Lily (The Regulators Biker Series Book 0) by Carolina Mac

Author:Carolina Mac [Mac, Carolina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Carolina Mac
Published: 2014-03-15T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A crash of thunder woke me, and I rolled over to see big brown eyes staring at me a few inches from my face. Angel rested her head on the edge of the bed, whining.

“It’s okay, girl. Storms don’t last long. It will be over before you know it.” I gave her a pat on the head. However, that proved to be wishful thinking on my part. Rain poured down in torrents all morning, while Angel paced from the front door to the back and I consumed a whole pot of coffee.

I put in my daily call to George at the shop after I finished breakfast.

“Hey, little girl, what’s happening in the far fuckin’ north?”

“Pouring rain today, pretty boring.”

He chuckled. “Long as you’re safe. Suck it up.”

“I found a shotgun under the bed. You were right, Matthew did have one. Says Browning on it and there’s little ducks etched on the magazine.”

“Expensive gun, load ‘er up in case that bear comes a knockin’. If a bear or a porky shows up, don’t let Angel out.”

“I won’t. How are you making out?”

“Makin’ progress. Gotta’ go. Got a customer. Call me tomorrow.” He hung up.

Making progress?

I wondered what that meant.

The rain slowed down a little in the afternoon and turned into an all-day drizzle-fest. I stared out the kitchen window until cabin fever got the best of me. Donning a yellow slicker, I found in the closet, I jumped into the Jeep, drove into town and searched for a photo shop. Not noticing one on my first pass down the main drag, I asked the bank teller, while I was withdrawing cash, if she knew of one in town.

“Sure,” she said. “Go back to the hair salon. The hairdresser’s husband, Wilbur, has a photo shop in the back of her salon. Does good work, too.”

“Thanks, I’ll try there,” I said, stifling the urge to laugh.

On the back wall of Hair Works, I spotted a sign that said Photo Shop, with a crooked arrow pointing through the door. Walking past all the ladies having their hair cut and colored, I approached the counter in the back room, and handed the memory card to a man I believed to be Wilbur, the hairdresser’s husband. His hair hung long and stringy over his shirt collar. She definitely wasn’t wasting any of her talents close to home.

“Which ones do you want prints of?” he asked.

“I don’t have any idea what’s on the card before my pictures, and I’m not familiar with the camera, so just print all of them and I’ll pick them up tomorrow.”

“Okay, be ready by noon at the latest.”

“Thanks,” I said and retraced my steps through the salon.

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