Page 27 of Double Down

“What the shit, Maverick? You scared the fuck out of me.”

“Well, Firebird. If you weren’t trying to sneak out and leave us high and dry, I wouldn’t be following you. But from the text you sent me, you realized your mistake before you actually made it. So tell me what’s going through that gorgeous little brain of yours.”

So I tell him. Everything about Scrappy. About him needing me, what my mean ass neighbor is doing, and the nice neighbor who gave me a heads up.

“I’ve got a rideshare coming, I just…don’t think I should go alone.”

The smile on his face is almost smug. “And you trusted me enough to ask me to help?”

“I mean.” Looking anywhere but at him, I try to hide the truth. Because if he knows, he can use it against me. “You’re here, and I don’t want someone to kill me over a spam call.” I use the cover I made up, badly, in the kitchen before. “So I thought I’d ask you to go with me.”

“Done.” He steps closer, standing at my side. “I’ll be the Batman to your Robin and help you rescue the pup. Hell, I’ll get puppy supplies sent to the penthouse while we wait.”

He’s already tapping away on his phone when the driver pulls up a few moments later.

The driver doesn’t comment on the fact that I’m barely dressed, practically swimming in Storm’s shirt with a pair of gym shorts and no bra. Nor does he say anything about the fact thatMaverick looks like he stepped out of a magazine and is ready to go out for a night on the town. He clocks it, marks it down as Not My Business, and we go on our way.

We slice past the cranes that hold up the sky, past billboards pretending the law has teeth, past the neon crawfish and the bar that sells twenty-two dollar cocktails in mason jars to people who sayy’allwrong.

The city peels back its polite southern skin and shows me the cheap underlayer I know by touch. But the entire way, Maverick is there. A silent reminder that I’m not alone. That I’ll never have to be alone again, as long as I’m with them.

“Here, please,” I say, and the driver lets us out where the asphalt becomes gravel and the lights become fewer. Palmetto Pines is still spelled wrong on the leaning sign:Palmeto. The trailers huddle like secrets, a solitary porch light glowing. The rest are out.

My key sticks before it finally gives, and the door opens.

The smell hits me—cheap coffee mixed with stale whiskey, laundry soap that never really rinsed out—and dog.

Scrappy’s nails click on the floor before I can whisper, and then he’s there, a fast, skinny streak of mutt who can out-love a saint. He skids, remembers himself, sits, his entire back half wagging.

I sink to my knees.He’s okay.

“C’mere,” I croak, and there it is—the crack in my voice that lets the air in. He launches, catching himself at the last second because he’s a gentleman, and noses his way up under my chin. I press my face into the top of his head and breathe dust and sun and biscuits that someone’s been giving him.

I’ve been so scared that something would’ve happened to him. He doesn’t belong to me—Scrappy isn’t ‘owned’ by anyone—but I’ve always considered him mine, all the same. It’s the hole in my floor that he wriggles his way through, after all, my blanket that he curls into at night.

“I know. I know,” I tell him into his fur, because he understands English better than most men I know. “You’re coming with me, little guy. I think I need a friend. What do you think?”

I set water down, watch him drink like he invented the concept, then move on autopilot while Maverick watches me. A piece of laundry line I can use as a temporary leash. Blanket that used to be my blanket and is now his throne and I know will help him adjust to his new home living like a king in the penthouse where he belongs.

My phone hisses in my pocket. I steal a glance at Maverick, see that his attention is on the dog, and take a look.

Unknown

Debt isn’t money. It’s a leash.

Dock C. Storage 14.

Be sensible.

I stare at the screen until the words blur. The trailer light turns everything a little yellow, like the world caught a cold. Scrappy’s nails scratch the floor when he looks up, checking my face for what his reaction should be.

“Later,” I whisper to the phone. “Not now.”

I take screenshots anyway and dump them into a hidden album I name something stupid: Recipes. Because shame likes camouflage. I lock it down even more—three taps to open, fourto make it forget I was ever there. Atticus taught me how. He didn’t mean to give me that little bit of kindness, but he did.

Maverick is running a hand over Scrappy’s head and murmuring to him, crooning to him and calling him “little man,” like they’ve been best friends their entire lives.

“Scrappy’s a dumb name for you. You’re not a mini thing just trying to piss people off. You’re a badass and you deserve a real name.” He glances at me, bemused. “I hope you didn’t give him that dumbass name, Firebird.”