Page 8 of Junkyard Dog

And yet with all that, he is still putting me first. Superfan almost tracked me down. Sure, it was accidentally, but she is fucking nuts. Abby Trask truly hates me and blames me for wrecking her imaginary relationship with a fictional character. The odds of an online fan acting out in the real world is infinitesimal, but she is definitely at the top of the 0.1% Bananas Brigade. As soon as I have my computer, I’m calling in all the troops to deal with her, especially since I now know who she is. All my social media moderators, author friends, and lawyers are going to know Abby Trask’s name. Screw the whisper network. I’ll be shouting from the rooftops. Especially when it comes to my lawyers. I need a restraining order STAT. I should warn themodel again. If she’s willing to drive to North Dakota, she might be willing to fly to Auckland.

In the meantime, JD is in the shower. I’m writing a grocery list. I wish I could take advantage of his little kitchen, but I cook like a writer constantly on deadline. Lots of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, cereal, and ordering in. But since neither of us think I should show my face around Lonesome until we are sure that Abby Trask is gone, I can at least try to contribute.

I look twice when I catch a glimpse of JD coming out of the bathroom. His jeans sit low on his hips. Drops of water decorate his broad shoulders and tanned back. Heat blooms in my lower half when he looks back to ask if I need anything and I see that he’s trimmed his beard. It has a shape now; the mountain-man without a mirror look is gone. No one man should look that good.

JD returns as I finish texting my grocery list to Picnic. “I’ve got shit to do around the junkyard. Are you okay here?”

“I’m fine.” Aside from having a stalker and being locked up with an inaccessible man I’d like to climb like a jungle gym, I couldn’t be better.

“I’m leaving Cajun with you. If you have any problems, if you get scared, yell. I won’t be far away.”

“Thank you, JD.”

I don’t have my laptop or any of my notebooks so I pull out my phone and do what I can. It’s not long before I hear voices again. When I recognize JD’s, Cajun and I head outside. Picnic is there with my luggage and two boxes of groceries. “Hey, Rhiannon. I got your food.”

“Any updates on Abby Trask?”

“Yep.”

I walk over to JD in case I need the support. “Hit me.”

“We moved your car. Bishop towed it to the shop, and we put it up on a lift for show. We found a Lo-Jack Luggage Tracker duct-taped to your rear bumper.”

“Oh my God.” This is so much worse than I thought, and I thought it was pretty fucking bad. “What did you do?”

His evil grin reassures me. “She was at the Halfway Café asking about you. We blocked her van in case she got any ideas. Then we took your car off the hoist to bring it here. I parked it behind the first row, out of sight from the road. As for the tracker, it’s now headed east to Minneapolis with a friendly trucker. That bitch never saw the switch.”

“Thanks, brother.” JD takes the grocery boxes. “Rhi, you should get back inside. I’ll bring your luggage.”

“Thanks for everything,” I say to Picnic. I ignore his look as JD waits for me at the door.

“No problem, sweetheart.”

Picnic’s news has shaken me to the point where I can’t concentrate on writing, so I start a new project. I mix the whole wheat flour, eggs, pumpkin puree, and the rest of the ingredients and begin kneading the dough by hand. JD pauses briefly in the kitchen, pointing out a lonely pizza sheet when I ask about baking pans, then returns to whatever he was doing before.

Two hours later, the first two trays of biscuits are cooling on the counter, and the final one is in the oven. JD reappears, and I feel like I can take a full breath for the first time since he left. He snags a biscuit and takes a bite before I can stop him. The look on his face triggers an explosion of giggles from me.

He gags, then determinedly chews more and swallows it. “I wasn’t expecting it to be savory,” he says diplomatically. He looks at the rest and forces a smile.

I can’t let him suffer. “It’s a dog biscuit. You can eat it. There’s nothing dangerous in it, but it is not flavored for humans.”

He laughs too. A decade of heaviness vanishes from his face. “Oh, thank God. These are terrible!”

“I have to warn you. My people cookies aren’t much better.”

“That’s what stores are for.” He calls the dogs over. Mandy gobbles the rest of JD’s biscuit without hesitation. Cajun sniffs JD’s next offering with deep consideration before he condescends to eat my cooking. Honestly, I don’t blame the dog. “The dogs are going to love you forever,” JD says.

I wonder what it would take to get that response from their owner.

Chapter Eight

When Rhiannon tells me she is planning to make supper, I hesitate until she informs me that the soup is canned and even she can make grilled cheese sandwiches. It beats eating out again, so I tell her to go ahead.

The dogs’ ears perk up a second before I hear a car horn sound twice. Considering that I know that Picnic closed the gate behind him when Wylie picked him up. I have no idea who the fuck is on my property now.

I burst through the door, pausing only to lock it behind me. Rhiannon has her phone in her hands. She’s ready to call for backup but I’m not going to let anybody get that close.

For fuck’s sake. A dirty white sedan is parked at the end of the first row of cars. It seems like Jordan Pratt and Neil Cort, a couple of local boys, opened my gate and drove right through. It’s not like they haven’t done it a hundred times. I’ve given them shit for doing it before, but they obviously haven’t taken me seriously. Today is not the day to test me. “What the ever-loving fuck, Pratt? The gate was closed for a reason” I shout.

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