The Guy on the Right (The Underdogs 1)

“You heard the sound of your own fear.”

I look down to the dog in her hands and swear he’s smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Max, are you the undertaker when she escorts souls to hell?”

“Good boy,” she coos, kissing Max on the top of his head. “He’s blind as a bat, but he can smell a jackass a mile away. God, am I lucky you’ve never been sniped before. No one has fallen for that since Google was invented.”

“I didn’t exactly fall for it.”

She lifts the phone in her hand. “I have video evidence that indicates otherwise.”

“I’m seriously rethinking this friendship.”

She hits play on her phone, and I watch as her face turns beet red in the combined beam of our flashlights.

“Yes! Look at that golf clap!”

“You suck on so many levels,” I groan.

“This is so getting uploaded right now. Hashtag the last living snipe hunter.”

“I no longer like you, therefore goodnight.”

“Oh, come on,” she taunts behind me as I fumble past a few trees. “You were getting a little too cocky.”

I whirl on her, and she backs up a step wide-eyed while Max stares on at me like I am, in fact, the biggest jackass alive.

“I think I’ve had enough adrenaline for one night.”

“Nope, you aren’t leaving. Follow me.”

“Follow you where? Is this where you introduce me to the brother who wears sewn skin on his face for funsies?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s upgraded to a full nude suit.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Theo, you don’t know where you are, and I drove.”

“I’ll Uber it, then,” I say, pulling up the app. “Where are we, Satan’s lair?”

Her laugh slowly fades into a chuckle. “You really mad?”

I can’t help my smile as she eyes me in the light.

“No, but payback is hell. It would do you good to remember that.”

“I’m really worried,” she says, setting Max on his feet.

I turn to her, shining my beam in her face. “You should be.”

“Just shaking in my boots, buddy. Now, onto more important matters. Eggrolls. Come on, men,” she barks, leading me through the trees and into a clearing where a ranch home sits behind a brightly lit front porch. Ropes of braided macramé holding plants hang from every corner around ancient wicker-furniture.

&

nbsp; “Wait,” I turn to her with an accusing stare as she bites her lip climbing the steps.

“We were in your front yard this whole time?!”