Page 7 of Not Mine to Rescue

I got kisses for that.

So much for looking put together for Lemon. Somehow I figured she wouldn’t mind mussed hair, messy clothes, and dog hair everywhere. At least I hoped she wouldn’t.

“Enough. We’ve got to get going, Molly. Mommy’s driving. Lie down.”

She let out a small whimper but found her favorite spot with her jaw resting on the console between the seats. I can’t imagine that was comfortable for her, but she wouldn’t stay in the back seat where she couldn’t see me. And having her in the front was out of the question in case we got into an accident. The air bag would kill her. We found this happy medium for short trips, like the one from Jim’s house to my condo.

For what felt like the hundredth time, I wondered if I should buy a house for her to have room to play outside, and while I was at it, a different car. Maybe even something with a hatchback so I could fold the seat down and create a full bed for Molly to ride in.

Then I’d truly be a cliché. Divorced, almost forty, with a dog baby and a single passenger vehicle. Make it an “adventure” crossover and my life would be over.

Ugh.

I put the car in gear and tried to shake that lonely image from my brain.

Chapter Three

Wombat

My sister, Lemon, sat on the porch as I parked my Indian Dark Horse near the front steps. Clustered around her were the Red Lab, Reba, a Bernadoodle named Cinnamon, and Jillian’s French Bulldog with the horrific name of Isabella Tortellini. I’m sure Jilly thought she was being funny naming the poor thing that.

Under Cinnamon, Sweet-ums poked her head out. He was a timid little Papillion with a Napoleon complex as soon as his nearsighted ass figured out you weren’t a stranger. His real name was Reese’s Pieces.

And then there was DA.

Or, as I called him, “Dumb Ass.”

DA was an American Bully with a stupid streak that just wouldn’t quit. He ran right up to my bike, threatening me with his slobbering tongue kisses before I shut the damn thing off. “Chill, Dumb Ass.”

“Hey, Rand-Dum.”

My sister wasn’t being nice this evening, using her nickname for me. I used one of Walt’s lines. “Who shit in your Cheerios?”

She crossed her arms. “You.”

“Bullshit. Who?”

Lemon shook her head. But she dropped a huge clue. “If I tell you, you’re going to get in trouble again. And let me remind you, you’re out on bail right now.”

Like that was a factor. “Lemme guess, Tim the toxic Tinder turd?” Lemon dated him for all of two seconds. But like a bad penny, he kept turning up everywhere since.

She winced. “I’ve got it under control.”

That was a lie. “Say the word. I’ll take care of it.” Permanently.

Her frown told me she wouldn’t to me for help. Maybe I needed to get the club on it? We were light on body count this week. Of course, we’d used up almost a year’s worth last week, so maybe it wasn’t a good time to ask Walt for anything.

“Do me one favor, lose the coat.” She twirled her finger at me on the bike.

“No can do.”

“You’re going to scare off a new customer.”

That’s why she was waiting outside. “Fine.” I took the coat off and turned it inside out before tucking it away into a saddlebag. We needed the scratch. Pop-pop’s farm ate money faster than Lemon’s rescues did. If it weren’t for the money coming in from the Destroyers, we’d be homeless. “What’s this new customer do?”

“I don’t know, but she sounded nice.”

“Nice doesn’t pay the bills.”