“I probably should apologize for that.”
“To Linc or Merrick?”
“Just Linc,” I said with a grin. “Merrick deserves every gray hair I gave him.”
The pup grabbed a stuffed monkey and gave it a violent shake, its arms and legs flopping wildly.
“She’s a little pistol.”
“Australian Cattle Dogs are like that,” Hatchet replied. “Smart, stubborn, loyal as hell. Protective, too.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Read that in one of your dog-parenting books?”
He smirked, unbothered. “Yeah, I did. These dogs are tough as hell. Total chaos gremlins.”
“There’s a good name for her.”
“Chaos Gremlin?”Hatchet stroked his short beard as he considered it.
“Maybe just Chaos for short. We can call her by her full name, Chaos Gremlin Morris-Perry, when she’s bad.”
“She gets both our last names?” Hatchet asked, a note of surprise in his tone.
“Of course. We have split custody.”
“Who gets Christmas?”
“I’m pretty sure we’re both spending Christmas with Merrick and Kenna for the rest of eternity,” I cracked.
“You’re not wrong.” He kicked a squeaky toy aside with his boot. “So, how was work today?”
I grimaced. “Sucked balls.”
One of his brows lifted in amusement as he waited for me to explain.
“I’ve got this kid who needs an asthma med,” I complained, leaning back against the counter. “Insurance denied it because they decided her case is ‘mild.’” I made air quotes. “She’s wheezing so hard she can’t sleep—but sure, let’s call that mild.”
Hatchet frowned. “Insurance companies can do that?”
“Yep. I go to school for fucking ever to become a doctor, and some office bitch gets to look at a piece of paper and decide whether or not I can treat my patient with the medication they need.”
“That does suck balls.”
I shrugged. “Just part of the job, I guess. At least I get to come home to this cutie now. Little Miss Chaos.” I snuggled the pup.
Hatchet snickered. “Little Miss Chaos would be a good nickname for you, too.”
Chapter Eight
Alast-minute request from a Maverick Security client landed me with one of my least favorite gigs—babysitting an insurance CEO through the city.
The man had the personality of wet cardboard and the overconfidence of a mediocre prospect.
I found these assignments boring as fuck. I preferred the jobs at bars and concerts—loud music, rough crowds, and pulsing energy fueling my focus. Instead, I wore a goddamn suit to hide most of my tattoos—at the client’s insistence—and pushed through a throng of protestors that lined the sidewalk. They thrust hand-painted signs in the air, chanting “stop killing patients for profit.” After what Merci told me the other night about the asthmatic kid, I couldn’t bring myself to blame them.
The voices, raised fists, and hand-painted poster boards blurred into the background as I kept my eyes sharp on the executive ahead.
Out of the crowd, a figure broke through. A woman with greasy hair, no older than twenty, lunged forward with her face twisted with determination. She clenched a long, sharp kitchen knife in her right hand.
