Going Nowhere

Chapter 11 - Pookie

I was running as fast as I could. This was in no way something I enjoyed doing, which meant I rarely did and hence struggled a little getting enough oxygen into my lungs.

We were chasing a dog, and not any old dog at all.

Pookie.

Last time I'd seen the stupid animal, he'd just relieved himself all over my leg, after which I'd growled. He'd peed some more before he disappeared, although out of fear and not on me. Pookie had apparently been gone since then, and the distraught owner had tried to find him with limited success.

When Grandma showed up at Tiaso's with a wide grin, I knew she'd talked to Genie Decateur in person. I knew this because her mouth was purple, although the fact that she was shee-it-fashed was another indication. She managed to convey what Mrs. Decateur had shared about the dog running off with the manbag, and it took me fifteen seconds to realize that the danged culprit was my nemesis, Pookie. It took Joel a lot less time, and he hooted with glee.

Jackson had been in the bar, and he hadn't heard about why I had been forced to move back home, but Joel shared the story in a perfectly ridiculously embellished way. I thought Jack would never stop laughing, so I told him Rafael was having dinner with my parents.

That shut him up.

The rest of the shift was eerily calm, except for the minor scuffle when Grandma Hazel decided to try her dancing skills at the pole. One of the bikers puked, although that could have been due to the thirteen jaeger-shots he'd consumed in less than half an hour. Three biker-babes started cheering, and Silenus clapped his hands, which in no way helped me to get Grandma off the stage sooner rather than immediately. She pouted a bit, but I bribed her with a margarita containing absolutely no alcohol which settled her down until my shift was over. Jackson trailed Grandma and me home and helped me wrestle her into the guest house and into bed.

Grandpa Hunter waited for us on the porch, looking serious. At least, I think that's the look he aimed for. He'd pursed his mouth like a teenager on Instagram, lowered his brows and was shaking his head from side to side, snorting rhythmically. It looked exactly as ridiculous as it sounds.

"Pow-pow," he said and pointed at Jackson.

"What?" Jackson asked which I found eminently understandable.

"We need to have a small meeting, and I can't say the other word because it's disrespectful and offensive."

"Just like your goddamned swim trunks then," I snapped.

"Whatever. We need to talk, Jackson. You have angelic issues."

"I heard," Jackson said calmly. "I'm not too worried, Hunter. The dude's a douche."

"A douche who knows every line from every Clint Eastwood movie ever made, and owns a fixer upper by the beach. One who gets up after dinner and does the dishes like a goddamned pussy, without anyone asking him to do it. And who plays ball after dinner with her brothers, and does it well but still lets them win."

By the sound of things, my family had enjoyed having Rafael over for dinner.

"Huh," Jackson said.

"I'm going to bed," I said and moved.

This move was stopped abruptly by Jack's firm hand on my upper arm.

"Guess my timeline changed," he murmured and pulled me closer.

I was acutely aware that my grandfather was less than three feet away, and staring curiously at us.