Page 11 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

Cass got a text from Melissa first thing the next morning while she was doing her hair. It read: Remember that investigating will take time. We won’t move to make an arrest until we’re sure it can stick. Y’all stay calm and keep your heads down .

Cass sighed, but sent back a fast: I know . She kept the duh to herself.

Jamie was a jittery mess, who tugged on her heaviest, most shapeless pair of sweats and pulled the hood up on the matching hoodie. Cass tried to be as supportive as possible, thankful that they shared all the same classes today.

Slowly, Jamie seemed to unwind. By lunch, she’d pushed her hood back, and straightened her spine, and attended studiously to the watercolor paper she’d taped down to the table where they both worked.

“Feeling better?” Cass ventured.

Jamie shrugged, but her brushstrokes were sure and confident as ever.

The problem didn’t arise until just after four, when they left Watercolors, and stepped out into the hall to find Sig propped up against the wall directly across from the door.

~*~

Shep swung by Hauser’s for a late lunch, and this time, he was the one who found Pongo on a stool, and climbed up next to him. He stole a handful of fries for good measure to a halfhearted “hey.”

“So,” Shep said, conversationally, his mouth full, “you’re a whiny little bitch.”

Pongo paused mid-reach for his drink and said, “Whuh?” Intelligent and suave as ever.

“You,” Shep said, still conversational, stealing more fries, “have been running your mouth about your little incident yesterday, haven’t you? Who’d you call? Maverick? Topino? Or did you go to the Moscow Mule, which, by the way, would make you even more of a little bitch.”

Pongo wiped his hands on a napkin and twisted on his stool, one elbow braced on the bar top. “What in the hell are you talking about? I didn’t tell anyone what happened.”

“Bullshit.” Why wouldn’t he take the chance to land Shep in hot water? Everyone else certainly did.

“I didn’t!” Pongo’s freckles stood out stark when he got worked up, which happened now. “Jesus, why would I?”

To get my ass yanked back to Albany , Shep thought, sourly. For the satisfaction of hearing Maverik ream me out. Because you don’t like me, which is just fine, ‘cause I don’t like you, you freckled little shit .

“I dunno. For shits and giggles. But you did .”

Pongo’s brows shot up, nearly disappearing into the curly flop of hair on his forehead. “No. I didn’t.”

Shep’s patience snapped. He’d never been good at holding on to it anyway. “Then why did Cass call to bitch at me about ‘getting you arrested,’ huh? How’d she know?”

As quick as they’d jumped, Pongo’s brows dropped. “Who?”

Correction: Shep thought his patience had snapped. Turned out, there were layers to it, and about three more splintered apart like dry spaghetti when Pongo said who .

“The fuck do you mean who ? Cass. Cassandra. Cassandra Green . Raven’s little sister.”

Pongo showed no recognition until the last name drop. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah, her .” An image of her the night she’d called him filled his mind: the heavy drag of her eyelids, her smudged makeup, the trusting way she draped her limp body against his.

His voice went low, and rough, and he realized his hand was shaking, faintly, and he pressed it against the bar as he said, “She called me last night wanting to know why you’d taken the fall for what I did.

So someone said something to someone .” He punctuated the last with a sharp jab of his fingertip into Pongo’s collarbone.

Pongo swatted him away. “Dude, don’t touch me.”

Shep gripped the collar of his cut, the worn leather squeaking between his fingers. He imagined it was that little punk Sig’s collar instead. What he wouldn’t give to wrap a hand around his throat and squeeze…

“ Hey ,” Pongo snapped, and Shep realized he’d gone away inside his head.

He released his club brother, but reluctantly.

Pongo gave him a disapproving up-down look that was begging for a punch to the mouth. Said, “The only person I told was Dixie, and that’s only because I had to call her to come get my ass outta hot water.”

“Who did Dixon tell?”

“No one! I dunno.” Pongo flapped his hands. “She minds her own business. She’s not a talker.”

“So you say.”

“ Man .” Pongo’s already-big eyes got bigger, and Shep realized that he was serious. Finally. “She’s my old lady. If I say she minds her business, then she does. You can accept that, or get out of my damn face.”

It was an effort, but Shep saw the fight brewing in his blue eyes, a rare sight, and conceded with a nod. “Fair enough.”

The bartender slouched into view, brows lifting in silent question.

“Coffee,” Shep said. He had the sense he wasn’t done for the day. When the bartender ambled over toward the pot, he asked, “So if she didn’t talk to Raven, or Mav, or anyone else, how did Cass know you got picked up?”

Pongo shrugged and swiveled back toward his lunch. “You’re her babysitter, not me. How should I know?”

The coffee arrived, black and steaming, along with a dish of creamer pods that Shep set about tearing open and pouring into his mug one insufficient shot at a time.

“Cass was at the hospital,” he mused aloud, “with her roommate. And she was pissed that I got you in trouble.” The idea, the memory of the hissing anger in her voice over Pongo of all people, worrying about him , about his problems, his ride in a squad car, put an angry lump in the pit of Shep’s stomach he didn’t fully understand.

(Ha! That was a lie, but one he was going to cling to by his fingernails for as long as he could.)

It was all too easy to imagine Cass ending up with someone just like the dumbass sitting next to him.

The hair, the big blue eyes; young, and always-smiling, and young , and stupid, and soft .

She loved—or used to love—all those K-Pop bands, shiny-haired pretend-bad-boy actors who looked too young to shave.

She’d gone to a party with that Sig dirtbag, after all; that was Cass’s type, the sort of boy she mooned over: thin, and artsy, and rich, and normal .

That above all else: coffeehouse students without any of (his) the outlaw baggage.

That was as it should be. She was nineteen, and she had her whole life, and a bright future ahead of her. He wanted her to find someone sweet, and normal, and non-threatening.

Belatedly, he realized Pongo was speaking to him. “What?”

Pongo sent him a judgmental sideways glance. “If Cassandra’s friend was at the hospital, and Cassandra knew the dirt from Missy…” He made a spinning gesture with his hand.

Shep jerked upright on his stool. “Oh shit. Her friend got raped.”

Pongo nodded and forked up more schnitzel. “There you go. Good work, Sherlock.”

“Bite my ass.” Shep slid off his stool, careful to knock Pongo’s off balance as he did so.

“Shit.” He heard Pongo’s hands slap at the bar for purchase. “Where are you going?” he called, as Shep stalked for the door.

“To put that little brat in the hospital for real.”

~*~

It was hard for Cass to remember why she’d been attracted to Sig in the first place.

He was handsome, of course he was, the sort of finely-bred features and large, clear eyes handed down through multiple generations of wealthy parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents.

He had the aquiline nose, the prominent cheekbones, and the cleft chin that provided a necessary dose of masculinity to an otherwise too-pretty face.

Today, he wore loose, paint-spattered jeans and a baggy blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up.

Hanks of red-blond hair flicked out from the beneath the edge of his gray beanie, and both wrists were loaded with beaded bracelets… and a Piguet watch.

She had been attracted to him…or, rather, she’d been attracted to the idea of him. His influence, both at large and in the art department; his casual, easy manners, the way he didn’t seem to care about anything. That apathy had seemed like the product of confidence, of intelligence.

But really, it was just the product of being a rich asshole who’d never suffered any consequences.

Right now, he was downright ugly. Her face burned with embarrassment, because she’d gone to this fool’s party, allowed herself to be drugged, and almost suffered the same fate as Jamie. If she hadn’t called Shep…if he hadn’t come when he had…

No. The only thing to think of now was protecting her friend.

Before Jamie could finish gasping, Cass threw her arms wide and stepped between her and Sig. His brows went up in mild surprise, and she closed the distance between them, got right up in his face. “No. Absolutely not. Get out of here.” She stabbed a finger toward the exit.

He pushed away from the wall, and it was an unpleasant reminder that she lacked her sister’s statuesque model height.

She was petite like the rest of her family, barely five-two in flats.

He was thin, without any of the biker heft and muscle she was used to, but after what he’d done to Jamie, she didn’t like having to tip her head back and look up at him one bit; hated the way it made her feel small… and, worse, vulnerable.

“Cassandra,” he greeted, tone bewildered. “Hi. What’s—”

“Get out.” She pointed again, more sharply. “Get out of my sight, you absolute”—she faltered, embarrassingly, and one of Shep’s favorite insults popped into her head and then out of her mouth—“shitstain.”

Sig gaped at her, blinking and slack-jawed.

“That’s right.” She smiled, triumphant, and stood up on her toes so she could glare right into his face. “You’re a human skidmark, you don’t deserve to draw another breath, and I want you out of my sight and away from my friend right this minute!”

“Cassandra,” Sig said. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.” He lifted both hands in a placating gesture. “I had no idea Jamie was upset about yesterday. She seemed…” He glanced up and over Cass’s shoulder toward Jamie. “Jamie, please, I thought—”