In a Badger Way (Honey Badger Chronicles #2) - Shelly Laurenston Page 0,110
born your way. I’m not going to have you ashamed of what you are just because some little bitch decided to hug you. She’s just lucky it was you and not Max.”
“She did hug Max. She thought Max was Livy.”
Charlie smirked. “And what did Max do?”
Stevie let out a sigh. “She . . . tried to kill her. But the woman’s hockey player husband stopped her. At least that’s what Max told me.”
“Uh-huh. And you think you’re worse than Max? You think you’re worse than me?”
“It isn’t about better or worse. It’s about keeping people safe.”
“Aw, sweetie,” Charlie said, gently pressing the palm of her hand against Stevie’s cheek. “No one is ever safe around a honey badger.”
* * *
Cella stood in the middle of the Jersey forest. Her equipment told her that the vehicle Smith had tagged was here but she didn’t see anything.
She could smell something, though. Something awful.
“What is that?” she finally asked when she couldn’t stand it anymore, covering her nose and mouth with her hand.
“Someone unleashed their anal glands,” a lion male informed her, a bandana wrapped around his nose and mouth. Not that she thought that would help cut down on the power of the smell.
“Anything that can smell like that should be destroyed at birth,” a female snow leopard complained.
“I think I’m forced to agree.” Cella spat, because the smell had settled in the back of her throat.
The lion male motioned to his least-favorite She-wolf.
Eyes now watering, Cella called out, “Hey, Smith.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are they?”
The She-wolf faced the rest of the group and Cella was annoyed that whatever that smell was didn’t seem to bother Smith at all.
“Well?” Cella pushed when Smith just stood there, staring at them with those “dead dog eyes” as Cella’s mother called them.
Smith tapped her foot against the ground, and, Cella was embarrassed to admit, it took a bit for her to understand what the wolf was showing them.
That where she was tapping her foot . . . there was metal underneath.
Cella asked, “The SUV’s . . . buried?”
Smith grinned, ignoring the fact that the snow leopard had suddenly passed out from the odor.
“I have to admit, as much as it galls me . . . I think those MacKilligan girls might be growin’ on me. Because that’s an inventive way to get rid of men trying to kill or kidnap ya.”
At that point, Cella could barely see because her eyes were watering so badly and stung so much. Plus, she was having trouble breathing. At any moment, she might pass out like the snow leopard. But still . . . she had to say it.
“Smith . . . only a dog could tolerate someone who can make that smell.”
* * *
Stevie and Charlie both raised their noses at the same time and sniffed the air.
“Oh, my God!” Stevie gasped, her hand covering her mouth and nose. “What the fuck?”
Choking, Charlie gasped out, “It’s gotta be Max.” She went to the back door of the room and pulled it open. Their sister stood outside. Naked, covered in dirt, and grinning, she waved at her sisters. But as soon as she tried to step into the room, Charlie held her free hand out—the other one was covering her nose and mouth—and motioned away with her forefinger.
“But—”
Charlie stomped her foot and gestured again.
“Fine!”
Max walked off and Charlie followed. Stevie debated about going after them, decided not to, then just as quickly changed her mind. She found her sisters behind the bar, which thankfully was surrounded by a high wood fence. Probably to keep the locals out of the bar owners’ illegal business.
While Max stood in front of the fence, Charlie grabbed a nearby water hose. She turned it on, walked back over to where Max was, and, without hesitation, hit their sister with a blast of powerful water.
Charlie hosed Max down like she was a horse, taking her time, hitting every part of her until she was sure that Max was not just clean of all the dirt and grime but—more important—that she was also odor free.
But Stevie didn’t feel confident water alone would do the job. She ran back into the building, knowing there had to be soap somewhere inside.
* * *
Lachlan “Lock” MacRyrie relaxed against the washing machine in his uncles’ bar, popping honey-covered cashews into his mouth while his Uncle Duff bitched about the fact that “my bar has been taken over by weasels!”
“Didn’t they pay for this?” Lock asked. “To use the bar for an after-funeral event?”