Read Online Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn - Free Book Online Page A

to my ankle under my yoga pants.
    “Did you pick up anything from reviewing cars?” Dave asked.
    “Mothers opened car doors for their kids. An older couple with their canes. A teenager dressed in skintight pants—none of those people had the right clothes or build. I only saw one car drive onto the lot, at the same time I did, which didn’t park or let someone out—a blue Honda Civic. I’d bet good money that’s his.”
    “Show me,” Dave said, and I went to get my laptop.

Eight
    A t six in the morning, the rattle and bang of a construction truck jerked me out of bed. I ran to my window, ordering Beetle and Bella to calm down. Two men in work uniforms unloaded another debris container onto Manny’s side yard. Ah, the never-ending parade of debris containers. Heaving a sigh, I slogged my way into the bathroom for a shower. As I stood under the stream of hot water, I realized how crazy I was to clean myself up before going over to Hoarder Hell—but just the thought of the place made me feel like lice and bed bugs crawled over my scalp and bored into my skin.
    Today, for the first time, I had to go in. Two weeks. I’d spent two whole weeks getting the trash out of his yard and power washing. The neighborhood looked a thousand percent better, though. My house became instantly more valuable with that eyesore gone.
    I pulled on sweats, laced up my tennis shoes, and stood at the mirror to braid my hair back. Now for the inside. I’d be safer. Less exposed. So far my security cameras seemed to be working, Stalker hadn’t shown up at my house in two weeks—didn’t even leave a letter on my car up until last night. The shithead. I strapped on my belly holster and checked to make sure a bullet was chambered in my Ruger.
    Dave said if Stalker tried to attack me in all that mess, he’d probably get crushed by an avalanche of boxes. I didn’t doubt it. Maybe I should be little worried I would end up buried in the crap. Note to self—carry phone at all times; I’d stick it my bra with my knife.
    I jogged down the stairs to see who had banged on my front door. Squinting through the peephole, I found Manny leaning against the jam, chewing the end of a pen like a cigar. “Roofers coming this morning.” He grinned.
    I glanced past him over to his house. “Are you going to supervise my projects as well as you’re supervising your place?” I gestured to the men climbing back in their truck.
    “Absolutely. You getting started inside?” Manny asked.
    “Yup. I do this my way, right?” I turned away from him—I needed coffee.
    “You’re the chief.” He slammed the door shut and followed me into the kitchen.
    I held out a steaming mug to Manny, heavy on the sugar and milk, thinking this all seemed … bizarre . It was as if this whole escapade with the poker-financed house construction, ancient garbage mounds, and crazy-ass death threats were part of some hallucinatory acid trip.
    I looked Manny over. His jeans and sweatshirt were a size too small; he probably shrank them in the dryer. “Don’t you work?” I asked.  
    “I do this and that right now.” Manny winked. “I’m an entrepreneur.”
    “Okay.” I was still more than a little nervous about our bargain. Would the workers slack because this was a poker debt? “But you’re keeping an eye on the outcome here?”
    “Sure am. And, by the way, some guy’s gonna come over around lunchtime to talk to you about the new heating and air conditioning unit.”
    “Holy cow. This seems too easy—a new roof going on, new air systems coming. You’ll be done with your share of the barter by the end of the week, and I’m just up to your front door.”
    “Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. I happened on a few suckers and some pretty good cards. It’s usually feast or famine, yah know? Can’t depend on anything with Lady Luck. I’m gonna try hard to get your house done about the same time you finish up with mine.” He gulped his coffee. “I’m thinking