about your new computer,” Hilda says before hanging up. A yip from behind me tells me that Nut and Juice are up, and when there’s a growl and yip in reply, I realize they’re going at it for round 6329 or whatever it is.
“Quiet, guys,” I growl, looking over at them and trying not to yell. It’s not their fault my head is pounding. “Momma really doesn’t need that this morning.”
Juice looks at me, and I swear those two have knocked a few brain cells out of each other in their tussling. But before I can repeat myself, I hear folks outside making noise and then the rumble of a big diesel engine.
What the hell? I go to my living room window and look out to see a gaggle of the neighborhood’s divorcee residents gathered on the sidewalk outside next door and a big black truck parked in the driveway.
Damn, a new neighbor already? That was quick . . . but what’s with the Desperate Housewives Welcoming Committee?
I step outside, closing my door behind me to keep Nut and Juice inside, and approach the group. One of the ladies moves aside, and in an instant, I can see why they’re being so welcoming.
There’s a man standing there. I can only see him from the back. He’s pulling something out of his truck, but what I see is tall and broad and tapered in that sexy upside-down triangle shape. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, a simple combo that on him could melt the sidewalk, from the looks of things.
Ah, the mating dance of the suburban divorcee, I muse as I get closer. Next step will be bringing over a cake or some cookies. After that . . . a casserole. All to get a taste of that eggplant.
Why can I funny in my head and not on paper? Before I can think about that and lead to thoughts of my missing laptop, I crane my neck to get a better look at my new neighbor’s ass, which seems vaguely familiar in a pair of well-worn Levi’s that make me consider taking out stock in the jeans.
“Jeez, you’re really getting hard up if you’re recognizing asses,” I murmur to myself, “especially when you need to be handling this crisis and not . . .”
The guy turns, and shock hits me hard.
I know that face.
I do know that ass . . . and that asshole! It’s the security guard with a C or K name who stole my laptop!
Before I can even process, my body is moving totally on instinct-fueled rage. I run across the yard, hopping the little knee-high border fence between my yard and Helen’s former yard, and launch myself at the man’s back with a Valkyrie screech promising death and dismemberment. Not necessarily in that order.
“You rat bastard son of a bitch!”
I land on him hard, my shoulder right in his low back, and he takes a startled step forward, dropping whatever he was carrying before spinning in circles, this way and that. “What the fuck?” he asks, trying to twist me off.
But I’m a bull terrier, hanging on and growling with grit and determination. This man has my goods, and I’m not leaving without them.
“Poppy?” Jane from a few houses down says questioningly. “You know him?”
“Yes, I fucking know him,” I growl between clenched teeth.
He tries to reach behind himself to pull me around when I shift, climbing up his back and starting to pummel his head and shoulders with a fist. “Where is it? Where is it?” I yell with each punch. “Where is it?”
He switches to reach over his shoulder, but I’m a spider monkey, not letting go even though my punches seem to have no effect. His back and shoulders are rock hard, thick with muscle, and his skin’s so warm . . . No! Poppy, focus!
I squeeze my thighs around his waist, climbing higher to go for his face. Fuck it, even a superhero’s gotta protect his eyes. “I’m gonna kill you . . . filet you open like a fish and gut your insides and then choke you with your own intestines.”
Yup, I do have a way with words on occasion.
But words don’t win fights like this, and suddenly, I’m flipped neatly over his shoulders. I have about a blink for my mind to suddenly go wheeeeeee! before I’m dropped back-first onto the grass. I’m stunned as my breath is knocked out of me, and the moment’s loss of focus is all