by Kara Hart
Boss On A Leash
Kara Hart
Contents
1. Ali
2. Marc
3. Ali
4. Marc
5. Ali
6. Marc
7. Ali
8. Marc
9. Ali
10. Ali
11. Marc
12. Ali
13. Marc
14. Ali
15. Marc
16. Ali
17. Ali
18. Marc
19. Ali
20. Marc
21. Ali
22. Marc
23. Ali
24. Marc
25. Ali
Ali
I hate Valentine’s Day.
For the month of February, I’ve sworn off candy hearts, Hershey's kisses, and red roses. Above all else, I’m done with men. For all of 2021.
Seriously.
Fun fact about Valentine’s Day: The Romans used this wonderful little holiday as an excuse to whip women and sacrifice cute kittens. In 2021, men are still at their shenanigans. At least romance books are readily available. I haven’t sworn those off. Yet…
When I first arrived to my Seattle home, I thought everything would come prepackaged in a nice bow. The apartment I found to lease wasn’t charming, but it was quaint and very affordable. Meeting interesting people seemed to happen every weekend. I was within blocks of some of the best food, coffee, and beer in the country. I really thought I found my place.
But then I met Jack in the line to get my first pumpkin spiced latte of the season. It was a cold winter, much colder than last year’s, I was told. And despite the outside heaters, I was freezing my butt off. Jack was a gentleman. He offered me his coat.
I must’ve waited thirty-minutes for that over-flavored cup of coffee. It would’ve been worth it if I got there five minutes earlier. Instead, he asked me out.
Before I knew it, I was going on dates. He was sleeping over. We were… well, some things are better left unsaid. We were having fun.
When the first burst of endorphins hit, it felt like heaven. But when the tide rolled back, unanswered questions came into play. Arguments started. The smallest disagreements turned into major blow ups. I don’t even know what we were fighting so much about, but we deserved an Oscar for our performances.
We just blew up…
Another fun fact: People have been living in Seattle for over 4,000 years. No joke. But they’ve only been getting pumpkin spiced lattes for a few decades. I’m not sure if my trouble with men is related, but I wouldn’t doubt it. Weirder things have happened.
I’m not proud of our split, but these things happen. People break up all the time. I’ve always thought it’s how you handle those splits that defines your personality, rather than the number of heartbreaks you rack up. Still, it’s not very comforting knowing you’re heading into your mid-twenties, alone.
To top it off, my friends back in Chicago are all getting married. I’d rather not think about that now...
I moved to this gorgeous city to teach kids, not to date assholes, so when I wake up to the sound of my phone blowing up next to my ear, I jump to look at what it says.
Shadow Park Valley Day. Subject: Teaching Application
There are a lot of great schools in the city. I applied to them all. I also got rejected. They gave their reasoning, usually being that the staff was too full. Now, it’s February, and I’m at my wits end. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to go back to waiting tables.
Above all else, there is one school I want to teach at. Shadow Park Valley Day. It’s the most prestigious school, and it’s right outside the city in Sammamish, Washington. It’s only the most beautiful area outside of the city. Not only do they have the newest books, lesson plans, and computers, they pay their staff an arm and a leg.
Sometimes, I take my bike and ride around the neighborhoods there, fantasizing about what my life could be like someday. The forest surrounds the homes, and the air is quiet. Someday, I’ll get there. That’s what I keep telling myself.
I’ve been a substitute for the district since the beginning of the year. I know I’m getting a little ahead of myself, but I hope to teach there one day. Full time. Lord knows, I would give that job my all.
I adjust my eyes to the glowing phone display. With my email pulled open, I read the words as if they were from some holy scripture. My hands are shaking the screen, but I somehow feel okay about this. If I don’t get the job, I can always stay part time at the other schools. It’s not the holy grail, but I’ve lived poor my entire life.
Rain lightly patters against my windowpane, but the sun is peeking over the clouds. There is still some time until we hit that beautiful spring season, but this week has been gorgeous. Today is the kind of day that pulls you outside for a nice walk. However, as I read the email, I feel my calm pulled out from underneath my feet like a rug.
I read my sentence aloud. “Thank you so much for your application, Ali Greenwald. We are sorry to inform you that we are booked for the fall of 2021 and Spring of 2022, but we will retain your application for the next school season. All the luck in the world, Dr. Jordan Berman PHD.”
The school is perfect, so this is a blow. But just like all my past blows, I’ve gotten back on my feet. That includes my time with Jack.
Devastated as I am, there are other teaching positions. I have high hopes for my future. But the more time that passes, the more my brain searches for some extra dopamine. Instagram, Facebook, Tinder…
Oh, my.
There’s nothing for me in the modern dating world. I filter through hundreds of threads, reposts, and like-counts, until I return to my dreaded email account. It’s just a reality – I won’t be teaching at the charming red-brick private school of my dreams.
That’s okay. I’ve saved some money in case I have a really bad month. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do. I’ll come in whenever they need me to, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for something better.
Must. Stay. Positive.
I hit the arrow to the next message. It’s not the opportunity of a lifetime, but it catches my eye. Last week, I was feeling pretty lonely, so I went searching for a dog online. I downloaded an app that gave regular updates on breeders in the area. It had a no-puppy-mill promise, so I signed up.
On any other normal day, I would hit the spam button and banish it to the Google dungeons. Ever since I moved, however, those normal days haven’t existed. It would be pretty nice to have some life in this house.
I keep scrolling until I see a picture. It’s the most beautiful King Charles Cavalier puppy I’ve ever seen.
Something comes over me. It’s something like the combination of endorphins and expectations. It’s hard to explain, but it’s similar to the feeling of hope.
She’s adorable. She’s fluffy. I can tell she’s going to be so much fun. A small bundle of love that will give me more than any man in the greater Seattle area. I keep reading and feel my heart grow fonder.
“A beautiful King Charles with a heart of gold,” I whisper.
She’s precious. I’m tearing up, I’m that excited.
Jumping on the opportunity, I dial the phone number listed at the bottom of the spammed ad. I recognize the area code. 253. The seller must be somewhere in Tacoma. It’s a far drive from the city, but I feel like going on an adventure.
A rough voice answers the phone. “Yello?”
“Um, yeah, I just got an email about a puppy,” I say.
“Yeah? Okie.”
Clearing my throat, I push through the shaky introduction. “Well, I might want to adopt i
t...”
I’m still staring at the amber dog’s picture, and I have to admit, I’ve put more stock on this creature than any of my job applications. That being said, animals are a sore spot for me. I fall in love with just about every dog I see.
This one is special. We’re connected. I just know it.
The man on the other end of the line clears his throat so hard it sounds like his lungs give out for a minute. “Name?”
My heart rushes. Must buy dog! “Ali Greenwald,” I say.
“Not your name. The mutt. We’ve got a few dogs up for adoption, believe it or not,” he responds.
“Oh, uh.”
I scroll through the email until I see the name. “Ragamuffin.”
When it registers, I feel my heart pop out of my chest. My eyes fill with those candy hearts I swore I’d stay away from. My body turns to mush.
She’s so sweet…
The man clicks his tongue, and I hear the sound of fingers fumbling through sheets of paper. “Popular dog,” he grunts.
I’m holding my breath, waiting for some sign of good news.
And then a realization must hit him because his breath catches. “Actually, you know what? I just got a call about her yesterday. Businessman offered me double for her.”
Double? For a dog? Bullshit.
I nearly scream. “Who?”
The man chuckles, enjoying my suffering. “Well, I’m not at liberty to give you the names of other potential customers.”
My arm suddenly feels tired from holding the phone. “Oh. Right,” I mutter.
If this isn’t going to happen, there’s no use in forcing it. Another opportunity will come my way. Just like the teaching job. Just like all the men in my life. Just like every stupid Valentine’s Day holiday.
Another opportunity will come my way.
Wait a second. No. That’s not how life works.
You have to grab it by the balls and take action. Whoever this business man may be is unimportant. I’m going to beat him there and give this puppy a new home.
I use my jaw to keep the phone level. “Hold on a sec.”
Jumping out of bed, I reach under the dresser and pull out an old wooden jewelry case my mother gave me when I was younger. I open it and rest my eyes on the soft sight of money. By buying this dog, I’m digging into most of my savings. Doing that would be stupid, right? After all, missing out on a pet isn’t something that ends someone’s life.
What can I say? I’ve got my heart set on this cutie-patootie. Yes, I’m that lonely.
I count the bills. One. Two. Three. All the way to one-thousand.
After taking a deep breath, I weigh the pros and cons.
Pro: Dogs are loyal. They’re smart, but not too independent to get rid of you. Cons: I’ll have to train it. It might suck to clean its pee out of the carpet. I might not make rent this month...
Who am I kidding? I’d spend all my money to get this dog. There’s no stopping me.
I break the silence with a negotiation. “Look, I’ve had a shit year,” I say. “If I give you one hundred dollars more than the other guy, will you sell me her?”
A moment of silence catches me off guard, but I’ve got the money balled up inside my fist like it’s a drug deal gone wrong.
“That depends,” he says. “How fast can you get here?”
I check my watch. It’s still early. If I leave now, I’ll miss rush hour, but I can’t spare a moment longer.
“Give me thirty,” I say.
Marc
I’m in such a fucking rush.
I’ve got a rental property that needs a plumber, a meeting in an hour that I’m going to be late to, and to make matters worse, my kid is doing all she can to get on my nerves because of a simple mistake I made a few days ago. It shouldn’t be the end of the world, but trust me, it’s damn close.
Okay, maybe I screwed up. I spent too many days in the office. I missed her school play. In the matter of a day, I became the terrible dad people hate to watch in movies.
It happens.
A good father admits when he’s wrong. An even better father makes it up to their kid. I told my daughter I’d get her a kitten to cheer her up, and these eight year olds are tricky. She’s old enough to remember my promises now. She makes sure I keep them too. Now I have to get her a pet. A dog is a better choice for a family.
At the gas station, she’s got me spun around her finger, tugging on my jacket pocket, begging for one of those festive bags of candy hearts.
“No, sweetie,” I say. “Another time. We have to get that puppy.”
I glance out the window, watching as a vintage 1967 Chevy station wagon rolls behind my car. The bumper sticker catches my eyes: I’m a teacher. What’s your superpower?
It’s been a ruthless year for business. And I mean ruthless. Between the multi-million dollar magazine deals, rentals, and other strong investments, I’d say my superpower is turning a dollar into ten billion.
Sammy twists her mouth and pouts, but I’m doing my best to ignore it. I spoil her enough as it is, and she doesn’t realize she’s about to get a new dog.
It’s not a cat. She better cheer up, regardless.
Nodding at the gas station clerk, I put forty on the table and give an awkward smile. “Give me thirty on pump number nine.”
Samantha yanks on the fabric of my new suit. “Dad...”
A pathetic sigh falls from my mouth. “And I’ll take a couple bags of those candy hearts,” I say.
I have all the money in the world. I own over thirty percent of the magazine business, a dying relic that surprisingly still makes a ton of ad revenue. Stuff that should amount to some real power. Yet, this little eight year old girl controls me.
Where did I go wrong?
The young, starry-eyed, pimply clerk stares back at me. “Be mine, Valentine.”
I’m halfway to Tacoma. Get me out of here. “Just give me the gas and candy, please.”
As he bags the candy and hands me a receipt, I lift my eyes and stare past him, through the glass. Back to that station wagon. Normally, I don’t focus on the peripheral. I’ve got meetings on the mind, and everything is a delicate balance.
It’s not the car that keeps me staring. It’s who’s inside it.
The door opens, lights reflecting off the chipped brown paint. A woman’s heel hits the ground. A long leg leads to the inside of the car where a slim figure with a set of heart shaped hips sits, poised to pounce. She’s wearing a skirt short enough to show off the tops of her thighs, but it’s not an intentional, vain sort of way. No, this is someone who is different from any other woman I usually associate with. Someone who doesn’t concern herself with the bullshit.
She’s perfect...
I need to find out more.
Entranced, I take my receipt and head for the exit. Shoulders hunched, eyes wide, and breath heavy, I force my body through the door.
Samantha taps my hand. Her mouth is full of candy. “Thank you, dad.”
“What?” I ask, stunned. “Oh, yeah. Sure thing, kiddo.”
As the entrance jingle resounds like wedding bells over my head, the clerk calls out to me. I’m barely even listening. “Thank you, sir!”
I’m in love…
Bending forward, she slides her card into the machine. An error message comes up on the screen. I watch as her muscles tighten with irritation, and my eyes drop to her ass, staring as those creamy thighs form a perfect line to my cock.
I’m not always a maniac. But it’s almost Valentine’s Day, and I’m feeling a little… lonely. And despite the fact that I’ll probably never marry, I’m entertaining the idea of doing it a different way.
Starting over and living a normal life in a smaller, cozier house. Vacations to San Diego. Family dinners. Celebrating her tenure at whatever university she works for. All the stuff I’ve sort’ve botched to get a firm financial hold on my life.
Seeing this woman makes me wonder if I’m even living.
Samantha fi
dgets, jumping to get my attention. Grabbing my keys, she unlocks my Mercedes. “Dad, I’ll race you to the car.”
I’m practically floating. “Anything you say, sweetie.”
Another error message flashes on the pump’s screen, increasing her irritation. She slides the card again, growing more and more frantic as a series of error signs flash. I’m close enough to read the screen. Declined.
She doesn’t have the funds to pay for it, but I’ve got my hand in my pocket, fingers sliding around my leather wallet. I feel the metallic edges of my card, and before I know it, I’m acting bolder than I ought to around a woman I don’t even know.
I have all the best intentions in the world as I slide my card into the slot before she can destroy it with her heels. A pleasant green light flashes back at me. A soft perfume flows through my nostrils, and I sniff extra hard to feel the unexpected hit of endorphins.
“Regular or diesel,” I ask.
Her auburn hair whips near my face as she turns to see which intruder reached near her neck. The smell of her, perfect. I don’t want to think I’m some asshole who doesn’t understand a woman’s boundaries, so I take a step back and awkwardly loosen my tie.
Though they are covered by a thick set of lenses, her eyes are a warm, golden brown, making the sun look pathetic in comparison. Her eyebrows are thick, unkempt, but strangely reminiscent of some calm I felt a lifetime ago but forgot about. Her clothes are nothing fantastic or memorable, but they fit her well, to the T. I probably look like a crazy person, gawking, but she’s absolutely gorgeous.
Those thick brows crease with confusion. “Regular.”
I press the button and nod, drumming up all the excuses I could use to get her number. Turning, I see my daughter in the front seat, bouncing to the radio. Could I use her as my wing-man? No, that would be wrong. My money and status? That usually works, but I don’t have a clue where I am or where she’s from. Not to mention, billionaire CEO isn’t the most loved job in the world, especially in the Pacific northwest. These days, it’s better to avoid the discussion.
