The uneven flapping of rubber slapped against the dirt road and Finnegan McCullough tugged the battered wheel of his truck, hauling his flatbed to the shoulder. That was the second tire he’d lost in a month. The roads on their family property were eaten up from a long, icy winter. Climbing out of the truck, his yellow work boots stomped over the dried, packed clay as he took in the damage. “Bloody hell.” There was no patching that. From the bed of the truck, he grabbed the jack and donut. Heat beat through his flannel as he dropped to his knees and— What was that sound? He paused. This far out in the woods there were only bears and no bear he’d ever seen had made noises like that. His lungs stilled as he tilted his head, focusing on the sound. The slow buzz of insects and then—there it was—soft, breathy pants, a steady pulse of soft taps. It sounded like…fucking. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted at the horizon as the late afternoon sun pierced the green canopy. He turned, but saw no one.
What do You think about Skin (McCullough Mountain 2)?
