The Wilder Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page A

Buddy Guy, her overweight Queensland heeler, banished to the laundry room be- cause he did not approve of men sharing Lily’s bed. One guy she dated before Blaise had enjoyed both Lily’s company and a trip to the emergency room for stitches on the first date. The thing was, she loved sleeping with Buddy Guy. In fact, she worshipped her bad doggie more than any male on the planet. She would rather have his chubby blue-gray hide snuggled next to her than anyone, even Michael Jordan, who—face it—was a god in a mortal man’s skin. Buddy could sit up and beg, which in males was incredibly rare. He could play dead, which was not. Buddy had every single toy she’d ever bought him, squeakers intact, and he had learned to put them away in his basket. That was miraculous in those sporting the male appendage, though she’d had Buddy neutered when he was nine months old. Also, Buddy liked kissing. He’d slobber and lick until Lily yelled, No more ! and even then try it one more time just in case she didn’t mean it. She lay down and put her head against her pillow, even though sleep was definitely out of the question.
    Some days , she mused, her blood jittering in her veins, it seems like Krisprolls are the only thing that fills me . As she shut her eyes, she wondered if one of the chemical components of semen could possibly be caffeine.

    Meanwhile, in the laundry room, the reek of Outdoor Fresh Bounce dryer sheets abounded. Buddy had shredded the entire box of forty and chewed through the laundry basket as well. In its weave he could smell the ghost-aroma of Lily’s sweat-stained workout clothes, an odor that panicked him into thinking he might never see her again. Plastic was wonderfully satisfying, however, and chewed into tiny pieces it went down the gullet like butter. Buddy was bored, pissed off at not getting to sleep in the big bed, and he didn’t like the way the cabinetmaker had put his hands all over Lily during supper. In his wicker-and-flannel Dingo Den, Buddy tried to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, deep in the primal sections of his brain a nebulous idea of chasing sheep reared up. Buddy had never seen sheep and wouldn’t know one if it fell out of the dryer’s lint trap, but he desperately wanted to guide a herd into the proper field. Moonlight crept in through the

    garage window, illuminating the front quarter panel of Lily’s creamy white leased Lexus. Buddy didn’t like the look of the windshield wipers, set at an angle like that, ready to swoop down like cabinet- maker’s hands. He got up, stretched all four legs, then sauntered nonchalantly over to the car. Wipers still there, still dangerous. He strained until he could take hold of the driver’s-side victim in his teeth. Oh yes, rubber. He knew it well. A close relative of plastic.
    His five-hundred-dollar private obedience-training course disap- peared in a flash of instinct. For three or four minutes he became a feral dog, fierce to his bones, tearing the throat from a marauding wildcat. There. His precious Lily would never have to worry about sudden movements from that bastard again. Any minute now she’d open the door, throw him a biscuit, and shower him with praise.

    “Later, baby. Got to get to the jobsite. Thanks for the shower fun. Hey, don’t make that Mexican pig dish again, por favor ?”
    Lily stood dripping in the shower stall, already late for her first appointment. Had she heard that right? Blaise dissing posole ? Her family legacy, a recipe with more than two ingredients, not to men- tion made from scratch? “Excuse me?”
    “You know, with the pork and the swollen corn? Last time you made that crap it gave me the runs. I was up all night, señorita .”
    She wrapped a towel around her hair. “Don’t try to talk Spanish to me, Blaise. Coming out of your mouth it sounds racist.”
    “Oh, lighten up. You know I dig your brown sugar. Both kinds.” He covered his wide mouth with his palm, and woo-woo ed like a cartoon