[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
If that was a come on, it was the weirdest one Sam had ever gotten.
Of course, he was really kinda comfortable right here on the edge of the tub, with the pup and the
cool tile and shit. "Okay."
The guy rolled his eyes. "Come on, Lula. You need to piss, go ahead and do it before you
collapse. I'll be back in a minute."
There went the dog.
He managed to get his business done and get a long drink of water before he realized he probably
could see way better if he took his one remaining contact out and put his glasses on.
Oh.
Man.
Way better.
Thank God for hard cases.
"You about done, man?" Yeah, he could see now, and someone had done some damage to that
guy's face. He hoped some of it was his.
"Yeah." He was fixin' to just tump over, really, now that the adrenaline was gone and the hurting
was coming around the corner.
"Me too." One big hand curled around his waist, pulling him along, the light clicking off as they
left. He had a dizzy impression of a little hallway that led to a backroom, and a big old bed, and
then he was horizontal and sinking into a down topper.
"Uhn." Oh. Soft. Yeah. That was. Uh-huh.
"Uh-huh. Night."
Okay, so not making a pass. Nope, Mac just rolled over and started snoring, just like that.
Good thing, too, 'cause he was too damn drunk to pretend that he hunted titties and fuck knew
he'd kicked enough ass tonight.
***
Mac woke up with screaming kidneys, a sore mouth, and a terrible ache all over. He felt like
someone had taken a baseball bat to him.
Oh, yeah. Someone had.
He rolled toward the bathroom, trying to wallow out of bed. He hit something that felt like a
dead body, only warm, and he cracked his eyes open to contemplate someone who emphatically
wasn't Lula.
Shit, marthy. That little banty rooster son of a bitch was tore up. Built real pretty underneath the
blood and bruises, though.
And that ink was hot. Looked like holly. Wasn't that the guy's name? Something Holly. Mac
rolled the other way, grunting when his feet hit the floor. Oh, goddamn, that hurt.
"Shit." Lord, the little fuck was pure redneck.
"You stay. It will take me at least an hour to piss. Then you can go." Creaking, he went to the
bathroom, just grumbling and cussing. "Goddamned little motherfucker."
"I ain't that little, fuckhead." No, but the shithead had good ears.
"You're a fucking midget." Goddamn, he was gonna rupture something. His body was telling
him something obscene and loud, and by the time he limped back into bedroom, he was good
and pissed off.
Man, where had the little fuck gone? He heard Lulu barking in the front yard and the front door
swinging shut.
"Well, shit." Mac headed out, looking for the damned fool man. There wasn't nowhere to go.
Lulu bounced over to him, tail wagging like she was the happiest hound on earth. "She needed to
do her thing."
Someone was doing his best to smoke around a busted lip.
"Gimme." He grabbed the smoke and took a drag, scratching Lula's ears. "Do you want a
hamburger, baby? Huh? Yeah, good girl."
"That ain't your smoke, man." Right, like the little shit was going to take it back.
"Looks like my brand." Mac was pretty sure his pack had been in his jacket, hanging by the door.
Or maybe not. Who knew?
"Because only giant-sized crackers buy Camels?"
"Your lungs are too tiny for regulars. Surely you go for ultra-lights." Good to know he could still
snark, even with his mouth all crookedy.
"Oh, you son of a bitch." He got a smack, hard enough to sting.
"Fuck. Will you quit that? I got plenty enough bruises without you whaling on me." Lula thought
they were playing, and Mac hooted when she romped right against the little guy's crotch.
"Lord, honey. I don't swing that way." The man had good, strong hands. Working man's hands.
"What do you do?" So it was idle conversation. But it stopped him from asking the man which
way he did swing.
"Roofing, mostly. Play some banjo on the weekend. You?"
"Finish carpentry. You play, huh? I can pluck a little guitar, but that's it." Those hands would be
right pretty on a banjo.
"Yeah. I don't do so good with guitar, but I do okay with the mandolin."
"My daddy could fiddle. He was always disappointed that I didn't have the hands." Mac could
make wood sing, though, could make it shine.
"It ain't for everybody. I cain't fiddle worth shit."
"Takes more coordination that I got, I tell you." He sucked the rest of the smoke down. "It's
Saturday. If you ain't got anywhere to be, I'll make us some eggs."
"Okay. You got coffee? I could use a pot or two."
"Yeah. In the freezer. There's a pot on the counter by the fridge." Mac figured he might as well
put the little shit to work. "I figure scrambled will be easiest on the mouth."
"Your jaw hurting, honey?" Smart-assed bastard.
"Uh-huh. How's your eye?" Mac'd gotten a few hits of his own in before someone brought out
the Louisville.
"Fuck you. It's fine. Lost my fucking contact, though. Asshole." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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If that was a come on, it was the weirdest one Sam had ever gotten.
Of course, he was really kinda comfortable right here on the edge of the tub, with the pup and the
cool tile and shit. "Okay."
The guy rolled his eyes. "Come on, Lula. You need to piss, go ahead and do it before you
collapse. I'll be back in a minute."
There went the dog.
He managed to get his business done and get a long drink of water before he realized he probably
could see way better if he took his one remaining contact out and put his glasses on.
Oh.
Man.
Way better.
Thank God for hard cases.
"You about done, man?" Yeah, he could see now, and someone had done some damage to that
guy's face. He hoped some of it was his.
"Yeah." He was fixin' to just tump over, really, now that the adrenaline was gone and the hurting
was coming around the corner.
"Me too." One big hand curled around his waist, pulling him along, the light clicking off as they
left. He had a dizzy impression of a little hallway that led to a backroom, and a big old bed, and
then he was horizontal and sinking into a down topper.
"Uhn." Oh. Soft. Yeah. That was. Uh-huh.
"Uh-huh. Night."
Okay, so not making a pass. Nope, Mac just rolled over and started snoring, just like that.
Good thing, too, 'cause he was too damn drunk to pretend that he hunted titties and fuck knew
he'd kicked enough ass tonight.
***
Mac woke up with screaming kidneys, a sore mouth, and a terrible ache all over. He felt like
someone had taken a baseball bat to him.
Oh, yeah. Someone had.
He rolled toward the bathroom, trying to wallow out of bed. He hit something that felt like a
dead body, only warm, and he cracked his eyes open to contemplate someone who emphatically
wasn't Lula.
Shit, marthy. That little banty rooster son of a bitch was tore up. Built real pretty underneath the
blood and bruises, though.
And that ink was hot. Looked like holly. Wasn't that the guy's name? Something Holly. Mac
rolled the other way, grunting when his feet hit the floor. Oh, goddamn, that hurt.
"Shit." Lord, the little fuck was pure redneck.
"You stay. It will take me at least an hour to piss. Then you can go." Creaking, he went to the
bathroom, just grumbling and cussing. "Goddamned little motherfucker."
"I ain't that little, fuckhead." No, but the shithead had good ears.
"You're a fucking midget." Goddamn, he was gonna rupture something. His body was telling
him something obscene and loud, and by the time he limped back into bedroom, he was good
and pissed off.
Man, where had the little fuck gone? He heard Lulu barking in the front yard and the front door
swinging shut.
"Well, shit." Mac headed out, looking for the damned fool man. There wasn't nowhere to go.
Lulu bounced over to him, tail wagging like she was the happiest hound on earth. "She needed to
do her thing."
Someone was doing his best to smoke around a busted lip.
"Gimme." He grabbed the smoke and took a drag, scratching Lula's ears. "Do you want a
hamburger, baby? Huh? Yeah, good girl."
"That ain't your smoke, man." Right, like the little shit was going to take it back.
"Looks like my brand." Mac was pretty sure his pack had been in his jacket, hanging by the door.
Or maybe not. Who knew?
"Because only giant-sized crackers buy Camels?"
"Your lungs are too tiny for regulars. Surely you go for ultra-lights." Good to know he could still
snark, even with his mouth all crookedy.
"Oh, you son of a bitch." He got a smack, hard enough to sting.
"Fuck. Will you quit that? I got plenty enough bruises without you whaling on me." Lula thought
they were playing, and Mac hooted when she romped right against the little guy's crotch.
"Lord, honey. I don't swing that way." The man had good, strong hands. Working man's hands.
"What do you do?" So it was idle conversation. But it stopped him from asking the man which
way he did swing.
"Roofing, mostly. Play some banjo on the weekend. You?"
"Finish carpentry. You play, huh? I can pluck a little guitar, but that's it." Those hands would be
right pretty on a banjo.
"Yeah. I don't do so good with guitar, but I do okay with the mandolin."
"My daddy could fiddle. He was always disappointed that I didn't have the hands." Mac could
make wood sing, though, could make it shine.
"It ain't for everybody. I cain't fiddle worth shit."
"Takes more coordination that I got, I tell you." He sucked the rest of the smoke down. "It's
Saturday. If you ain't got anywhere to be, I'll make us some eggs."
"Okay. You got coffee? I could use a pot or two."
"Yeah. In the freezer. There's a pot on the counter by the fridge." Mac figured he might as well
put the little shit to work. "I figure scrambled will be easiest on the mouth."
"Your jaw hurting, honey?" Smart-assed bastard.
"Uh-huh. How's your eye?" Mac'd gotten a few hits of his own in before someone brought out
the Louisville.
"Fuck you. It's fine. Lost my fucking contact, though. Asshole." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]