Page 1 of The Lineman

Chapter one

Mike

Therewereafewthings in this world that I despised with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Three easily topped the list:

Moving.

Moving.

And, just for variety,moving.

So, naturally, my dumb ass decided that after ten years of renting, it was time to buy a house. Because why not? Nothing says “stability” like crippling mortgage debt and a fridge that still wasn’t cooling anything because I forgot to schedule the power transfer.

I stood in my new driveway, surveying my kingdom—a modest, blue-trimmed bungalow at the very end of a sleepy cul-de-sac. It was the kind of place where neighbors actually waved at each other, and someone was likely organizing a casserole meal train at that very moment.

Homer, my perpetual agent of chaos Jack Russell, sat beside me, panting happily, oblivious to the existential crisis I was having.

“Well, bud,” I said, rubbing his head. “We’re officially homeowners. No more landlords. No more rent hikes. No more—”

A loudthunkfrom inside the house cut me off.

I sighed. It was probably another box falling over, because, despite my best intentions, I had moved in like an unsupervised toddler, tossing things randomly into rooms and hoping for the best.

Homer barked at the noise, then looked up at me expectantly.

“Let’s go see what fell,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t find shattered glass or whatever might’ve been in the cardboard asteroid that fell from the heavens.

Once the door clicked shut behind us, I kneeled and freed Homer from his leash, which sent the maniacal beast into an instant frenzy. His little legs blurred as he darted from the kitchen into the den, then through the doggie door onto the deck. After three laps around the yard that would’ve made a track star jealous, he returned inside, panting with his tongue lolling almost behind his head, only to resume his laps on the interior of our home.

I shook my head. “I need doggie tranquilizers.”

He skidded to a halt at my feet and glared up, his gaze shifting from crack-head terrier to policeman who’d just heard something suspicious.

“Maybe they’re for me, not you, you little terror.”

He barked, squinted his beady little eyes, then shook his head and resumed his zoomies.

I groaned. There was only one thing that would calm him long enough for me to get a moment’s peace, but I didn’t even know where a local dog park was in my fancy new neighborhood.

“Fine, fine. We’ll go for a walk. But no harassing the neighbors, all right?”

He zipped back to sit before me, his tail wagging so hard I could practically hear it making a whooshing sound.

Homer, for all his good-boy qualities, had one fatal flaw—he had absolutely zero boundaries. He loved everyone immediately and excessively, and no one was safe from his affection. Not delivery drivers. Not small children. Not even a cop who once pulled me over for rolling through a stop sign.

(That had been fun. “Sir, control your dog—stop licking my boots!” He was hot. I would’ve liked to lick his boots.)

So, yeah. Walking Homer was always an adventure.

We strolled out of the driveway, the sun already starting to set over my suspiciously idyllic neighborhood. Most of the houses were well kept, lawns mowed, porches adorned with rocking chairs and potted plants.

My immediate neighbor flew a flag bearing the logo of the Atlanta Braves.

The next house had a Toyota Corolla parked in the driveway whose bumper sticker read, “You follow any closer and you’ll have to claim our child.”

The third house has green shutters the color of rancid baby poop. I made a mental note to avoid decorating tips from that owner.

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