Read Online Dirty Chick by Antonia Murphy - Free Book Online Page B

somewhat bewildered. “Saturday, then. If it’s okay, just tell him to come round whenever.” I slid the bus door shut, blowing a kiss to my son.
    â€œI’m not completely sure,” I reported to Peter that night, “but I think a person named Skin is bringing a dead sheep to our house on Saturday.”
    Peter raised one eyebrow and waited.
    â€œHe’s cooking it. For the party. For bourbon.”
    â€œWhat’s bourbon?” Miranda wanted to know.
    â€œIt’s a drink,” Peter told her. “A grown-up drink.” To me, he said, “Do I have to dig a hole? Build a fire?”
    â€œNo. Apparently he kills the sheep today, then he guts it and lets it hang for a couple of days, then he shows up on Saturday with the gear.”
    â€œMay I please have some bourbon?” Miranda inquired.
    Silas was engrossed in reconstructing the pieces of his watermelon rind, which he’d formed into a perfect half circle. “Ba,” he commented.
    â€œThat’s right!” I stroked his head affectionately. “The sheep says baa.”
    â€œUntil we shove a pole up its ass and roast it on hot coals,” Peter clarified.
    â€œSeriously?” I shot him a look. “Was that necessary?”
    â€œNo,” he conceded. “I guess not.”
    What was necessary was locking up the alpacas, because children were coming to this gathering, and we’d already let our German shepherd chew on one of them. So early on Saturday morning, Peter and I ventured into the paddock where Kenny, Henri, and McTavish were peacefully chewing grass and pretending to be cute and not evil. The plan was for Peter to back them into a corner, where I could easily slip on their harnesses.
    â€œJust follow me,” Peter urged. “I’ve got my lance.”
    â€œYou mean the stick?”
    â€œIt’s a lance. I’ll take one of these camels out if I have to.”
    Doubtful, I looked at the stick. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
    We edged forward, Peter using his stick to separate Kenny fromthe others. “
Beeeeeehn
 . . .” Kenny warned, working a wad of green slime in his mouth. “
Beeeeeehn
 . . .”
    â€œOh, shut up,” I told him, slipping the harness over his snout. “Aren’t you supposed to hum? And cure the lame?”
    We’d successfully harnessed the alpacas and were tethering them to three wooden posts in the back paddock when a gold sedan rolled down our driveway. There appeared to be an old, rusted oil drum strapped to its roof.
    â€œThat’ll be Skin,” Peter muttered, and I noticed he didn’t put down the stick.
    A slight, wiry guy unfolded himself from the driver’s side and started untying the oil drum from the roof of his car. Getting closer, I saw he had a mess of dreadlocks coming out the back of a well-worn beanie. His skin was brown and creased, with a patchy gray beard and moustache across the lower half of his face.
    â€œHowzit?” He grinned. “I’m Skin.” He tilted his head, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were strangely out of place on his scraggly face. They were dark brown, soft, and gentle.
    â€œLet me give you a hand with that drum,” Peter offered, and then walked around to the far side of the car to help Skin lift it. He’d put down his stick, but I was tempted to pick it back up again. Despite the nice eyes, this guy didn’t look safe. I made a mental note of where my kids were.
    Skin lifted his arms for the oil drum, and when he did, I saw the buck knife, snug in an old leather sheath, strapped to the side of his belt.
    â€œWhere you want her?” he asked me, then nodded to Peter and winked. “Best to ask the missus these things, I reckon.”
    â€œEr, over there by the garage, I guess,” I stammered. “Does it really take all day to cook?”
    â€œTakes a wee while,” he said,