Havoc: Mayhem Series #4
Page 25
“How is she on walks?” I ask softly, still holding out hope that the golden will at least glance in my direction.
“She just balls up until Gabe brings her back inside,” Barb says. “He’s doing his best with her . . . but we don’t call you the dog whisperer for nothing, Hailey.”
I glance up at Barb from where I’m still crouched in front of the cage, and she gives me a weak smile.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. But I know you’ll figure it out.”
That night, after ordering the meatiest, greasiest, grossest thing on McDonald’s menu, I sleep in a cage. With a McDouble unwrapped and resting on my lap, I sit at the opposite corner of the cage from the golden Chow, and I try coaxing her out of her shell.
I had tried offering her a piece of warm burger, but she only shivered in fear. Then I tried simply sitting next to her, but when I realized she wasn’t going to stop shaking, I moved to the opposite corner.
I talk to her about how much I miss my boyfriend. I tell her about his tour, about the pictures he’s sent me from Canada and China and Korea, about the food he’s eaten in those places and how I really hope I get to try kimchi someday. The burger grows cold as I tell her how pretty she is, as I make up fictional stories about the life she’s going to live once she gets adopted (beloved dog of a movie star, furbaby of a billionaire, spoiled pet of a sausage heiress), as I tell her about all the animals I miss back on my parents’ farm. We chat about Teacup the pig and Harley the horse and Moose the bull, and eventually, I give the dog a name: Phoenix, since I pray she rises from the ashes.
I don’t normally give the dogs names, since I’m always afraid of getting too attached, but Phoenix deserves a name, and a strong one. She eventually untucks her head from her body, watching me with her chin on her front paws as I talk. And when I run out of things to say, I offer her more burger, and I sing. She doesn’t come to me, but her tail wags ever so slightly, so I lower the burger and continue singing. And when I run out of songs, I hum songs I make up myself.
I’m sleeping when I feel something wet on my hand, and my eyelids sneak open to see Phoenix sniffing at me. Her cold nose pokes at my knuckles, and I stay still as a statue as she inspects me. I don’t even know what time it is, but the sharp ache in my back tells me that I’ve spent more than a couple hours sitting on the concrete floor.
I ignore the pain in my spine as I continue watching Phoenix check me out. She sniffs the burger but ignores it, smelling my shirt, my pants, my hand again. She nuzzles her nose under my palm, and I hold my breath. She nuzzles her nose under further, and I gently move my fingers against her fur.
Phoenix lets out a sharp cry at the movement, and I jerk my hand away, fearing I hurt her still-patchy snout, which just a week and a half ago had still been wrapped in duct tape. But as soon as I pull away, she pushes against me again, crying even louder when I try to yank my hand away again. Eventually, I realize she’s crying because she’s scared, because she wants me to protect her, and I pull her big body into my lap as she yelps and whimpers and cries.
“It’s okay,” I croon, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay, pretty girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”
I hold her as she trembles in my arms and tries to push herself even further into the circle of my body, and I don’t know when I start crying, but at the back of that kennel, I cry along with her. My tears drip onto her golden fur as she leans on me for support, as she gives me her trust, and I try to show her a lifetime’s worth of love in the way I squeeze her against me, the way I pet my hands over her precious face.
I hold her for hours like that, letting her lick my face and my arms and my hands as I pet her. I continue talking to her—about the meaning of her name, about the importance of eating, about the fact that I’m a vegetarian. She eventually falls asleep in my arms, and I don’t leave until the following morning, when Barb arrives back at the shelter and orders me to go home. She smiles in spite of the sternness in her voice, thanking me for staying overnight but insisting I can’t live there, and I cry on my drive home about the panicked look in Phoenix’s eyes when I left her at the shelter.
For the next few days, I spend absolutely all of my free time there. If I’m not at school, sleeping, or taking care of necessary things like homework or personal hygiene, I’m working with Phoenix. On the third day, I get her to let me walk her the whole way outside, and it’s such a huge step, I call Mike to celebrate as soon as I get the chance.
“This is Mike,” his voice mail says. “Leave a message.”
“Hey,” I start, shouldering my phone as I rush onto campus to try to make my first class on time. I’m speed-walking down a sidewalk with a messenger bag slipping from my shoulder and a rock wiggling around inside my shoe. “I know you’re probably onstage right now, but I just wanted to tell you I finally got that dog I told you about to go outside today. All on her own!” I smile and try to shrug the messenger bag back up onto my shoulder. “She still won’t let anyone else touch her, but . . . I’m just really excited, and I wanted to tell you.”
My smile starts to slip when nothing but silence replies, and I realize how badly I wish I could tell him my news in person, or at least have him on the other line of the phone. It’s been so hard matching up our schedules this past week, and even though Mike has sent me flowers—which I was extremely lucky he sent to my work instead of the apartment I share with Danica—they only made me miss him more.
“Alright, well . . . I hope you’re having a good show. I miss you. Maybe we’ll get to talk later . . .”
I hang up the phone and concentrate on walking. To dull the ache of missing him, I focus on the things that I still have: school, work, Phoenix. But the more I focus on these things, the more distant Mike seems to get.
I don’t have a boyfriend who is thousands of miles away . . .
What I have are dying flowers, a voice mail I know by heart, and boyfriend who’s never here.
Chapter 41
On Friday afternoon, Rowan and Dee kidnap me for ice cream and a funny movie, and I realize how much I needed it. My entire waking life has been spent either rehabilitating Phoenix or missing Mike—missing him during meals, during showers, during the quiet time before sleep. He calls me every day on the phone, or at least leaves me a voice mail or two, but it never feels like enough. It feels like eating gluten-free bread or sugar-free doughnuts. It’s just not the same, and it’s not what I really want.
On Friday night, he asks me out on a date, and a smile sneaks onto my face as I lie in my bed with my phone to my ear. “How are you going to take me on a date when you’re a million miles away?”
“Ninety-seven hundred,” Mike corrects, and I chuckle.
“You’re keeping track?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, and I can hear the bashful smile in his voice. “It’s not that far. The moon is over two hundred thousand miles away, and man managed to travel that distance. You’re only a flight away. You’re practically down the street.”
“Then I wish you’d come visit me,” I say, unable to stop myself but hating the sadness that creeps into Mike’s reply.
“Me too. I’ve never felt this way on a tour before.”
“What way?”
“So . . .” He searches for the word. “Homesick. So homesick. I’ve missed my house before. My bed, my TV . . . But those things don’t even matter anymore. I just want to hold you.”
I know what he means, which is why there’s nothing I can say. Talking about missing him isn’t going to change the fact that I’m not going to see him anytime soon.
“Only thirty more days,” he says, and I close my eyes. “So will you please go on this date with me tomorrow?”
“Where are we going?” I play along.
“My house. Normally, I’d pick you up in my big red truck . . .” His voice lowers, sending heat prickling across my skin. “You remember my red truck, don’t you?”
“You play dirty,” I say, and his tone smolders.
“If I remember, Hailey, that’s just how you like it.”
Oh God. I groan and climb out from under my covers to open a window, letting the late October chill extinguish the fire blazing beneath my cheeks while Mike’s sexy, confident laugh sounds against my ear.
“This is no way to ask a girl out on a first date,” I scold so he’ll stop trying to kill me with his deliberately sexy voice, and Mike laughs a little harder before he stops teasing.
“Okay. So my place, seven o’clock. Does that work?”
“What do you have planned?” I ask as I slip back under my covers, excitement thrumming through my veins.
“A surprise” is all he’ll tell me, and for the first time in two weeks, I fall asleep looking forward to tomorrow.
Don’t forget your key. Text me before you go inside.
Mike’s text is the first thing I read in the morning, and it reminds me that today is our first date. I smile in the mirror as I brush my teeth, because even if he won’t be there for it, he’s taking me on a date, and the knowledge that Mike—Mike!—is taking me on a real date fills me with all sorts of giddy, girly freaking excitement. I tell Phoenix all about him that day, about his smile and his laugh and how skilled he was at teaching me to play the drums. And I leave the shelter early enough to shower and put on some non-dog-scented clothes, even though Mike won’t be there to smell me.
At seven o’clock on the dot, I text him to tell him I’m in his driveway, and a second later, a video chat request appears on my phone. My eyes flash wide, since Mike hasn’t had reception strong enough for a video chat since he left. It’s been two entire weeks since I’ve seen him, and nervous butterflies swarm in my stomach.
The video chat rings three times before I muster the courage to answer it, and my heart slams against my ribs when I finally accept his call.
Mike’s face instantly appears on my phone, and I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. The warmth that rushes through me when I see him makes it undeniable: I love him. I love him so much it hurts.
“Hey,” he says, a sexy smile on his face, and a nervous, giddy, happy one sneaks onto my lips to smile back at him.
“I thought you weren’t going to have good reception for a few more tour stops?” I ask, and he smiles wider when he hears my voice.
“I wasn’t. I tracked down a special SIM card.”
“Do you have tonight off?” I ask, and Mike shakes his head. He looks like he’s in a hotel room, and I wonder what Indonesian city he’s in, or if I could even pronounce it.
“No, just a few hours,” he says. “But we don’t have any flights or press this morning, so I’m all yours until sound check.”
“Shouldn’t you be out exploring the city? Seeing the sights?” I ask, feeling guilty for keeping him.
“No. I should be taking my girl on our first date.”
He smirks at the blush that hides the faint freckles on my nose, and my cheeks stain even redder at the sexy way his mouth quirks up.
“I’ve missed making you blush,” he says in that irresistible tone of his, laughing when I turn the phone away so he can’t see me fan my cheeks.
When I finally turn the phone back around, the happy look in his deep brown eyes is enough to melt my heart. “Okay,” he says, “pretend I’m opening your door for you, because I’m a gentleman like that.”
I chuckle as I climb out of my car, and when I get to his front door, I use the key he gave me. Inside, he instructs me to go into the kitchen, and I immediately spot the massive bouquet of oversized sunflowers sitting in a pretty crystal vase on the counter.
“These are for you,” he says, as if he’s handing them to me, and my smile is unguarded as I let the sweetness of his gesture make me fall even more in love with him.
“How’d you get these?” I wonder as I brush my fingers over their summery yellow petals, and Mike tells me about a florist he found three towns over.
“They delivered them to Rowan,” he explains, “and she brought them to the house for me since Adam and Shawn left my spare key at their place.”
“I bet Adam and Joel hate you right now,” I say with a laugh, knowing Mike is putting them to shame. They’ve done sweet things for Rowan and Dee—flowers, chocolate, postcards—but nothing like planning a romantic date from ten thousand miles away.
Mike grins. “I’m sleeping with one eye open, trust me.”
When a knock sounds against the front door, I startle and stare wide-eyed at the back of it.
“Dinner,” Mike explains. “I hope you’re hungry.”
I open the door to find a teenage delivery boy standing there with a pizza in his hands. He hands me the warm box, tells me the tip is already covered when I frantically search for money in my pockets, and wishes me a good date.
In Mike’s living room, I set the pizza on the coffee table and open the box, lifting an eyebrow when I see the toppings. “Half pepperoni?” I ask, wondering if he forgot I’m a vegetarian. The other half is my absolute favorite though—banana peppers and black olives.
Mike turns his phone so I can see the pizza on the bed beside him—half pepperoni, half banana peppers and black olives, just like mine. “I’m not too stoked about these banana peppers, myself,” he complains, and I laugh.
“Why didn’t you just get me banana peppers and olives, and you pepperoni?”
“Because this is date,” he insists. “And since this is a date, we’re sharing.”
I fight back the happy tears threatening to spring to my eyes, grabbing a paper plate and napkins from the kitchen while Mike tells me how he had to special-order the banana peppers and have them shipped to the hotel so he could have them as a topping. It makes me realize he’s been planning this for a while, and once again, I feel weightless as I fall.
We talk and tell stories about our days as we eat our pizza, and I laugh at the face Mike makes when he tries a piece from my half. After two slices, I’m full, and he tells me to check the back porch. In front of his patio door, I find a box filled with souvenirs from all the places Mike has been—Canada, China, Korea, Indonesia. There is even some Indonesian candy called Berri Bonz, and Mike tells me he’s held off on trying it since he wanted us to try it together.
We both pucker up at the sourness of the candy, and I laugh hard when Mike’s eyes start to water. Eventually, our eyes stop welling from the sourness, and start welling from how hard we’re laughing. He teaches me a game called semut, orang, gajah, which is basically the Indonesian version of rock, paper, scissors, and I almost forget that he’s not with me—that he’s still on the other side of the world.
The hours pass quickly—too quickly—because before I know it, it’s eleven o’clock my time and someone is knocking on Mike’s hotel door. He sighs heavily and stares at me through the phone. “They’re saying it’s time for sound check.”
“That’s a shame,” I joke to keep myself from begging him not to go. I can tell Mike is struggling enough without me adding to it. “I’m pretty sure you were going to get lucky.”
He gives me a half smile, and I return it. “Really? On our very first date?”
“It was a damn good date,” I tell him, and his smile stretches just a little wider.
“You really liked it?”
“I loved it,” I assure him, taking a deep breath to soothe my stinging eyes. “Thank you.”
“I’ll take you on even better ones when I get home.”
“I believe you.”
Mike’s voice softens when he says, “I love you, Hailey.”
“I love you too,” I tell him, my heart already twisting from the goodbye I know is coming.
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
“Have a good day.”
That night, I don’t have it in me to leave M
ike’s house. In his room, I help myself to one of his giant T-shirts, and I crawl under his covers. His pillow still smells like him, and I smile against the soft cotton when I realize he ate banana peppered pizza and sour candy for breakfast, since our date started at six o’clock in the morning for him.
His hair was damp, his face was clean-shaven, and he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, which means he’d woken up ridiculously early just to shower and get ready for our date. He ordered me flowers and candy and made me feel like I was traveling the world with him, and I don’t know how I got so lucky to deserve a man so thoughtful, but I never want to let him go.
Not even if Danica is determined to win him back. Not even if he has girls pining after him in every country of the world.
I want to keep him.
But with Danica’s threats hanging over my head and two years of school left before I graduate, before I can get a decent job and apply for an assistantship to cover my doctorate, I’m just not sure how I can. In twenty-nine days, Mike will want to take me on real dates, and it will be impossible to keep him a secret.
Chapter 42
“You never came home last night,” Danica accuses with a devilish smirk when I finally return home to our apartment Sunday evening. After leaving Mike’s place this morning, I spent the afternoon trying—and failing—to get Phoenix to let anyone else pet her, and my brain is so fried, I can’t even think of anything to say.
“I, uh—”
“Have you slept with him?” she asks, and my face goes slack with panic.
Danica laughs and sets down her textbook, and while I should be relieved she’s actually studying for once in her life, I’m too busy trying to decide if I should run back out the front door before she can catch and gut me like a pig.
“Oh, come on, Hailey, don’t hold out on me,” she pouts. “My sex life is dead until Mike comes home. I’m trying to be good and not cheat on him, but I need details.”