She could hear the horses stamping and whinnying and could see the light-colored blankets thrown over their backs, and she could see the movement, but not a lot of detail. The ambulance slowed to a crawl, navigating around the debris from the clubhouse grenade remodeling. The remainder of a flat-screen TV burned near a smoldering booth and mangled chairs thrown out in the explosions. Large sections of scorched tin from the side of the building dotted the area like ice floes in a sea of debris. While her arm hurt like hell and she’d be grateful to be in the competent care of a couple of paramedics—especially if they came bearing painkillers and Band-Aids—the slow speed of the ambulance was a good thing, because getting mowed down by an ambulance while wearing a BAMA t-shirt was just exactly the sort of thing to make the Lake Charles obituary writer’s day. (Bobbie Faye already had enough issues with Erin Lugo over at the newspaper for the last three premature obituaries she had published about her, especially the one where Bobbie Faye supposedly ate so many boiled crawfish, she had to be carried to the hospital where it sounded (from Erin’s extensive description) like she’d died a rather prolonged, painful death.) The ambulance crawled toward them, threading through broken bar stools and floor tile and Bobbie Faye forlornly eyed the distance between the vehicle and where she and Riles stood.
What do You think about When A Man Loves A Weapon?
