The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  He barks his agreement. Or maybe he just wants a second lunch.

  “Hey, I wasn’t offering. You get plenty of treats. You know what, Owl, I think I’ll ask Uncle Dean if you can just stay with me the next few days at Granny’s. That way I won’t have to drive out there to grab you when it’s time to get to the next job. What do you think?”

  His ears perk, as much as they can for a Tibetan Mastiff when they’re buried in a pile of fur, and he woofs.

  “Is that a yes or a no? Wait.” I hold up a hand to his muzzle, stopping him from barking again. “One bark for no, two for yes.”

  He barks twice.

  Pure insanity.

  I have no idea if he’s a canine Einstein or I’m just gullible enough to believe he understands me.

  Either way, I’m laughing like a fool.

  “All right. It’s settled. You’ll stay with me at Granny’s and help give her something else to think about besides my dating life.”

  He barks loudly again. Twice.

  Still laughing, I stop the truck near the next farm and throw an arm around him. “If only everything in life was as easy as loving you.”

  He truly is an amazing beast, and not just because he butts his giant head on my shoulder.

  The fact that all I have to do is open up the trailer after I let him out and he’s off like a racehorse, steering the goats in tight formation, wows me like nothing else.

  Owl even lets Hellboy know who’s boss, unleashing a loud bark in his face.

  Good timing because I swear I see that freaky goat grinning at me again.

  Today, we’re working with a nice young couple who just bought an old farm. They want the area in the fenced-in corral cleaned up, plus a few stray plants removed closer to their house.

  Since they have kids, I choose three sweet goats for the job by the house. Hellboy gets to feast to his heart’s content well away from them.

  It’s actually dumbfounding how fast the goats fill their stomachs.

  A few hours later, they’re done and we’re rounding them up to head out for more fun.

  This time, we go south of town, where a rough-voiced elderly man wants an old garden area cleared for new veggies. It takes a couple hours because he has a portable fence, but he didn’t have it all in place.

  I help him toss it up and place a small metal wash tub in the area. We fill it with water for the thirsty goats and set out a fresh bowl for Owl, too.

  The man, Robert Duncan, who reminds me of Don Knotts, insists on feeding us lunch before we leave. I lend him a hand again throwing together salami sandwiches for all of us, including Owl.

  Robert is a hoot and keeps me laughing nearly the entire time.

  Of course, the old man knows Granny, just like everyone in town, and I’m sure he’s more than a little smitten with her.

  Awesome. I leave him feeling hopeful about his chances—and mine.

  If I can get her to spend a night out with a guy her age, maybe she’ll forget about me.

  Next up on the Rent-A-Goat route is a city park. An attendant directs us to a fenced-off area, and we leave three goats there to eat up what little overgrowth there is for a few hours.

  I park myself on a bench next to Owl, enjoying the puffy white clouds sweeping across the blue canvas sky. A typically beautiful, big sky North Dakota afternoon, where having any worries seems criminal.

  I smile, wishing it were always this easy to slip into the cozy small-town vibe.

  If I could just get past this awkwardness with Quinn, Dallas life wouldn’t be half bad.

  It’s evening by the time I wheel the truck into our last stop of the day.

  I pick up my phone to double-check the address before turning off the engine.

  “Looks like this is it,” I tell Owl, dropping the phone in the breast pocket of my shirt.

  We’re in an older residential area where a fence is set up around an empty lot between two older homes. Uncle Dean’s text says that the landlord owns all three lots, and he hired us to clear the brush and weeds from the whole area, especially the empty lot.

  I leave the door open for Owl to follow me out of the truck. We walk along the fence, making sure it’s stable enough, checking to make sure there’s plenty of water for the goats, and finally find the gate.

  “Looks good,” I tell Owl while opening it.

  Always the first thing on the to-do list.

  I’ll never make the same mistake again I made on the first day.

  “Let’s get the crew together,” I say.

  Owl barks and runs to the back of the trailer, eager to do his job. What would I do without him?

  I unlatch the ramp, then open the door.

  The past three places, I’ve stayed on the ramp, only letting several goats out at a time so it’s easier for Owl to manage. But this time, I pull the mesh gate all the way back and walk down the ramp.

  Owl runs up and darts into the trailer to shoo the goats out.

  “Hey! What in the shit-hell do you think you’re doing?” someone shouts.

  A very unpleasant, harsh someone I can’t bring myself to call a lady, judging by the sound of her voice.

  I walk to the other side of the trailer and squint.

  Sure enough, a bleached blonde who looks like a washed-up model with a facelift gone bad—very bad—is barreling toward us.

  Well, crud. It wouldn’t be any kinda business without those customers. Keep your cool, I tell myself.

  “Howdy. I’m with Dean’s Rent-A-Goat,” I say to Miss Nasty, pointing to the name painted on the side of the trailer in slashing green letters.

  Wearing tight, white, and very short shorts with an even tighter hot-pink tank top, she walks past a beat-up pickup truck parked in the driveway.

  “Try again. I didn’t order any fuckin’ goats,” she snarls.

  Yikes. Tough crowd.

  Owl already has the goats, including Hellboy, inside the fence...which means I need to get the gate shut pronto before this nut sends them scattering.

  “Are you the landlord, ma’am?” I ask, hurrying around the trailer to the fence.

  “What do you think, Tinkerbell? I live here,” she says, stomping around the front of my pickup like a bear trying to figure out the best place to claw it open. “I don’t want those nasty-ass things on my property!”

  “Do you own this property?” I ask, wondering if the husband ordered the goats and the wife—God help him—doesn’t know.

  “I pay rent. Same damn thing!”

  No, it’s really not, but arguing that point would be useless.

  It’s not my job, either, reciting North Dakota tenants’ rights to pissed off, irrational screamers.

  Owl comes out of the gate with his tail wagging, and I close it, just in time to keep Hellboy inside.

  Latching the gate, I say, “Well, you’ll have to take it up with your landlord. He’s the guy who hired us. I’m just here to do my job.”

  She marches over then, shoulders squared, thrusting her hilariously fake double-D’s forward by planting her hands on her hips. “And I’m telling you to take those mangy, smelly, monkey-butt bastard things out of here. Right now.”

  Really? Like I’m going to take orders from a chick who thinks eyelashes that false look natural?

  Hardly. Her rudeness is no threat either.

  I’ve dealt with bigger bitches by far on the Chicago L-line, where being rude is an art and a religion for some people.

  “Enough of this crap. You deaf?” She grabs hold of the gate and tries to shove me aside. “I said get them out of here now!”

  “And I said you’ll have to take it up with your landlord, lady.” My hands fly out, straining to keep her from moving the gate.

  She’s got a brute strength I don’t have.

  “What’s all the screaming out here?” Another voice shoots over us, deeper and male.

  Owl lets out a low, menacing growl as a rough-looking character walks between the back of the beat-up truck and the front
of mine.

  Wifebeater muscle shirt underneath the flannel hanging off his shoulders, unkempt mullet, torn jeans, no belt. Pretty much every bad redneck stereotype rolled into one wannabe badass with an attitude.

  But he’s also tall, packing lean muscle, and covered in tattoos that look like they were stripped off a whacked-out heavy metal rocker and glued to him. Snakes, thorns, skulls, dripping blood, swords, the works.

  It’d be a little ridiculous if it weren’t for the sneer on his face, and thick, calloused hands that look like they’re used to calling the shots. He flexes one hand against his palm so loud the knuckles crack like splintering wood.

  “I told this whore I don’t want no damn livestock next to my house!” the woman growls. “They’ll stink up everything and shit everywhere.”

  Sure. As if I totally wouldn’t think to clean that up in a residential zone.

  I also wouldn’t call a few goats livestock, and they can’t possibly smell worse than her.

  The whiskey stink rolls off her so strong it makes me gag. Reeks like she’s been on a three-day drunken bender. Her bloodshot eyes hint at it, too.

  “Sir, the owner of this lot hired me to place several goats here to clean up some overgrown weeds,” I tell the man, trying to defuse the situation. “Just doing my due diligence. If she has a problem with that, she needs to call her landlord. We’re on a tight schedule.”

  The man shakes his head and shoves a hand through his long, greasy hair.

  “Wrong,” he grunts, pulling open his unbuttoned plaid shirt, revealing the gun tucked in his waistband. “If the lady said she doesn’t want those critters here, then they ain’t staying.”

  Holy hell.

  Seriously? A gun? Over goats?

  This is going sideways in so many ways.

  But I’m also getting more than a little freaked. Another glance at the wild-eyed woman and her partner says something’s just off.

  They could be on drugs, past the point of any reasoning.

  Owl growls again and puts himself between me and the man.

  Tattoo Guy practically growls back, laying his hand on the gun, his eyes snapping to mine. “You got any sense, you’ll get your mutt out of here. Don’t think I won’t if he starts coming at me or Carolina.”

  Shit.

  I grab his collar, urging him back, desperate to get us both away just as my cellphone rings.

  Yanking out the phone, I hope it’s Uncle Dean so I can tell him I quit. This is way more than I signed up for.

  Glancing at the screen, I’m shocked at the name.

  FAULK.

  Quinn?

  Is he psychic now? How the heck does he know the exact instant when I need help?

  However he knows, I take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs, swiping my finger across the screen.

  4

  Someone Got His Goat (Faulkner)

  I don’t want to be upset with her, but fuck.

  Why? Why didn’t she call me when she was going to pick up the goats from Ridge’s place? She could’ve slipped off that bridge and messed up her knee for good.

  For a couple days, it’s been radio silence, except for that halfhearted reply she sent about being busy.

  Zero interest shown in a my bad apology dinner at Libations.

  Am I that cursed?

  First hearing about the men casting their lures after me, and now, without even trying, I’ve fucked up everything with my old friend?

  I should’ve called her before this morning.

  Then again, I hadn’t thought it’d take Grady and I so long to look through the pictures on the intel link an old FBI contact sent to me.

  I’ve spent the past two days trying to stitch together intel on the thugs asking around back at the Purple Bobcat.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Bart “Bat” Pickett still lives in the cramped Oklahoma prison system, up for a suspiciously early parole hearing soon.

  Still, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be buying information on my whereabouts through his vast seedy network. I think he’d crawl through hell for a taste of revenge, considering our history.

  Tory picks up on the third ring, shattering all other thoughts.

  “Hey,” I tell her. “Sorry to keep blowing up your phone, but I’m hoping we can talk. You were supposed to call me back the other day when you did the pickup at Ridge’s place.”

  “Ah, yep, I-ah...I didn’t have a chance.”

  My spine instantly stiffens.

  She doesn’t sound like herself.

  “Where are you?” I bite off, gripping the steering wheel. I’m still in traffic after picking up a couple cans of paint for the house.

  “I’m, uh, dropping off goats again...right in town, actually,” she stammers.

  “You aren’t swinging from another gate, are you?” A bite in my gut tells me that’s not it before she even answers.

  “No. Not really. I’m just...Quinn, where are you?”

  Not really? What the hell? My heartbeat increases as my she’s in trouble instinct kicks in.

  “I’m driving right past the pharmacy now. What’s wrong?”

  “Ohhh, just a little customer complaint. A minor misunderstanding,” she whispers, grinding out strained laughter.

  Bullshit.

  Not minor. I’m sure of that.

  “What’s the address? I’ll be right over,” I tell her.

  She rattles off a house number.

  I don’t recognize the address, but I know the street she mentioned and there’s only one Rent-A-Goat trailer in this town. It won’t be hard to find her.

  “Give me five minutes, Peach,” I growl, punching my foot on the gas pedal.

  “That would be great,” she says, this odd tension in her voice again.

  Almost like she’s cornered, alone, afraid.

  Shit. Her tone has me shoving the pedal to the floor.

  Whatever’s going down, she doesn’t want to say it, which tells me I’m wrong about the alone part.

  “I’ll be there soon. Hold on,” I tell her again.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “No! Don’t hang up,” I yell back.

  Dammit. Too late. She already has.

  Pinching my teeth, I barrel down the road through town. Why didn’t I man up and call her this morning?

  I know. Because I haven’t wanted to pull her any deeper into my life and compound whatever woes she’s already got hanging over her.

  Being with Quinn Faulkner isn’t exactly a safe place to be when I don’t know who’s after me, or why, even if I have a pretty good idea it involves a maniac very, very interested in his own freak brand of vengeance.

  That’s part of the reason why I’ve stayed here in Dallas.

  Most folks think I’ve kept so low-key because I’ve been doing PI stuff for more than random private clients. That’s not the full story.

  Ridge and Grady know my past is serious business, even if I’ve never told them everything.

  I’ve hinted it’s gotten good people killed on long nights at the Bobcat after hours, when it’s just me, the boys, and an endless supply of beers.

  Not something I plan on ever letting happen again.

  I hit the outskirts of town with the speedometer cranked up, slowing down only enough to make the first corner onto the street Tory mentioned.

  Within a few blocks, I see the trailer and hit the brakes. The truck skids to a stop at the end of the driveway.

  Tory stands next to the truck with the trailer attached, and Owl’s planted between her and two mean-looking strangers. A lady and some fuck who looks like he lives for bad tattoos and bar fights.

  Leaping out of the truck, I slam the door shut and approach, but before I say anything, someone calls my name.

  That woman’s voice makes my skin crawl.

  Carolina Dibs.

  A local barfly who looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet so many times I wonder if there’s any sober grey matter left in her skull. />
  She saunters toward me, flashing this syrupy little smile.

  “I’ve missed you, Faulk,” Carolina says with a fake southern drawl that she thinks sounds sexy.

  Like hell. It really sounds like she’s smoked a cigar factory.

  She’s also implying we know each other far better than we do, and that pisses me right off.

  I’m not stupid.

  The few times I’ve seen her at the Purple Bobcat, I’ve kept my distance. The first man of several to turn her down before she winds up going home with whatever the night’s flavor of passerby is. Someone who doesn’t know her and won’t ever lay eyes on her again.

  I don’t respond. Instead, I scan Tory, making sure she’s all right as I walk toward her.

  “What’s going on here? These two giving you trouble?”

  “I just dropped the goats off for the landlord. Supposed to be a quick and easy job, but...” She trails off, nodding at the lot behind her.

  “I pay rent here, Faulk,” Carolina says as she steps up beside me. “I told her I don’t want those animals stinking up the place. They crap everywhere, especially if they’re eating up all the junk growing over there.”

  I’m hardly listening.

  The man standing between the front of Tory’s truck and the back of a beat-up, faded orange Dodge is a bigger concern. He takes a step back as soon as he sees me.

  It’s slight, but I notice.

  Weird. I’ve never seen him around town before, but I don’t know everyone.

  It could be one of her random hookups, a biker or trucker, or maybe some dude who’s passing through town for a quick contractor job.

  “The goats aren’t what you should be worried about stinking up the place,” I say, glaring at the man.

  He squares his shoulders and scowls, knowing I’m mincing no words.

  “She pays rent and she has rights to what happens here,” the man snarls, folding his arms, flexing his muscle like I’m supposed to be scared.

  Laughable. Besides being bigger, I’m plenty sure I can show this rat how to chew the cheddar with one hand tied behind my back.