Page 3 of Loco

“I’m disappointed the previous owners didn’t leave you any mirrors,” he snickered as we walked through the living room, referencing the insane number of mirrors on his house’s walls. “You don’t know what y?—”

His sentence cut off with an audible snap of his teeth, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.

I stopped dead, my stomach twisting. That was never a good sign. “Please don’t let it be snakes,” I muttered, half-praying to whatever deity handled these things. I fucking hated snakes. One of my buddies had bought a house once, only to discover two of the slithery bastards had been living rent-free inside his air vents. Since then, I’d made it a personal rule to give vents a wide berth.

Judging by the look of sheer horror on Mark’s face, his gaze locked on the pile of boxes next to the air vent in my living room,I suddenly regretted not getting the place checked before moving in.

My throat went dry. If there was a snake in my house, I was grabbing a bag and checking into a hotel until a professional searched every last inch of my home. No vent, mattress, or dark corner would be left unchecked. Hell, I’d make them burn the place down if necessary.

Mark, still frozen, whispered, “Please tell me you didn’t breed a dog as a science experiment.”

That was not what I expected him to say. My brows knitted as I turned, making sure my movements were slow and controlled in case whatever it was had launching abilities. God forbid I get taken out by some nightmare hybrid creature with a built-in slingshot.

“What kind is it?” I mumbled, bracing myself.

“I have no idea,” Mark breathed, his eyes still locked on the same spot. I was grateful he hadn’t blinked yet—at least one of us would see death coming.

“Rattler? Mamba? King Cobra?”

“Snakes on a Plane is a comedy if that’s a snake.”

A violent shudder wracked through me. Just hearing the name of that cursed movie sent a chill down my spine. Planes were already bad enough, but then some asshole had to go and make that viral clip where a snake fell out of an overhead compartment mid-flight. Seven years later, I still double-checked the bag hold every time I boarded.

Slowly, carefully, I turned my head, bracing myself for venomous fangs, beady reptilian eyes, or something equally horrifying, only to be met with an entirely different sight.

A deep sigh of relief rushed out of me, immediately followed by a solid smack to Mark’s head. My free hand clutched my chest like I was steadying my poor, abused heart.

“Jesus Christ, you asshole, I thought it was a snake.”

Still looking more horrified than relieved, Mark whispered, “What is that?”

I blinked. “The biggest one is Lynyrd, he’s a Chow mix. The middle one is Skynyrd, a pug cross, probably with about five other things. And that little guy?” I nodded toward the last one, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off Mark. “That’s Dog.”

Mark’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a dog?”

I grinned. “No.”

His head snapped around so fast I almost heard a crack. “Please, God, tell me you didn’t breed a cat with one of your dogs.”

I understood the confusion. Dog did resemble Skynyrd to a disturbing degree—scrunched-up face, similar coloring, an oddly smug expression—but I still felt personally offended.

My lip curled. “I don’t think that’s physically possible,” I muttered. “And even if it was, who in their right mind would try? No, he’s definitely a cat. He just… doesn’t know it, so I call him Dog.”

Mark turned back to Dog, who had apparently decided this was his moment to shine. Wagging his tail, he gave Mark the same eager, expectant look Lynyrd and Skynyrd wore.

Mark pointed. “He thinks he’s a dog?”

Scratching the back of my head, I sighed. “He plays fetch, barks, begs, lifts his leg to pee, rolls over, and pretty much does everything a dog does.”

Mark’s narrowed eyes slid back to me. “You didn’t get him from the Townsends, did you?”

I snorted. “No. Found him in a garbage can in an alley last year when we were searching for a weapon. Someone had filled it with water, probably trying to drown him.” I shook my head at the memory. “He was so tiny, barely fit in my hand. I took him straight to the vet, and they were initially stumped. He was all skin and bones, but he fought like hell.”

Mark was still scrutinizing Dog, who was now sitting at his feet, panting happily. Instead of purring or rubbing up against Mark’s legs like a normal cat, he just sat there, tail wagging.

Mark crouched down, whistled once, and—sure enough—Dog came bounding over like a retriever.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

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