of the booth before I do something stupid like burst into tears like a little girl. I wave, leaving Otis to pick up the tab, and all but run to my beat up Chevy pickup.

The “Dude Ride,” as Luca refers to it.

All along the bottom, the poor thing is riddled with rusty holes and cracks. The truck, at one time, was probably a sharp, shiny midnight black. Now, it’s more of a faded dark grey. The bench seat on the inside is littered with cigarette burns from the previous owner. It’s shitty but it’s mine. I paid a whole three hundred bucks for it when I got my first paycheck and it’s been my trusty ride ever since.

The engine purrs to life, ever faithful, and I tear out of the parking lot. The animal shelter isn’t far away and I’ve barely made it through the Led Zeppelin song on the radio before I’m pulling into the spot in front of the door.

I climb out and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tall, wide glass windows out front. Today, my long, wavy dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail and my face is free of makeup aside from a few quick strokes of mascara. Misty, one of the other bartenders, says I’m naturally pretty — that most girls have to use a gallon of makeup to even come close to how I look every day with my face scrubbed clean. I always roll my eyes because I don’t see it.

Sure, lots of guys around here want me but I figure it’s because I have legs for miles, perky tits and an ass you can bounce quarters off of. Who needs to work out when you can shift into a Doberman and run for miles without ever being winded?

As I step up to the glass, I frown. My face seems so plain to me. Luca, while he cared for me, was more interested in my body.

I wonder what the ol’ detective thinks.

The thought, sudden and out of nowhere, causes my cheeks to burn.

Jesus, Frankie, get some dick from a poor chum — hell, Luca at this point will do — and quit lusting over that cop.

Drawing strength from my anger, I stomp toward the entrance and sling the door open. The stench of urine and feces swallows me up and I choke down the desire to barf. I hate this place — too much of a reminder of my past — but I suffer through it every time. For them.

“Frankie,” Cliff mutters from behind the counter.

He doesn’t meet my gaze and instead pops his gum loudly while he surfs the internet. Pups are yapping like crazy, probably eager to leave this godforsaken place, and he ignores them as if they’re not even back there. It boils my blood. They just want someone to hold them and tell them everything’s going to be okay. Both real dogs and the ones who are shifters.

“Do your job, asswipe,” I grumble and lean over the counter. “Any newbies?”

Unaffected by my tone, he shrugs. “I can’t remember but I think they’re all the same.”

His eyes never leave his computer screen and I’m beginning to get pissed. Sure, I come in here every damn day but he acts like I’m a huge f*cking burden or something.

Bouncing on my toes, I hoist my belly over the counter and peek at what he’s looking at that’s more important than a customer.

Porn.

Stupid-ass porn.

Our eyes meet and I glare at him. Most people are affected by my power of intimidation. The only men in my life who haven’t shrank away from me with their tail between their legs are Otis and Luca.

And Gunnar Mason.