Page 17 of Pretty Poison

“Maybe you can start with an explanation about your pants. Is this the new trend? Kids these days.”

Somehow, Rocky had forgotten all about his jeans. “I finally met a dog I didn’t like.” Well, he’d met a dog who hadn’t liked him. Snickerdoodle—God, what a ridiculous name—was the kind of dog he and Asher had hoped to adopt. Rocky was surprised Asher hadn’t left him in the SUV and joined everyone else in the neighborhood to rub the dog’s belly.

Activity at Rocky’s neighbor’s house caught his attention. He groaned when the man wheeled his ancient lawnmower out of the garden shed.

“What is that relic?” Marla asked.

“Are you talking about the man or the machine?”

Marla laughed. “Both.”

“That’s my neighbor, Cal. I don’t know if his lawnmower has a name, but it would be something old, like Alfred.”

“Surely it doesn’t still work.”

“I think work is a subjective term.”

Cal gave the pull-chain a good yank. The beast sputtered a few times, then roared to life.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a mower so loud,” Marla yelled over the noise.

“I’m used to it,” Rocky replied. The noise grew louder as Cal pushed the rusted hunk of metal along the fence separating their properties. Fortunately, the neighbor kept walking to his front yard to tackle it first, making the noise more tolerable.

“At least you’re not trying to sleep late on a Saturday morning,” Marla said.

The mower cut off suddenly, and Rocky cringed as he anticipated what would happen next. Before he could warn Marla, a loud boom echoed through the neighborhood. Even though he’d braced himself, the noise reminded him of gunshots blasting through a quiet desert night.

Marla flinched and clutched her chest. “What the fuck was that?” Her shrill tone kept Rocky grounded in the present and prevented him from traveling back fifteen months to when his world had imploded.

“The damn lawnmower backfires every time he cuts off the engine,” Rocky said.

“Dude needs a new one.”

“Or at least new sparkplugs,” a new voice added.

Son of a bitch.

Asher had let himself in through the gate, but they’d been too deafened and distracted by Cal to notice. Rocky’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn earlier—black cargo pants, black T-shirt with US Marshals emblazoned on the front, and the same wicked-looking gun holstered at his hip. Something was different, though. Then Rocky’s gaze fell to the oversized black duffel bag in Asher’s hand.

The monstrosity went everywhere with his husband. How many times had Rocky tripped over that damn bag when Asher dropped it by the front door after returning home from an assignment? Rocky would often find a trail of clothes from the front door to the bedroom because it was all Asher could muster in his exhausted state. His heart stuttered to a stop when he realized the significance of Asher standing in his yard with the duffel bag. He knew precisely what Asher’s favor was.Oh hell no.

Rocky’s pulse impersonated a race car competing in the Oh Fuck 500.

Beside him, Marla gasped, signaling she hadn’t missed the mountain of muscle standing ten feet away. “Oh my,” she husked.

“Shall I get the smelling salts?” Rocky asked drolly.

“Oh, shush. Hello, Marshal,” Marla purred. Rocky turned to face her, not that she noticed. She was too busy batting her eyelashes at Asher and fanning her pink cheeks.

Marla leaned toward Rocky and whispered, “Do you still want to stick with the dog-tore-off-my-pants story?”

Before Rocky could respond, Asher said, “You didn’t tell me you were expecting company tonight, Ford.”

“Ford?” Marla asked.

“It’s short for Rockford.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” Marla said. Still not meeting Rocky’s gaze.