I might’ve been wiped, but I wasn’t dead. Even from a distance, I could see she was hot as hell. And a tiny thing—maybe five-three if I included the messy bun of dark hair on top of her head.

Mrs. Anderson had been a shrill old bitch who’d hated me on sight and hadn’t been shy about showing it. She’d called the cops on me for every perceived slight—from my Harley being too loud to my lawn being too green.

Honest to God, she’d claimed the unnaturally green lawn was proof I’d used chemicals like a front yard steroid scandal.

Matters only got worse any time I had my brothers over. Especially my brother who was a brother. Seeing me having a drink in the privacy of my backyard with a Black biker automatically meant we’d been planning something evil. Running drugs, beating women, robbing houses, and whatever other bullshit accusations she’d spewed.

Since our houses were single stories with a tall wooden fence separating our yards, she’d had to climb her frail ass up a ladder to spy on me.

The nutjob.

When I’d heard she died, I couldn’t say I was sad. I could, however, say I’d toasted whatever hell she burned in. They needed the luck.

And then I’d pissed in her prized rose bush.

Last I’d heard, she left the house to her niece, and the lawyer wasn’t sure what she’d be doing with it. Since there’d been no sign indicating she’d sold the place in record time, it was a good bet the niece had decided to move in.

Hot or not, if she was anything like her aunt, I’d be steering clear.

A decision solidified when she turned to the side.

Either she’s got one hell of a food baby, or she’s knocked up.

I had no concept of how pregnancy showed, especially on such a tiny frame. She could be halfway through or ready to pop for all I knew. She awkwardly shifted her load as she walked up the porch and out of my viewpoint.

Doesn’t matter if cotton and feathers fills that thing… Her man’s a dumbass to let her lift a finger.

But it’s none of my business.

Opening my door, I walked into my place and dumped my bag on my couch.

And then I got yelled at.

“Shit, sorry.” I moved the bag to the side so a furry face could glare up at me.

Hadn’t known kittens could glare, but Dumpster could. And did, every chance she got.

‘Course, since I’d just dropped my go-bag on her, her ire was warranted.

“How’d it go?”

I hadn’t expected a response. Especially not a verbal one.

But at my question, Dumpster let out a happy purr and stretched her scrawny gray body before falling back to sleep.