Free Becoming Rain by K.A. Tucker Page A

with my fences, the guys I have ties to closer to the street. Here . . .” One hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road, Rust reaches over and grabs four stacks of cash from the bag. Forty grand, by my calculations. He thrusts them against my chest.
    â€œWhat’s this for?”
    â€œYour cut, which will be much bigger next time.” He grins. “Put it in your safe at home.”
    I let the cash fan through my fingers.
    So much cash. There’s no way I earned this for what I did tonight.
    â€œOh, and I have a little surprise for you.” He reaches into his pockets and hands me a set of keys. Just like the night he handed me the keys to a new condo.
    Only, these are car keys, with a logo that I’ve drooled over for years.
    With waves of excitement and nervousness coursing through my body, I sit back and quietly listen as Uncle Rust walks me through the “how” to this entire operation that he, one day, wants me to run with him.
    The giant bag of cash pressing down on my thighs is impossible to ignore.

Chapter 8
    â– Â â– Â â– 
    CLARA
    â€œYou couldn’t get me a real dog, could you?”
    Warner’s deep laugh vibrates through my phone and into my ear. “What do you mean? He barks.”
    â€œI wouldn’t qualify it as a bark.” I eye the pudgy little thing, which is belly-up and rolling in the grass next to the park bench like his back is itchy, oblivious to my severe judgment. I’m not 100 percent sure that he doesn’t have fleas. “Seriously, Warner, why wouldn’t you let me pick one out myself?”
    Warner’s laughter only grows. “What would you have preferred?”
    â€œI don’t know. A Great Dane or a pit bull, or something more . . . me?”
    â€œBut you’re not you,” he reminds me. “You’re Rain Martines. A little princess who lives in her daddy’s condo with her lap dog.”
    â€œ That is not a lap dog. His eyes aren’t even in the right place.” I’ve spent days Googling pictures, and based on his smashed-up nose and curly tail and ears like satellites, my best guess is an obese pug–Boston terrier cross, with a little bit of swine mixed in for good measure. But I’m no expert.
    â€œHe was the smallest one they had and you need a dog, not a puppy. Come on! He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?”
    I roll my eyes. “I’m changing his name. Who names their dog ‘Stanley’ anyway?” That’s what the tag hanging off his collar read, when Animal Control picked him up. “I’ll bet he ran away from his owners because they gave him such a stupid name.”
    â€œWhatever he did, I’m glad he was there. You needed a small dog for our case. He needed a home. It’s a win-win.”
    â€œYeah, until the case is over. And then what happens?”
    â€œYou’ll be so in love with Stanley by then, you’ll take him back to D.C. with you.”
    The dog’s tongue hangs over his severe under-bite as he pants, staring me down with those bulging, round eyes that belong on a gremlin, waiting for me to toss the tennis ball again. I doubt that . I let out a reluctant sigh. Stanley is the least of my problems.
    I walked out of Rust’s Garage over two weeks ago now, full of confidence and feeling in control. But there’s been no call from Luke Boone. He’s been at his office and out to The Cellar, based on the surveillance team reports. He’s even had that bartender over once. But he hasn’t picked up the phone and dialed my number. I’ve played through a dozen scenarios as to why that might be and what the right next step is without creating suspicion or an air of desperation.
    Accidental run-in sounded like the right next move, once enough time passed. What better way to do that than on the park trail he runs every day after work with his bulldog? Fellow dog lovers,