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“Forty-nine percent?” Bryce asks after she takes a drink of the foul whiskey and frowns at it.
My heart leaps. Forty-nine percent would solve all my problems, but then I realize that I don’t actually know these women and I can’t let them have that kind of control of my clinic. “I’d prefer no more than 15 percent, maybe five percent from each of you. That way, I won’t be impacted should one of you decide to withdraw.”
The twins exchange huge smiles that make their blue eyes dance. “I love it!” Emma says. “I’ll be a 5 percent owner of a vet clinic. Will Freud get his check-ups for free?”
Her twin scowls. “Of course not. You have no business sense.” Already, they’re taking over.
Emma waves at the budgie and Kona, who’s sitting on the counter glaring at her. “I bet Evanee doesn’t charge these guys.”
“She’s the vet,” Bryce says in her dry tone. “It would be like Coyote charging us for beating up one of your boyfriends.”
She turns to me. “Who else do you plan to approach for funding?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. My father isn’t a fan of my life-choices so he throws up roadblocks to any legitimate sources.”
Bryce contemplates this. “I know some other women who wouldn’t be persuaded by the men in their lives or your father. I’m sure they could be talked into investing too.”
My heart skips a beat as I glance at my shoes in thanks. If it weren’t for them, my hands would have been freed up enough to lock the doors behind me when I came in and I’d still be a struggling vet without financing.
“Who?” Maddy asks.
“Haley and Jess,” Bryce replies then steps outside with her phone in hand. A few minutes later, she returns with her version of a smile.
“Well?” the twins ask at the same time.
“They’re on their way,” Bryce replies with a secretive grin. She stretches like a cat and says under her breath, “Pissing off Hangman. It’s going to be a good day.”
CHAPTERFIVE
Evanee
The doors are open thanks to my investors, the customers are trickling in, no one’s discovered Lullaby, and my rescue pets now include a cat with one eye that we call Pirate Jack because he came without a name. It’s costing me though, more than I’m making and the money in my savings is slowly dwindling. I’ve given up my apartment and moved into the clinic – the room where I kennel the animals.
Wendy, bless her heart, will be the ultimate reason I jump off a bridge. She started smoking again, then just as we opened the doors, inexplicably stopped. In her normal state, I wouldn’t describe her as a friendly postcard to the clients we’re trying to lure, but the withdrawal from nicotine puts her on a whole other level of miserable. On more than one occasion I’ve had to send her home part-way through the day.
Today is one of those days and I’m minding the reception, but it’s mid-afternoon, I have no clients, not even walk-ins so I’m not exactly overwhelmed. I’m in the back – my bedroom now, trying on a new pair of therapeutic shoes when Cujo gives a sharp bark. I slip on my Louboutin’s, take a few seconds to admire them, check the mirror to make sure there’s no lipstick on my teeth, give my breasts a little lift, then head out to meet my new customers.
Two bikers are standing at the counter. One is about as tall as I am, the other over six feet. They’re scruffy, wearing vests that identify them as prospects, but not the biker club they belong to. There’s a deep burn inside me as they remind me of my man in the food court. I still haven’t looked for Trigger, though I think about him all the time. He’s a complication I don’t need in my life no matter how badly I want it. I think the sex would be fantastic, but I’m worried the relationship would end in heartbreak.
These two though, are younger, neither bearded, though one has spotty whiskers. Cujo and Blackie are dancing around them, and Singalong has joined in with a squawking chorus. The bikers seem oblivious to my greeters because they’re having a heated conversation. They don’t immediately notice my arrival.
“I’ll handle it,” the tall one says. “I’m better with conversation.”
“Because you never shut up,” the shorter one grumbles. His arms are beautifully tatted and whoever the inker was is a first-rate artist. It makes me want my own tattoo.
Still, there’s a time and a place and this is clearly not it.
“Hello,” I say, which gets their attention.
They turn towards me, their eyes growing round, their faces red. I have that affect on men, young, old, hard of sight.
“Uh,” says the tatted one. “Uh,” he says again.
“Welcome to my clinic.” I look around them and try to find the animal the bikers belong to, but there’s nothing. Not even a cage. “You didn’t leave the poor darling in the car, did you?” A peek through the window answers my question. There is no car, just a couple of Harleys. “Hmmm. Can’t be dog.”
The taller one attempts to intimidate me by scowling. “There is no dog.” His voice is deep and gruff, but it lacks menace.
I smile as I slink past them, then sit on one of the reception room chairs, crossing my legs, my back straight, showing my girls to their best advantage. It seems to be something I can’t help when it comes to men, and I fully admit a little therapy would serve me well. Even if it is a compulsion, in this case, I think perhaps I may need to use my assets because these guys aren’t here to get their chameleon neutered.
