Free Black Dog by Caitlin Kittredge Page A

was, but I thought Marty was exactly the kind of prying jerkoff who liked knowing things he shouldn’t. It probably got him good and stiff on nights when the Japanese zombie nurse porn just wasn’t doing it.
    â€œI don’t give a crap about Leo Karpov,” he said. “I just wanted Gary to fuck you up.” He shrugged and went back to sweeping. “I’m a shifter. I hate hellhounds.” Glass he’d collected clattered into his wastebasket. “Here’s a tip: next time, be a little nicer. I respond to girls who have manners.”
    I shot him right between the eyes. It might not have been the tooth-­and-­nail death I wanted to give him, but I was tired. “Thanks for the tip.”
    Leo didn’t say anything when I gave him back his gun, and I scooted over to the passenger side of the car. “You drive,” I said. “My arm hurts like a bitch.”
    He pulled out of the lot, still silent, and I let the hum of the wheels even out my heartbeat. By the time Vegas had vanished into the shimmering Mojave, I’d managed to convince myself that I might not be fucked. Sure, Leo’s father had the Scythe and we were bolting with a stolen car, no cash and dubious survival skills, but I was alive. I felt the air on my face, the drying blood on my skin, my heartbeat, and my breath more sharply than I had in decades.
    Being alive was just going to have to be good enough for now.

 
    CHAPTER 10
    L eo drove us as far as Elko, courtesy of a trucker in Henderson who left his wallet on the counter of a gas station.
    Marty’s car swilled gas like a wino with a gallon of Thunderbird, but nobody stopped us or even noticed, except a ­couple of guys who told Leo he had a sweet ride.
    I concentrated on not passing out. I wasn’t healing like I should. I didn’t know if it was the cut from the Scythe or just being so beat to shit my body was giving up on me. Leo finally pulled into a motel at least ten times as crappy as the Mushroom Cloud, and turned off the car.
    â€œYou need to rest,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “We should at least cross the state line.”
    â€œThere’s no magical fence keeping my dad out of Idaho,” he said. “And if you crap out, then you’re not going to be very useful when he does catch up to us.”
    I flinched. I knew that Leo only went with me because I was good in a fight, extra protection against his father’s gang of deadheads, but being reminded that I was only good for one thing didn’t help me feel any better.
    â€œCome on. At least let me take a look at that arm.” Leo’s voice was a lot softer. I had the thought maybe he’d realized he’d stung me, but that was silly. Guys who didn’t care about hurting your kneecaps sure as hell didn’t care about hurting your feelings.
    The thought of a bed was appealing, even a bed in the sort of place where the working girls didn’t bother to pretend they were just taking a trip to the ice machine.
    â€œI’m pretty sure that trucker has canceled his cards by now,” I said. “And he didn’t have a whole lot of cash.”
    Leo helped me out of the car and pounded on the nearest door with the butt of his gun. He grabbed the shirtless guy who answered by the neck and tossed him into the parking lot. “Out.”
    â€œHey!” the guy screamed. He had fewer teeth than he did prison tats, but he looked pretty pissed.
    Leo pointed the gun at him while he held the door open for me. “Look at it this way—­now you don’t have to leave the maid a tip.” He shut the door and put the chain on. The guy pounded for a minute, but he was gone by the time I’d cleaned up the burnt foil and glass straws on the bed and turned on the ar­thritic bathroom fan to air out the smell of crystal meth and cheap aftershave.
    â€œHome sweet home,” I said, tossing the filthy bedspread on the