CHAPTER 3
I finish Ozzy’s stitches while Mack parks the van in the garage—this is not the type of neighborhood where people will look the other way if they see you pulling a body out of your trunk, dead or alive. They tolerate us, we’re growing on them, but I always feel like we’re walking on thin ice; we don’t quite belong. That might be because I’m a single woman living with five men. The pearl clutchers have to love that. Even if they don’t know I’m f*****g all of them, sometimes all at once, it’s probably scandalous.
I’ve just tied the final stitch below Ozzy’s clavicle when Mack returns through the garage door with a limp man slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The captive is tall and thin, but even if he was a burly guy, Mack wouldn’t have a problem. Mack’s six-eight,
