Page 5 of Loco

Lynyrd had been a last-minute rescue. I’d gone to the pound with a buddy to adopt a dog on death row, and right as I was about to leave, I saw Lynyrd being led down the hallway to the “room.” One look at his sad resigned face, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I walked away.

Skynyrd’s story was even more of a mess. He’d been found at some abandoned property used for drug-fueled parties. When I first heard him, the sounds coming out of him made me think he was dying. I rushed him to the vet, ready to do whatever was necessary, only to find out he wasn’t dying—he just had the worst breathing problems the vet had ever seen.

Cue the most disgusting thing I’d ever witnessed: the vet using one of those bulb suction things to clear out his airways. The sounds and the snot...the sheer horror of it all.

On top of that, Skynyrd needed surgery to even have a chance at a normal life. And when the vet told me he’d be hard to rehome because he was, and I quote, “visually unique”—aka ugly as hell—I knew I was screwed. I couldn’t let him end up in a shelter, waiting for an adoption that would never come.

So, home he came. And a few months later, post-surgery, he no longer sounded like a 90-year-old chain smoker struggling to breathe.

Of course, in the beginning, both of them had been absolute assholes. I came home every night to destruction—furniture torn apart, cushion stuffing scattered like snow, shit, and piss in places it absolutely should not have been. I spent a small fortune on training spray, treats, and every positive reinforcement method under the sun. Eventually, we’d gotten there, but it’d been a process.

Mark reappeared then, snapping me out of my thoughts. His face was still pale as he pointed at his throat. “I can still feel the raspy tongue,” he croaked.

I chuckled and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, passing it to him. “Makes you feel slightly violated, huh?” Instead of answering, he just shuddered.

I motioned toward the front porch, and we both headed outside, where my beer had gone warm. Lynyrd, Skynyrd, and Dog lay in the doorway, watching us like tiny, furry sentries.

As always, theconversation drifted to work.

“So, the asshole floors the pedal, and his Ferrari clocks in at two-oh-eight. Carter’s cursing up a storm, radioing in updates while we try to push the Charger to keep up. But this guy? He’s just a little dot on the horizon.” Mark shook his head, laughing. “Alex and Raoul set up the stingers at the end of the road, and we block off behind them. Then,poof! The dot disappears right as we hear a muffled bang.”

I raised a brow. “Shit. Imagine writing off a Ferrari.”

“Oh, it gets better.”Mark grinned. “Dumbass crashed into a pile of hay bales.”

I snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“Farmer was moving them out of his field, but they weren’t loaded right and rolled into the road. Ferrari dude plows straight into them.”

Mark was laughing so hard he had to hold his side, but I was trying to picture the damage. Sure, it wasn’t a tree or concrete, but Ferraris weren’t built for impact.

“When we pulled up behind him,”Mark gasped between laughs, “he’s just sitting there, head on the airbag, while his meditation app is playing this soft, soothing voice: ‘Today is the day you gain control of your life. Stress, anger, heartache, and pain are all part of the past. The future is an open road?—’”

I lost it, nearly choking on my beer.

Mark wiped at his eyes. “Dude starts punching his airbag while the voice is like, ‘Turn your anger into something productive…’”

I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. “What did Carter do?”

“He called for backup, totally serious, while I was about to pass out from holding in my laughter.”

I shook my head. “Was the guy injured?”

Mark smirked. “Couple of bruises, some scrapes—but the best part? Pieces of straw got embedded in his skin, he looked like a freaking scarecrow. Paramedics kept telling him to stop pulling them out as they were loading him up.”

I leaned back, still grinning. “See, those are the stories I like to remember.”

Mark nodded. “Same. Though I’m never trusting your cat again.”

I smirked, taking another sip. “Jesus.”I took a long swig of my now-warm beer, wincing slightly but pushing through it. “Those are the kind of incidents I prefer to remember. The ones that make you question how some people function as adults.”I set the bottle down and smirked. “I had a case like that once—kid launched his dad’s car straight into the back of a truck carrying a prize bull.”

Mark blinked. “He what now?”

I nodded. “You heard me. The kid was joyriding andthought he had everything under control—until he didn’t. Ended up wedging the car into the back of the trailer so tight the damn thing was practically part of the frame. Metal sides buckled outward like a soda can.

“And to make matters worse?”I leaned forward, grinning. “His windshield shattered, which meant he got a front-row seat to the bull standing on the hood, just shitting and pissing away, completely unbothered by the chaos.”

Mark let out a wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Please tell me there’s more.”

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