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The animal had been nothing but a bag of bones, with matted fur and a missing right eye. Its tail was crooked, the bone permanently altered—whether by foul means Logan couldn’t be sure. The only thing he was sure of, was the fact that the cat was about the ugliest thing he’d ever seen with its gray/black fur and mottled orange accents.
His nephew had called it weird and oddly enough, the name had stuck.
Logan slipped out of his boots and trudged upstairs, still feeling restless but not knowing what to do. He decided another shower might do the trick, but hours later he was still wide awake, with Weird curled next to him, purring loudly.
He cursed, rolled over and sat on the edge of his bed for a few minutes until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A glance at the clock on the dresser across the room told him it was half past three. He’d been home by eleven.
For several moments he stared at the clock, running his hands over the shadow that now graced his jaw. He hadn’t heard the low rumble of Shane’s bike, so he was pretty sure Gallagher wasn’t home.
What the hell was he doing? Was he out with Billie? Up to no good?
Why did he care?
[i]I don’t[i].
Except he kinda sorta did and it was the main reason hours later—after he’d eventually fallen asleep—that he woke up pissed off. Not even three cups of strong, black coffee made him feel better. He was grumpy, out of sorts and, he had to be honest, more than a little anxious. He thought of Sabrina. She’d left a message on his machine asking him to come over and work things out.
[i]Women[i]. Last week she’d called him an unfeeling bastard—no, [i]an unfeeling selfish bastard[i]. And this week she wanted him back. If he went over there right now she’d probably welcome him with open arms and open legs. But contrary to what she’d said last week, he wasn’t an unfeeling selfish bastard. If he was, he’d let her take the edge off and be done with it.
He was just uninterested in her.
Logan slammed his closet door closed. He sure as hell wasn’t interested in what Shane Gallagher and Billie-Jo Barker were doing either.
Fuck. It was going to be a long day.
After throwing on an old pair of jeans and simple black T-shirt, Logan opted not to shave and pulled on his boots instead. He fed the cat, giving Weird a scratch behind the ears before he headed out into the early morning sun. It was crisp and his breath hung in the air as Logan’s feet crunched over stiff, frost covered grass.
His home was surrounded by maple trees, their leaf heavy limbs a riot of fall colors. Burnt oranges, yellows, and reds were the palette, something that usually lightened his mood, but today, nothing was going to clear his dark mood.
He cut across to the garage located along the side of his house. Nestled between two ancient oak trees, it had at one time been a carriage house—hence the loft apartment overtop. Shane’s bike was parked inside, which he pointedly ignored, and a few seconds later he backed his truck out and drove away.
He didn’t work many Saturdays these days but good, hard, manual labor would go a long way in relieving the dark mood inside him. Besides, it’s not like he had much else going on in his life.
Logan passed the paperboy, Walt something or other, as he turned onto Main Street and waved as the kid rode past. His business, Forest Custom Design was located across the bridge at the far end of town.
Fog slithered along the road as the sun began to warm the earth and he watched lazy swirls of it roll away when he passed through New Waterford’s quiet downtown. A small cat scooted across the road, just past the bakery, and he braked slightly, swearing under his breath as he swerved to avoid it.
Someone walked along the sidewalk, he could just make out a shape in the heavy mist but he continued on, waving at Ed Cronkwright—out early towing someone no doubt. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of his shop.
Always interested in mechanics and design, he’d disappointed his father years earlier when he’d declined an opportunity to join the family veterinarian practice—he liked animals but sure as hell wasn’t interested in fixing them. Instead, he’d studied engineering at a local college and opened his shop six months after graduation.
Specializing in bikes and cars, he’d quickly gained a reputation as a man of detail with a keen eye for design. He’d started out with one employee—himself –and now, nearly ten years after inception, Logan’s business had taken off with revenue tripling over the past five years. He’d expanded, buying property outside of town, and built an impressive new shop with additional units that he rented out. The revenue from that alone was enough to get by.
Logan now boasted clients from all over the United States as well as Canada and Mexico. His waiting list for custom bikes and specialty cars was nearly eighteen months and the bike he’d been working on for two weeks was a custom chopper for some Hollywood talent agent. It was one of the most daring designs he’d attempted.
He pulled into the parking lot and let his foot off the gas. It definitely was nothing like the hunk of junk that sat in front of his shop’s bay door.
Logan let his truck idle and frowned as he stared at the sad looking import. The car was a red Honda accord, with four flat tires and from what he could tell, a lot of damage to both the side panels and the trunk. Most likely it had been keyed.
“Shit,” he murmured, glancing toward Gord’s Garage and thinking of Ed Cronkwright. He must have had more to drink than he should have last night because he obviously had towed the car to the wrong business.
Logan grabbed his cell phone and was about to dial Ed when his eyes narrowed. He tossed the cell onto the seat, stepped out of his truck, and strode toward the car. The scratches weren’t terrible. They could easily be dealt with. It was the words and the sudden realization of their meaning that pissed him off even more than he already was
.
Son of a bitch.
‘[i]Ho[i]’ adorned the trunk.
