Page 7 of Junkyard Dog (Lonesome Garage #3)

Chapter Seven

I ’m reeling. JD doesn’t talk, my ass. Maybe he doesn’t speak often, but when he does, he chooses his words for maximum effect.

No wonder everybody says he’s fucked up.

His last few years sound like hell. It also sounds like JD knows it; he understands what really happened and is on the road to believing it.

I’m not military and I’m not a therapist, but I can listen to him say that it wasn’t his fault as many times as he needs me to before it’s his truth, not just everybody else’s.

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.