Eternal Rider - Larissa Ione [10]
So polite. Of course, most beings were pretty kiss-ass to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Probably wise. No, not probably. Definitely.
Suck up now, world, because once the Seals broke, it would be time to bend over.
Nothing good ever came of a knock at three o’clock in the morning, and as Cara Thornhart shuffled down the hallway to her front door, she had a very, very bad feeling.
The pounding became more urgent, every blow on the wood kicking her heart into a stuttered rhythm.
Breathe, Cara. Breathe.
“Thornhart! Open the fuck up!” The slurred voice was familiar, and when she put her eye to the peephole in the door, she instantly recognized the man standing on her porch as the son of one of her former clients.
Ross Spillane was also one of the many twenty-something jobless delinquents with six kids by six different women. Apparently, the one drugstore in town didn’t sell condoms.
Cara shoved up the sleeves of her flannel pajamas and stared at the two deadbolts, the chain, and the regular door lock. A flicker of dread skittered up her spine. She lived in the country, the middle of nowhere, and while she doubted Ross was an ax murderer, she’d always had a reliable sixth sense, and right now, she was sensing trouble.
Or maybe you’re just being paranoid. Her psychologist had said it was normal to have moments of panic, but that had been two years ago. Shouldn’t she be able to open her door without trembling like a frightened rabbit by now?
“What’s wrong, Ross?” she called out, because she still couldn’t bring herself to work the locks.
“Open the goddamned door! I fucking hit a dog.”
A dog? Crap. “I’m not practicing anymore. Take it to the clinic.”
“Can’t.”
No, of course he couldn’t. Ross sounded drunk, and the town vet just happened to be married to the town’s chief of police. The vet was also a corrupt bastard who overcharged, took shortcuts with care and materials, and he’d been known to refuse help to any animal that was rude enough to be sick or injured after office hours.
“Dammit, Thornhart. I don’t have time for this.”
Help the dog. Suck it up, and help the dog. Sweat dampened her temples and palms as she flipped all the locks and opened the door. Before it swung all the way in, Ross shoved the pitch-black canine into her arms, knocking her back a step.
“Thanks.” He started down the porch stairs.
“Wait!” Awkwardly, she shifted the dog’s weight, which had to be a good seventy pounds. “You shouldn’t drive.”
“Whatever. It’s a mile.”
“Ross—”
“Bite my fine ass,” he muttered, as he headed down her gravel walkway toward his old Ford pickup.
“Hey!” She couldn’t stop him, she knew that, but he had a passenger, a petite blonde who looked like she might still be in high school. “Is your friend able to drive?”
He opened the driver’s-side door and tossed the keys at the girl. “Yup.”
As he stumbled around the front of the truck, and the girl climbed out, Cara called, “Why did you bring me the dog?” Subtext: Why didn’t you let the dog die on the side of the road?
Ross stopped, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and looked down at his cowboy boots. When he spoke, Cara had to strain to hear him. “No mutt has ever stabbed me in the back.”
Cara stared. Go figure. She’d always been judged harshly by people who didn’t know her, and she’d just gone and done the same thing to someone else.
Then Ross whooped, slapped the young blonde on her Daisy Dukes, and spat a wad of tobacco on the ground, once again reinforcing a stereotype, but hey… at least he liked dogs.
Cara closed the door, awkwardly locking it, and carried the limp bundle of fur to a room she’d shut up tight two years ago.
“Dammit.” Her curse accompanied the creak of unused hinges as she wedged open the door with her shoulder. The stale air reeked of failure, and no matter how hard she tried to tug up her big-girl panties and be brave, her hands still shook as she laid the dog on the exam table and flipped on the light.