Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
But what if …? I mean, it’s pretty sick to even think about it. What if things get really bad one day, and there are no hours at the restaurant, no jobs, and I need to make money? Am I really above this when I get right down to it? Can I afford to be above this?
I keep the flyer in my pocket, then take out my phone and search “Nearby Businesses.” That’s all I’ve been doing, and it’s worked so far; at least, it got me the waitressing gig. My heart does a funny shudder when I read Tristan’s Tails: Dog Sanctuary. That’s the same place that’s on Loki’s tag.
Once, I thought about applying there, but I went on the website and saw how far from the restaurant they were and decided against it. If my search has brought me out this far anyway, I’ll probably have enough time to dart back across town for work. I decide to give it a try. What can it hurt?
CHAPTER FIVE
TRISTAN
“Easy, Tiger,” I say, patting the German Shepherd on the head. He’s got an almost feline look, mostly in his eyes and snout, but also his lighter-than-usual color. He grumbles but lets the arm pad go, then backs up for another round.
We’re in the Pit—the training grounds. Loki watches from beyond the mesh fence, the weaving so tight it doesn’t hurt their claws. He yaps as he leans up to look through the reinforced bars.
The Pit is on the slightly raised area of our piece of land. I can look down over my little paradise, so damn different from those burning black fields and those screams and my dog, my boy, the bleeding, and after, but none of it matters now.
I watch Winston, the Bulldog, sprawl out with a contented snore, his wrinkled face and sturdy build a funny contrast to his slumber. Luna, the Dachshund, stretches elegantly nearby, her slender body resembling a sunlit ribbon against the greenery of our faux grass. Max, the Golden Retriever, splashes playfully in our nearby “stream.” (A hose pipe coming out the wall is good enough for him.) His golden fur glistens in the sunlight as his wagging tail keeps time with the rhythmic splashes.
Meanwhile, Coco, the Poodle, reclines with regal grace under the shade of an “oak tree” (a large painting on the furthest wall, the shade coming from reused umbrellas).
I pick up the toy gun and then aim at the target. Tiger leaps into action and dives on my arm. Luckily, I’m padded up, but I can still feel his teeth trying to tear through the fabric. He’s a strong beastie. He grumbles when I say down.
From the edge of the pit, Tank walks up, as wide-shouldered as his name. He’s still wearing his hair in the Marine cut. Maybe he always will. He grins down at us. “Looks like you’ve got that monster trained.”
“Halfway there.”
He chuckles. “Thanks for helping with this.”
“It’s a sight to see. Ooh-rah while clocking overtime and dealing with cats stuck in trees.”
He laughs at my teasing. He knows I’m proud of him for joining the boys in blue. “So you think Tiger has what it takes?”
“He’s ferocious enough.”
“Good,” Tank nods.
“But that’s not the part that really matters.”
“No?”
“It’s being able to turn it off.”
Tank grins. “I don’t think we’re talking about canines anymore, T.”
“No, we are.”
When I remove the padded glove, I throw it quickly, letting Tiger dive on it and tear it to shreds. Leaving the cage, I pat Loki on the head as he wanders over.
“What’s he doing?” Tank asks, nodding to Loki.
I grin at the little guy. “He’s waiting for Tiger to destroy the pad. Then he’ll go and claim a piece.”
“He’s a determined fella, ain’t he?”
“The southern came out in you then,” I say with a chuckle.
“I’m a man of the world, I’ll have you know … ooh-rah.”
I grin, then turn when Loki lets out a yapping bark. When he darts past me, I let my gaze follow him, turning to find him pawing at the fence that separates the open-air area from the rest of the sanctuary.
“I didn’t know the sanctuary business paid so good,” Tank mutters.
“Huh?”
I’m barely listening, mostly just wondering why Loki’s suddenly decided to lose his mind.
“All this land. All these amenities …” Tank sighs. “It’s a lot, T.”
“It’s what these dogs deserve.”
“You must have some generous donors.”
I grit my teeth. We both know what he’s getting at. Tank isn’t usually the sort to pussyfoot about anything, but now he’s with the boys in blue. A cop. There are certain topics we flatly avoid, like the fact that I have a childhood friend named Raffie Trentini, as in the Trentini Mob family. I never know how to feel about Raffie if I should have a shred of pity for what fate threw at him or punch him in his face. Tank doesn’t have any of those problems. To him, Mob guys are Mob guys. That’s it. Cold. Simple.