by Cassia Leo
“Can I meet him?” I ask the older woman with frizzy grayish-brown hair who’s sitting in a lawn chair and staring at her phone.
She smiles. “Her,” she replies as she rises from her chair. “That’s Bella. Isn’t she gorgeous? She’s an Australian shepherd-bulldog-mix.”
Bella? Gorgeous? Not exactly the name or descriptor I’d use for this dog.
“She’s beautiful,” I reply as the woman opens a panel on the playpen to let me inside with Bella.
“She’s a sweetheart,” the woman says, holding the panel open as I step in. “She’s been at the shelter for almost nine months. We try to bring her out to Saturday adoptions as often as possible, but we can only bring so many dogs. And I am required to tell you that she’s been adopted twice and returned twice because she barks at houseguests. But she’s been chipped since she was just a few weeks old. She has no bite history whatsoever. She’s just so…different looking. The barking can be scary for some people.”
Who would bring a dog back just because it barked?
“You poor thing,” I remark as Bella continues to lie there, making no attempt to stand up and greet me.
“She must like you,” the woman declares. “She normally gives a couple of warning barks when she meets a new person.”
My heart aches as I imagine this poor dog being shuffled back and forth from the shelter, to PetSmart, to a new home, then back to the shelter so many times. Maybe she even got her hopes up, thinking she would get to stay in that comfy new dog bed, only to have that hope ripped away from her time and again.
I take a step toward her, and she lifts her head, but she doesn’t get up. “Hey, Bella,” I say in a non-threatening sing-song tone.
She still doesn’t move, though I sense a bit of hesitation, like she might be ready to bark or growl if I get any closer.
I think of something my dad once told me: Dogs don’t want to hurt you. They just don’t want you to hurt them. Instead of towering over them, get down to their level, and they’ll usually turn to mush.
Without hesitation, I get down on my knees to greet Bella. “Do you want to go home?” I ask, and her big shepherd ears perk up. “Do you understand that word, home? Do you want to go home?”
She lets out an affirmative bark and her tail wags as she comes over to greet me by licking my face.
The woman chuckles. “I guess that’s a yes. I’ll go grab the paperwork.”
I laugh as Bella continues to lick my face and neck. “Do you think I can change her name?” I ask as she returns with a blue folder and a pen.
“Of course,” the woman replies, opening the playpen for me to come out. “Just call her by her new name and tack on Bella at the end. For instance, if you named her Cupcake, you’d just refer to her as Cupcake-Bella for a few days. Then, you can just drop Bella. You know what you want to name her?”
I step out of the playpen and stare at my new dog for a moment. It doesn’t take long for me to realize who Bella reminds me of, with those blue eyes and mangled teeth. “I think I’ll name her Steve.”
The woman laughs. “Steve? Why Steve?”
I shrug. “She kind of reminds me of Steve Buscemi.”
The woman shakes her head as she opens the folder and pulls out a few forms. “Well, I hope Steve has a long happy life with you.”
I’m suddenly overcome with emotion as I realize Steve is my only family now. “So do I.”
The woman from the shelter is nice enough to let me leave Steve in the playpen while I make a quick trip to Home Depot. At the store, I pick up some power tools, wire mesh, and wooden stakes to create a temporary enclosure for Steve on the side of the house. Then, I spend an hour — and more than $500 — at PetSmart, stocking up on dog food and supplies, like a state of the art dog house with entry flap and a heater for the winter.
When Steve and I arrive home, I decide not to put her on a leash so she can get accustomed to staying near me while she’s on the property. As I round the back of the truck to let Steve out the passenger side door, I spot Colton in his backyard.
His shirt is off, and he’s sipping a beer as he sits on the grass facing the lake. I want to go over and say hi to him, but I don’t want to seem needy or clingy. Besides, I don’t know how Steve will react to him.
I peel my gaze away from Colton’s beautiful back muscles and turn toward the truck. Steve’s blockhead is tilted back, her eyes slightly shut as she pants in the summer heat. She is gorgeous.
“Come on, Steve-Bella,” I say, opening the door. “Let’s get you inside so you can cool off while I set up your new dog house. Then, maybe we can go play fetch in the backyard.”
And maybe Colton will join us.
But after fixing Steve a gigantic bowl of food, I realize it’s almost four p.m., and I haven’t eaten anything other than half an ice cream cone. I can’t lose weight or let my blonde roots grow out. I have to maintain my new appearance.
I decide I’d probably be better off staying inside the air-conditioned house with my new dog, where I can gorge on peanut butter and potato chips to make up for all the walking and shopping I did.
I didn’t realize — when I decided to add fifteen pounds to my new look — how hard it would be to maintain my weight.
As I watch Steve licking her metal bowl clean, a lump forms in my throat as I recall my mom getting frustrated with my dad because he would stuff himself with burritos and pizza and never gained an ounce. As difficult as it is to maintain my new curves, it’s not just my need to stay disguised that keeps me motivated.
The roundness of my breasts and hips makes me feel more soft and beguiling. I see the way men — men like Colton — look at me now. It’s a bit scary and thrilling, but it’s also a huge confidence boost.
I sigh as I pick up Steve’s food bowl and wash it in the sink as I gaze out my kitchen window, in the direction of Colton’s backyard. It would be great if I could figure out how to use my new feminine figure to get myself laid by someone who doesn’t live right next door to me.
I’m woken in the middle of the night by a loud banging noise outside my window. Sliding my hand into the hole I cut out of my memory foam mattress, my heart races as I grab my .380 and slowly slip out of bed. I disable the safety switch and point the gun at the door as I creep through the darkness.
I listen at the door for any more sounds, but I don’t hear anything, so I very slowly and quietly use my left hand to turn the handle. Tip-toeing out of my bedroom, I raise the gun again, my finger coiled and ready to squeeze the trigger at any moment.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear what sounds like someone tapping or scratching on a window.
What the fuck? Did they find me? Am I going to die tonight?
No, don’t think like that, Izzy. You’re going to shoot the coward who came to surprise you in your sleep, then you’re going to leave.
But, first, get the keys to the truck!
I snag the keys off the hook in the kitchen and stuff them in my bra as I head toward the back door. Opening it slowly, my hands start to tremble from the adrenaline coursing through me.
The dry dirt feels cool on my bare feet as I make my way toward the left side of the house, where my bedroom window is located.
Coming around the corner slowly, I fall to my knees and clutch my chest with relief when I see Steve digging a hole in the dirt next to a fallen rake. She runs toward me and begins licking my face and grinding her ear against my shoulder.
Automatically, my hand gravitates toward my neck, to grab the pendant my father gave me. Something I always do when I’m scared or overwhelmed with emotion. But the necklace isn’t there.
Tears stream down my face as I get to my feet. “Come on, girl. You’ll be sleeping inside with me from now on.”
Steve may be covered in dirt, but I can wash my bedding and give her a bath tomorrow. And I’ll just have to deal with it if she has a potty accident.
I’m nearly at my back door when a dark figure rounds the back of the house t
oward me. “Stay back!” I shout, pointing my .380 at him.
“Don’t shoot!” the guy says as his face comes into focus. It’s Colton.
“What are you doing here?” I squeal as I lower my weapon. “I nearly shot you!”
“Jesus Christ, woman. I was coming to check on you. I heard a loud noise. Then, I saw you creeping outside in your PJs, and I thought that was probably not a good idea. But apparently, I was wrong.”
“You heard a loud noise?” I reply skeptically, not lowering my weapon a single millimeter. “Are you normally awake this late?”
He looks confused. “It’s not even midnight.”
“It’s not?”
He shakes his head. “You must have just fallen asleep. Unless you keep senior citizen hours.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I lower the gun. “Don’t try to make me feel bad just because you keep serial killer hours.”
He laughs. “Whose dog is that?”
I glance at Steve, who’s lying quietly at my feet. “That’s odd. The lady at PetSmart told me Steve barks at strangers.” I can’t help but smile as she gets up when I mention her new name, then she immediately heads over to greet Colton. “She seems to like you.”
Steve moves in slow figure-eights through his legs, aggressively grinding her ear against his crotch as she lets out a series of low groans.
“Is she…?” he stares perplexed at the dog as she continues to rub her ear on his jeans and moan with pleasure. “Is she orgasming?”
I let out a hoarse cackle. “You must have a very comfy crotch.”
Colton cocks an eyebrow at me, and even in the dark, I can see the mischief burning in his icy eyes. “I don’t think I’d be a gentleman if I didn’t at least offer you a seat on my comfy crotch.”
I roll my eyes. “Can I have my dog back?”
“Please, take her or I’ll be buying her an engagement ring soon.”
I move to tuck the gun in my waistband, but I stop when Colton holds up his hands.
“Put the safety on!” he shouts, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a friendly neighbor. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you. But, please, don’t ever slide a loaded gun into your waistband without first putting the safety on. Especially the waistband of some flimsy pajama pants. That’s an easy way to take out a toe…or worse.”
I shrug as I slide the safety switch on. “Yes, sir. Happy now?” I ask, holding the gun up as if he can see the switch from where he’s standing six feet away from me.
“Never point a loaded weapon. Is—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, as if he was about to say something else. “I mean, are you trying to kill me?”
I try not to laugh as I realize he was about to say, “Is you trying to kill me?”
Then, it dawns on me; I haven’t been using my new Southern accent during this entire conversation.
Shit!
I ignore his question as I’m compelled to get as far away from Colton as possible. “Come on, Stevie,” I call out to the dog, but she doesn’t heed my command. “Steve-Bella, come.”
She sneaks in one more rub against Colton’s thigh before she comes back to me.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks as Steve and I climb the back steps.
“Just gotta get used to life with a new dog, that’s all. I’ll be fine,” I reply, opening the back door for Steve to enter ahead of me.
Acknowledging my lack of experience with dogs makes me think of the last dog I had, a Belgian Malinois named Bender. He was my father’s second service dog. He helped my dad with anxiety attacks and angry outbursts brought on mostly by post-traumatic stress disorder.
My mom gave Bender away shortly before my father passed because my dad had stopped remembering to feed him and take him on walks. Bender, being a high-energy breed, was quickly becoming frustrated, and he started trying to escape his enclosure in the backyard.
After my dad OD’d, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between my mother and me that I would never ask for another dog to replace him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Colton asks again. “You just drifted off for a while there.”
“Sorry. I was just… Well, anyway, thanks for checking up on me. That was…sweet.”
“Sweet?” he replies, seeming a bit confused by this characterization. “Lady, I am anything but sweet.”
I chuckle. “If you insist. Good-night, Colton.”
“Good-night, Jolene,” he replies, waiting for me to close the door before he sets off toward his cabin.
I grab a glass of water and beckon Steve into bed with me.
My mind wanders through my memories of Bender and my mom and dad. I want to call Tiff and remind her of the time Bender ripped her menstrual pad out of her panties while she was changing in my bedroom.
I want to laugh with my best friend.
Instead, I cuddle up next to Steve’s warm body and wrap my arms around her as I sob into her wiry fur.
“You’re my family now,” I whisper to her as I scratch her soft belly. “We have to protect each other, okay?”
We have to protect my property, too.
It’s a good thing I didn’t stash all the money in one location. And with my new neighbor just three hundred feet away, I sure hope I hid that suitcase well enough.
8. King
August 1st
I slip into Smoky’s Bar, the local dive aptly named for its hazy atmosphere, and I immediately find an empty stool tucked away at the end of the bar. Despite North Carolina’s smoke-free restaurant and bar laws, several patrons puff on cigarettes and vape pens. I order a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and pretend to watch the baseball game on the television above me as I survey the pub.
Izzy’s playing darts with a group of men near the other end of the bar. She’s outnumbered three-to-one: a beanpole who appears to be in his late-twenties or early-thirties; a fat guy wearing a baby-blue University of North Carolina Tarheel baseball cap; and an older guy who looks at least forty-five.
The older guy keeps stealing long glances at Izzy’s backside, and I want to pistol-whip the fucker’s eyes out. But I have to keep a low profile. I’ll only step in if she needs me to.
Since Izzy left Vegas, she’s gained about ten to fifteen pounds and dyed her blonde hair a mousy brown color that doesn’t make her blend in as much as she probably thinks it does. The pictures I saw of her in Vegas were cute. But with the extra weight, the woman is fucking beautiful.
The light emanating from the bar behind her reflects off her dark hair, creating a halo effect. She’d look angelic if it weren’t for the profanities spilling from her mouth.
Izzy and her companions down shots of whiskey while she rambles on about her friend who “died.” Knowing that her friend is alive and well in Vegas makes me listen closer.
“Tiff was crazy,” she says way too loudly, not bothering to change her friend’s name. “When she was thirteen, she asked her mom for a cell phone for Christmas. When she opened her present, she found a pair of mittens. So she called 9-1-1 to report her mom for child abuse.”
I chuckle to myself, thinking of the girl I interrogated a few weeks ago and her refusal to give up Izzy’s location until she was certain she had no other choice. Santos and I didn’t rough her boyfriend up too badly. We left Tiffany unscathed. But only because she gave us all the information we needed. I wonder if Izzy would be singing Tiff’s praises if she knew her friend had turned on her faster than a Taliban soldier can flip a switch.
“Sounds tough,” the old guy replies, moving closer to Izzy. “When Greg here was thirteen, his dad died, and his family didn’t have no food, so his fat ass had to eat his mom to survive.”
Izzy cackles loudly until she notices how close the old guy is getting. “Back off,” she mutters drunkenly, then she sets off to collect her darts from the board.
I contemplate whether I should join them. Then, I immediately question why I feel so protective of Izzy.
Part of me wants to believe she let Garrett die. I
t would make this mission a hell of a lot easier if that were the case. But in my heart, I know Garrett has had a death wish since that IED took half his face.
From everything I’ve learned about Izzy, I don’t think she’s a bad person. Just a bad combination of lucky and unlucky.
As she grabs her darts off the board, the old guy presses her against the wall. I slide off my stool, ready to step in. But she swiftly elbows him in the gut, making the other two guys howl with laughter.
“My dog would rip you apart, and so would these incisors!” She bares her teeth at him and barks like a rabid dog, which only makes the guy’s laugh even louder.
She’s only able to join in the laughter for a couple seconds before she vomits all over his leather cowboy boots.
Without a care in the world, she swipes the back of her hand across her lips and heads toward the bar in search of more alcohol. The old guy’s face is stoplight-red and contorted with rage as he follows after her.
I’m up from my stool and racing toward him, but I don’t get there fast enough. He grabs a fistful of Izzy’s faux brown hair and yanks her backward.
She yelps and reaches for his hand as her ass hits the floor. The guy pulls back his fist, ready to deliver a blow to her face as if she’s a man. But my fist is in the guy’s jaw before he can even finish that thought.
A loud crack breaks through the lousy music, and I can actually feel the bones in his face shift under the weight of my right hook. I tackle him to the ground and pin his arms behind his back.
“You knocked him out cold,” the fat guy laments as I get to my feet.
“You should take your friend home before he gets himself into even more trouble,” I reply.
Fatty reaches for something behind his back.
“That’s not a good idea,” I warn him.
“Listen to the man,” Izzy says, casually pulling a gun from her waistband and pointing it at his round face.
