The brunette doesn’t look at me. “And whose owner is a jackass? Whose? Yours is! Yes, he is!”
People like her are why I enjoy murder.
She stands, and Motor hops to his feet.
“Okay, I’ll get out of your hair,” she says. “Since you and Barnaby are so damn busy.”
But Motor seemingly isn’t done with her. He jumps onto his hind legs, resting his massive paws on the woman’s chest, and she grins.
“What an attentive boy,” she says, wiggling his ears.
“Yes, very nice, now go,” I widen the door.
Motor jumps down, and I somehow manage to stop my groan, the eyeroll, and the sag of my shoulders when I realize what’s all over her sweatshirt.
Blood.
Barnaby’s blood.
A big, paw-shaped smudge of it on her chest.
Fucking great.
My dog, my wonderful dog, obviously walked through Barnaby’s fucking blood, and now it’s all over the neighbor.
Jesus H. Christ.
“Oh.” She examines her sweatshirt. “I think he’s bleeding. Are you bleeding, pup?”
She kneels again and tries to look at Motor’s paw, covering her hands in blood, too.
And now she has to die.
What a fucking mess.
I sigh and slip the knife down my sleeve just as the bedroom door opens, and Asher appears.
She glances up.
“He’s not bleeding.” Asher smiles warmly. “I am.”
Asher, with that killer smile, can deal with this situation a lot better than I can. He has this whole blonde hair, blue eyes, Abercrombie thing going on that brings most people to their knees. I’m fairly sure he could slit a man's throat in front of a room full of women and they’d claim they hadn’t seen him do a damn thing wrong.
I, on the other hand, look like what I do for a living. I’m rough. Angry most of the time. And I don’t hold back my temper. Luckily for the neighbor, Asher is here to save the day—and her life.
“You’re bleeding?” she asks. “What happened?”
Asher’s black shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he has a relatively deep cut across his forearm.
“Dropped a glass in the bathroom,” he says, laughing nervously. “I’m Asher.”
Her expression softens significantly, but most people are that way around Asher. Comforting son of a bitch.
She presses her evidence-covered hand to her chest. “Ella Gibson.”
My brows rise.
Well, well, well.
