by Eris Adderly
The counter stool squeaked behind her as Bill swiveled around to look, too. He exhaled through his nose. Stood.
“What are you gonna do?” asked Jonah.
Her boss was already heading through the door. Outside in the sun, he cut a single-note whistle and the dog’s head came up. As soon as those liquid eyes found a human, the curly tail started wagging and a big canine grin spread over the tawny muzzle. The animal forgot the fence line and trotted over to Bill, tongue lolling.
Christina and Jonah watched as the owner of the Haul Ash took a knee and reached out to the approaching dog. He fended off sniffing and licking to check for a collar, shook his head, and got back to his feet.
The hairy visitor tried to follow him back into the office, but Bill closed the door behind him, leaving the dog panting at them through the glass.
“No collar,” Bill said, rounding the desk again. “Can’t be having strays runnin’ around here.” He scooped up his keys and made for the door again.
“Bill, what are you gonna do?” Clearly, Jonah thought he’d have luck if he asked a second time.
“Take it down to the shelter,” said Bill. “If I’m not back this afternoon, tell Travis we’ll bleed those brakes tomorrow.”
The ac kicked on when he pushed through the door. “Come on, dog.” He slapped his thigh and started toward his truck, the strange mutt happy to go along.
“That dog has to belong to someone,” she said. The beast bounded up into the Ram when Bill opened the door. “Or it was someone’s pet at one time. It is not afraid of people at all.”
“Maybe someone’s been to the shelter already looking for it,” said Jonah, folding blankets again while they watched Bill pull onto the highway.
Christina made a face. If no one was looking for it, though …
She sighed and headed out back to let Travis know about the brakes. It was better not to think about the fate of shelter dogs.
✪
Jonah came in through the back half sipping possibly his third cup of coffee for the morning. “Where’s Bill?” he asked, setting the mug on the counter.
“I don’t know,” said Christina. “He hasn’t called yet.”
Asshole Bill was never late. It was quarter past ten on a Saturday, and they opened at seven. She eyed the lot, but a green f-150 was the only thing rolling in to park.
A guy came in, bought a tape gun and two dozen boxes, and left.
“Do you have his phone number?”
Jonah snorted. “Do you wanna call him?”
She cocked him a knowing eyebrow. “You just want to stand here and drink your coffee without him giving you any shit. What if something bad happened?”
“If something bad happened, we’ll find out about it.” He shrugged. “We ain’t Bill’s keep—look, there. Never mind, see?”
She followed his line of sight out the windows. The familiar blue Ram came crunching over the gravel, front wheels cutting right to park alongside the office.
“There,” said Jonah, draining the last of his coffee, “now you don’t have to worry about your boyfriend.”
“Gross, Jonah.” Her instinct had her blurting scorn, but the landmine was near and real. She swallowed and shifted on the stool.
Don’t.
And then the man of her recent, sweaty nightmares came around the corner. In his wake, an eager yellow dog. Wearing a new collar.
The bells on the door sounded. Bill moved past his employees wearing an impressive scowl, daring either one of them to say a single word. The mutt trotted along behind, a carefree doggie smile splitting its face, and dark brown eyes focused on the one naked monkey it had clearly chosen. The pair disappeared into the back half, wagging tail last.
Jonah and Christina tore their gaze from the closing door and stared at each other. She clapped a hand over her own mouth. He was stifling some sinusy noise that wanted to evolve into a snigger. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she slapped at his arm and wheezed at the lowest volume she could manage.
“Did you fuckin’ see his face?”
Jonah was turning red, and had a fist in front of his mouth. “Shut up. Shut up! He’s gonna come back!”
They tried to sober their expressions, but his lower lip quavered and Christina’s eyes watered. It was no use, and the pair could only start breathing when they heard the back door to the outside close, which meant their sucker of a boss was headed out to the shop.
She couldn’t help a smirk, even as Jonah grabbed a set of keys off the board and left her to the desk.
A goddamned dog.
Proof once again that dogs could charm anyone. Even Asshole Bill Marshall. He could look as cranky as he wanted, that mutt saw right through his bullshit.
Maybe you ought to ask the dog for advice, Christina Lee.
She harrumphed. Maybe she ought to get back to work.
By the time her lunch break rolled around, the flow of phone calls and customers had scooped the pair out of her head like a mess of pumpkin seeds, and Christina ducked into the back half with nothing more on the brain than filling her stomach and plunking away on some more Zen and the Art.
Then there was a bark. And another.
Curiosity won out, because of course it did.
She went to the window on the back wall and pushed slats on the blinds apart with her fingers.
Between the office and the shop was the dog, forepaws out in front of it on the dirt, head low, tail in the air. The mutt kept its line of sight on the adversary, ready to lunge. Stance wide and knees bent, Bill faced off with the animal. The two feinted forward and back in a series of halting charges, with a curly tail about to wag itself right off by the time her boss slapped both thighs to end the game.
The yellow beast fucking capered around the owner of the Haul Ash. And where was stoic, Asshole Bill? Bent down to magic his hands all around the furry face, a circus of I’m-not-touching-you, while the dog’s eyes rolled wild and it snorted with open-mouthed glee trying to catch the flying fingers.
Christina caught herself smiling, and shook her head.
Her boss was scrubbing the blonde coat now, in that sort of fierce petting reserved for healthy, sturdy animals. The kind that agitates their whole hide. He was leaning over. Saying something, but it wasn’t his voice. It was a higher pitch than Christina knew, and had almost … its own rhythm.
Was he … was he babytalking that dog?
She couldn’t make out the words, but that patter was unmistakable. He was. He was talking in a boo-boo voice to some random-ass dog.
Christina let out a humph of assessment.
Bill Marshall was a human being. Somewhere in there, he had the ability not to act like a cranky prick. So why? Why did he treat everyone like …
Like what? You want him to treat you better? You in a goddamn relationship now?
Her smile curled down into a sneer and she stepped away from the blinds.
Nope. They were not in a relationship. She was a whore, and not even a very good one. Couldn’t even compartmentalize this shit. Or did she want to pretend she hadn’t driven home last week, the taste of him still in her mouth, and clamped down on her little vibrator until she couldn’t feel her fucking toes?
Christina managed about half her sandwich before admitting there was nothing left of her appetite.
At least once she clocked back in, there would be work. Something that made some damn sense. Most of her problem was space in her head. Space for worry. Space for imagined scenarios to cook themselves up into a Thing.
The late afternoon rush filled that space, and part of being grateful was not even being able to slow down enough to realize what for. People came in to drop off equipment they’d needed only for that morning, Jonah buzzed in and out, and Bill blessed them all by finding plenty to do out in the shop.
It wasn’t until her shift wound down near four that the arena of her headspace cleared out for her to do battle with her own bullshit some more.
Her boss had made his w
ay inside and was on the computer, scrolling through pages of what appeared to be chain link fence parts on the website of a big box hardware store. What that had to do with the Haul Ash was anyone’s guess, but who around there was going to start questioning Bill Marshall’s internet usage? Not Christina, that was for sure.
The dog had flopped at the foot of the counter stool, tail fwapping the linoleum tiles and eyes surveying the office as though it had been the shop dog for years. It yawned and made that little whistle-squeak at the end, which had Christina smiling again, because reactions to cute animals defied logic.
“We should figure out a name,” said Jonah, from behind a broom handle.
“What?” said Bill, eyes still on the monitor. Images of horseshoe-shaped gate closures scrolled down the screen.
Jonah gathered a narrow line of dirt in the middle of the floor and then bent with the dustpan. “For the dog,” he said. “We should figure out a name. Like Max, or T-bone, or something.”
Christina eyeballed the mutt’s coat, the color of dry wheat. “Or Yellow,” she said, careless with her own lack of originality.
Bill shot her a look that made no sense at all. Startled? Suspicious? God damn, why did he have to set her on edge like that?
Jonah paid no attention. “Yellow? Really?” He emptied the dustpan in the trash. “Might as well name it ‘Old Yeller’. How ‘bout ‘Logan’?”
She snorted. “I’m ridiculous, but you want to name it after Wolverine?”
“She’s already got a name.”
They both shut up as Bill stood, stuffing his wallet into a pocket as he went. The dog was on its feet, as well, making that excited where-we-goin’ face, toenails clicking on the tile as it moved out of the way.
“Yeah?” Jonah leaned on the broom. “Well what’s her name, then?”
Bill was halfway to the front door, new best friend in tow.
“Daisy.”
Jonah and Christina stared bug-eyed at each other as the door fell shut and their boss headed out to his truck without so much as a goodbye.
When she hit the time clock a few minutes later, she was still shaking her head.
Bill Marshall named his dog ‘Daisy’.
Why was that cute? The man who’d stuffed panties in her mouth and banged her on the bathroom sink wasn’t allowed to do things that were cute. There had to be rules. Boundaries. Divisions.
It was nameless modern-day villains like the landlord, the utility companies, who demanded a price. Who wanted a sacrifice in exchange for some other privilege. Not the boss who took in stray dogs and named them after flowers. Who looked hot in his undershirt and told her to swallow.
Christina climbed up into the Bronco and shoved her purse onto the passenger seat. Keyed the ignition and backed out to face the highway.
What were the fucking rules here? Today was Saturday, and he hadn’t approached her since last Sunday. Was the week over? Did he forfeit the hour?
Why the fuck did she care so much?
Christina braced for impact.
The time clock announced the start of her Sunday shift with a beep, and Bill glanced up from the computer. She met his eye, ready for it.
‘It’ turned out to be a single raised eyebrow. And silence.
There was no missing her black leggings. You know, the ones hugging her hips where the newly-mandated skirt should be? There was laundry to do, and she hadn’t done it. Several more hours at her granddad’s place after work the previous night had neatly eaten up any time there’d been for that.
She came around the counter to tuck her purse away, and her boss rose and sidled past her.
“Jonah called out,” was all he said as he headed outside. That meant it would be just her and Bill and Travis.
Christina had a blank look for the phone, the stool, and the computer. Well? Just get to work then.
Whatever she thought of his pointed glance and complete lack of comment, it was nothing compared to her irritation with her own reactions. After an hour on the clock, she couldn’t stop the grimace on her face each time he passed through the office. After two, she couldn’t prevent her body from taking mincing steps around the counter, from trying to make itself small and inconspicuous, as though he would forget.
Inconspicuous? Hell. The way the matter went rampantly unaddressed might as well have set up a big, throbbing neon sign. A giant red arrow pointing right at her lower half.
From now on, you wear skirts or dresses. No pants.
But he had nothing to say. At least not about that.
He’s not freaking out about it; why are you?
The phone rang, and Christina about peed her forbidden pants.
You gotta calm down. And focus.
“Thank you for calling Haul Ash Truck and Trailer, this is Christina, how may I help you?”
And Sunday went on, whether she could handle it or not.
By the time a couple more hours of customer-servicing had sliced and diced her anxiety down into manageable bits, the clock had eaten up the entire first half of her shift.
Christina hunched at the table in the back half, emptying a foil pack labeled ‘Beef Flavor’—a designation that raised more questions than it answered—into a steaming bowl of ramen noodles. The clunk and swing of the outside door interrupted her stirring.
Bill took only a flicker of a glance in her direction as he headed to the sink and started scrubbing down his hands. Why he hadn’t just used the sink out in the shop was beyond her. Out of soap maybe? But that wasn’t what made her cock her head.
“Where’s Daisy?”
“Mm?” He grunted, shutting off the tap and twisting his neck to look back while he pulled paper towels out of the dispenser.
“I said, where’s your dog?”
“Runnin’ around my yard.” And why couldn’t she stop staring at the way the muscles of his forearms moved as he twisted the towels through his hands? “Had to fix my front gate last night,” he said, “so she wouldn’t get out.”
That explained why the dog had been at the office the day before. Christina had a forkful of noodles halfway to her mouth. “So you’re not going to bring her to work anymore?”
He tossed the paper in the trash and turned to face her. By the day, it became more difficult to maintain direct eye contact with her boss. She swallowed. His mouth turned up into something that was almost not a scowl. “Maybe I’ll bring her in,” he said, after way too much time making her heart beat faster. “Sometimes.”
A smile. It was nearly a smile.
Bill left her for the front office. The noodles on her fork were cold.
Fuck. What even is this now? This asshole knows what he’s doing. Fuck him.
But she had already done that, hadn’t she?
✪
Bill had no idea what he was doing.
Was she fucking flirting with him? Asking about his dog? And look at his dumb ass, trying to get a smile out of her.
You’re an asshole. That’s not what this is. She just likes the dog. Everybody likes dogs.
“Bill.” Travis came through the front office door twirling keys around a finger.
“Yeah.”
“That guy returned the sixteen footer with almost no gas in it.”
Bill snorted. “It’s his credit card bill. You gonna fill it up?”
“Well, unless you wanted me to get started on that mower out there.”
He’d forgotten about the mower. “Yeah, fuck.” Bill got up from the stool. “You go deal with that. I’ll handle the truck.”
“All right.” Travis slid him the key across the counter and headed for the back half. “Hey, you not gonna bring that dog of yours with you anymore?”
He nodded. “I might; I might.”
“Kinda fun to have a dog around,” said Travis, as he disappeared into the back.
See? Everybody likes the dog.
There it was, right there. He had to stop analyzing every word she said to him now like it had some kind of hidden meanin
g.
The bells on the front door clanked as he pushed his way outside into the sunlight. The sixteen footer was parked on the west side of the building, in front of the shop.
Just because she’d made those little noises when he’d grabbed her hair didn’t mean she was flirting now. Those blue eyes looking up at him with her pretty lips around his cock. Just because her pussy had been wet when—
You know that doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.
Bill slammed the truck door shut behind him and fired it up. Put it in reverse.
But come on! Nothing? It meant nothing for her to be wet? For him to see her breath hitch when his fingers slid under her panties?
He bumped out of the lot and took a right, heading toward the gas station.
No. No one flirted with her boss after he shoved his dick down her throat and forced her to swallow his load. For money. End of story.
But she …
No. He could settle this. Take himself right out of the equation. Then whatever was or wasn’t going on could be more obvious. Maybe.
He pulled the truck up alongside the pump, and killed the engine.
And her coming in wearing those tights, or black pants, or whatever the hell they were … Christ. Forget that he’d told her to wear skirts. He could see every curve. Was she doing this to him, or had he done it to his own damn self?
When he went inside to pay, Bill made a conspicuous effort to look everywhere but at the cigarettes for sale behind the counter.
✪
“Okay, that’s gonna be $182.39,” Christina said. The man on the other side of the counter slid her a ratty Visa card. “Can I see your i.d., please?”
He thumbed open his wallet without a word, showing her a Texas driver’s license with a name matching the credit card.
“Thank you,” she said, and swiped the plastic for the sale.
“Do you have a trash can back there?” The guy shook a lidded fast food cup with a straw, empty except for ice, while his receipt printed.
“Sure do.” She reached for the cup and made a face. The outside was sticky with soda, and she tossed it in the trash under the counter. “Can you sign here, please?”
