I close my eyes as hard as I can as if my eyelids can prevent the tears that I’m about to shed. But it doesn’t work as I feel my skin become damp with my sadness. This guy is going to capitalize on his fifteen minutes of fame by selling puppies while hundreds of sweet, older dogs will die. Like that poor Chi. I don’t have a place for her. I can’t save her. I can’t save them all. Gidget will be murdered when she is dropped off at the shelter. Her crime—not having a family.
My chest constricts. I know her pain—for I don’t have a family either.
I force myself to open up my eyes. As I wipe my tears, I see someone walk toward the back of the store. A tall, dark, handsome figure who I recognize immediately.
My chest constricts—Preston Evans is inside.
I should smash in the window. That would get his attention.
But that would also get me thrown in jail.
Hmm. I ponder my options for a bit—then it hits me.
I return to my car, open the passenger door, and pop open my glove box, retrieving a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs. My ex and I had been into some light bondage. He had given me back my stuff the other week, and I have been too busy to clean out my car.
And now these restraints will serve a higher purpose.
I grab the cuffs, a bottle of water, plus my purse, and walk back to the store.
I take a deep breath and clamp the cold metal against my wrist, the familiar tightness causing my heart to race. I lock the other end of the cuffs and place it on the door handle. The clink of metal against the steel exhilarates me as the handcuffs give one click of finality.
Preston Evans will not open his store.
He’ll have to get through me first.
And I’m not going to go down without a dogfight.
Chapter Two
Preston
“Preston!” Hugh, my business manager, yells at me from the showroom. “Get your ass out here. There’s some deranged chick handcuffed to the front of our store. She probably wants you to bone her.”
What the fuck? My stomach knots and I pray Kira didn’t hear Hugh’s shouting through the phone. “But you promised you’d go to the pet expo with me and then help me with the preparations for the grand opening. You’re so good with dogs,” I plead with her.
“Whatever, Preston. I agreed to help you before we broke up. It would be awkward now. I can’t go to Hawai’i with my ex.”
My chest tightens. I need this store to be successful. “I’m not trying to get back together with you. We weren’t right for each other. But you could still help me out—as a friend.”
She makes a noise that I can’t decipher as a laugh or a huff. “We’ll always be friends, but I don’t think us going to an area known for romantic getaways and working together is a great idea right now.”
But I need you. “Come on, Kira. You promised to help me. You can’t just flake on me two days before we’re supposed to go.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Besides, I’ve been asked to teach at a charity yoga event. I’m sure you can find someone else to go with you and also help to open your store. Maybe you can ask the girl handcuffed outside your front door.”
Great. She definitely heard.
“Really funny. Take care, Kira.”
“Bye, Pres.”
Dammit. I’m screwed. I don’t know anything about dogs. Hell, I don’t even own one, though I was close to Kira’s beagle, Lady. I loved that damn dog, but I haven’t seen Lady or Kira since we broke up a few months ago.
I knock back the rest of my beer, toss the bottle in the trash, and contemplate my options. I scroll through my Instagram like it’s LinkedIn and pray I can find someone I know who loves dogs. Maybe a pet groomer, or a sexy veterinarian, or a kickass dog trainer.
But it can’t be just anyone. I need a dog whisperer with a ton of followers, so I can get the word out about my business and hopefully impress investors and vendors at the expo. Someone who’s interesting, smart, and cool, since I’ll have to travel and work with her. I don’t want to be stuck with some vapid, materialistic woman. I suppose I could hire a man, but I’m already working with Hugh, so it’d be nice to have some feminine energy around the shop.
Should I post an ad? Contact some friends to see if they know anyone?
I’m a leader, decisive in every aspect of my life. For once, I have no idea what to do about this mess.
But for now, I have to take care of the situation outside.
Damn these groupies.
Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate their attention, and I’m grateful for their support, but being a social media superstar is just as much of a blessing as it is a curse. The worst part about the overexposure is that I never know anymore if a woman likes me for who I am or if she’s just using me to grow her own following.
I miss the art of seduction and the anticipation of a new relationship. That initial spark when I first see a woman I want. Flirty banter while I’m pursuing her. Planning a romantic first date. The anticipation before the first kiss, then ultimately seducing her. I love the chase, the hunt. Everything is too easy these days. With a swipe right, I can get laid in twenty minutes without even having to work for it.
I emerge from the back and walk into the main showroom of our new store, Doggy Style.
If someone had told me three years ago when I was still a grunt in the Marine Corps that I would someday become the star of a sex video and end up pimping puppies as a result, I never would’ve believed it. But I suppose one could say my life has gone to the dogs. The video that Kira broadcast of me fucking her went viral.
At first, I’d been furious with her. Not that I was embarrassed. Fuck no. I’m a beast in the bedroom.
Or on the floor.
Or, like in the video, over a table.
But I knew the footage would make it a struggle to obtain future sponsorships for any business endeavor I chose to pursue. And since the tape was released, this has proved true. Sure, the entertainment industry embraced me, but serious business investors have refused to take my calls.
And my father won’t even speak to me.
Even so, that video changed my life. And so I’m rolling with it. My line of Doggy Style t-shirts and merchandise has blown up. I’m making a killing. Opening this store is the next part of my plan to build an empire.
I pause and take in the space, which already looks awesome. Doggy couture hangs on the racks, sparkly collars are displayed in cases, and pet art decorates the walls.
But the highlight of Doggy Style is our puppies.
Two dozen purebred puppies have been artistically arranged in designer plastic crates against the back wall, but unlike some other stores, we’re treating every dog wonderfully. Our puppies receive the best food, toys, and medical care that money can buy.
Hugh, who is also my childhood best friend, stands at the front of the store, peering out the window. Dude is nothing like me. I’m tall; he’s short. I spend hours in the gym; he spends hours playing Xbox. I love to surf; the guy can’t swim. But he’s my right-hand man. He has been completely supportive of this entire store concept, and I’m excited to build it with him, but he doesn’t know anything about dogs either. I just figured this would be a good business opportunity to capitalize on my notoriety.
I slap Hugh on the back. “Where is she?”
“There. She keeps chanting, ‘Save the dogs!’ I think she’s one of those psycho animal protesters.”
Great. Just what I need. Bad publicity. But I’ve learned the hard way that any buzz is a good buzz. Maybe I can find a way to spin this.
When I squint through the frosted glass window, my feelings of anxiety morph into lust.
Handcuffed to our front door is a stunningly beautiful woman. She has waist-length black hair that grazes her incredibly round ass, full breasts that fill out her tight black t-shirt, and plump pink lips that are practically begging to be kissed. Her left arm has a kickass Catrina tattoo—a sexy skeleton girl with a cross on her forehead and a red ros
e under her chin.
I unlock the door, careful not to hit her as I open it, step outside, and give her a smile. “If you wanted to meet me, you could’ve just knocked.”
At the sound of my voice, she takes a step back. The moment her dark eyes meet mine, I see her breath falter slightly and her pupils dilate with desire.
This hunter has found his prey.
The moment exists for mere seconds before her look of lust is replaced by rage. A scowl crosses her face as she retorts, “Meet you? Wow, arrogant much? Why on earth would I want to meet a womanizing fame whore who sells puppies? You’re disgusting.”
A womanizing fame whore? I’m not a cheater; I had been faithful and loyal to Kira. And now I’m single. But damn. Hugh’s right. She is one of those animal activists. Maybe she’s posed naked for a PETA ad?
I make a mental note to get her name and Google her.
I point to the cuffs. “Got a key for those? Or should I saw them off? Hey, if you’re into some BDSM, I’m your man.”
She flicks me off.
Damn, she’s a feisty one.
“You’ll never be my man. And I’m not leaving until you stop selling puppies here. Do you know that one point five million animals are killed in shelters every year?”
I’ve heard that number thrown around before, but I’m pretty sure it’s exaggerated. Kira had been involved with rescuing beagles from testing laboratories, but I don’t know too much about shelter dogs. “Look, people will always buy puppies. Our dogs come from good breeders. Would you like to come inside and see them?”
She sneers at me, and a few people walking down the street stop to stare at her as her voice gets louder.
“Oh, I know all about your dogs. I have devoted my life to rescuing their mothers, who spend their lives crammed into steel crates on farms until they’re drowned or shot when they can no longer breed. And there’s no such thing as a responsible breeder. It’s an oxymoron. Actually, you’re the moron. You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about!”
Whoa. Her face is red, and she bares her teeth at me like a rabid dog.
But beneath her fury, I see determination. Dedication to her cause. It’s a look that I recognize from the battlefield.
I have many faults, but overreacting isn’t one of them. As a former sniper, I was trained to remain calm under pressure. And this beautiful woman is clearly enraged. I decide not to antagonize her further.
I lean on the wall next to her. “Hey, relax. What’s your name?”
“Don’t you tell me to relax. Saving dogs is my life. I run a rescue. Earlier today, I saved three dogs today from a shelter only a few miles from here. They were scheduled to be murdered, and hundreds of dogs die there daily. And there’s nothing I can do about it. And now, because of your stupid store, even more will be slaughtered.”
Her voice is choked with emotion. And for the first time since I came up with the idea to open the store, I question whether I’m doing the right thing.
But the self-doubt only lasts for a second. Of course, I’m doing the right thing. I researched and found the best breeders. This is America. I risked my life in Iraq for our freedom, and that freedom extends to having choices about where to acquire your pets.
“Let’s start over. I’m Preston Evans. Tell you what, if you uncuff yourself, I’ll listen to everything you have to say. Let me take you to dinner. There’s a great little restaurant down the street.”
Her beautiful eyes widen in surprise. “Dinner? With you? No. That’s out of the question. I’m not going anywhere with you. And I sure as hell won’t let you open this store.”
I touch her shoulder, and she flinches. I raise my hands in mock surrender. “I get that, but I’m a businessman. I’m willing to listen to your points and facts, and then I’ll make an educated decision. Although I’m not promising anything. That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
She shakes her head. “No. I see the puppies inside. You won’t change your mind. I know all about you—I’ve seen your Instagram. All you care about is how many followers you have, and you’re not above exploitative tactics to get them. Now hundreds of dogs are going to die as a direct result of your disgusting store.”
I take a step back and study her. Ever since that video was released, no one—except for my father—has stood up to me. Not Hugh. Not even Kira. I’m surrounded by “yes” men and “Oh, yes!” women. It’s refreshing to meet someone who isn’t impressed by me at all.
Someone who despises me.
Someone who’s a challenge.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me sweetheart. That’s degrading.”
“How is ‘sweetheart’ degrading? I didn’t call you ‘bitch.’ Would it offend you, too, if I held your door open for you?”
“I don’t need anyone to hold a door open for me, least of all you. I don’t know you, nor do I want to.”
Man, she’s really busting my balls. “Fine. What’s your name, and what’s the name of your dog rescue?”
She bites her lip but grudgingly replies. “My name is Yesenia Cordova but I go by Yessi. I’m the adoption coordinator for Pugs N Roses. We’re a nonprofit dog rescue here in Huntington Beach.”
As she speaks, I can’t resist eye-fucking her. Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s completely unlike any woman I’ve met lately. She has a style all her own—badass Latina. I take in every inch of her. From her long, thick eyelashes framing her whiskey-brown eyes, to her tight jeans and plain black t-shirt covered in dog hair. I feel a twinge of jealousy over the dogs who must’ve been nestled on her chest.
“Nice to meet you, Yesenia. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”
“What I want is for you to stop selling puppies at your store. Once you agree, I’ll leave you alone. If you don’t agree, I’ll be your worst nightmare. I’ll be down here every week with a slew of protesters, making your life a living hell.”
Ha. I stifle a laugh. “I can just have you arrested.”
“The cops aren’t going to arrest peaceful protesters. I’m serious. I’m part of a secret rescue network, and we’re all crazy. Batshit, actually. We will ruin your business. We’ve shut down pet shops before, and I can’t wait to shut down yours, too.”
Dammit. Protesters hadn’t crossed my mind when I agreed to open the store, and we already have agreements and contracts with breeders across the country.
“What’s in it for me?” I can’t help the flirtatious tone that creeps into my voice at the end.
Her face contorts with disdain. “What do you mean? You want a reward for being a decent human being and not contributing to the slaughter of homeless pets?”
“If I stop selling purebred puppies in here, what will you do for me?”
She shakes her head. “You’re even worse than I thought you’d be. Sorry, Preston, I’m not going to suck your cock.”
The way she says “cock” sends a jolt to mine. I love her filthy mouth. She’s delicious.
I have to fuck her.
But as gorgeous as she is, her beauty is marred by sadness. Instead of looking hopeful and bright, her eyes hide an inner pain.
I pull out my phone and search for her profile on Instagram. A Yessi Cordova pops up instantly, and I notice that she follows me. I quickly peruse her feed and am surprised by how impressive it is. Beautiful artwork, intricate tattoos, quotes, pictures with dogs, and, most importantly, thirteen thousand followers. I click on a post and notice it received six hundred and forty-six likes.
I show her the screen, still on her profile. “Nice feed.”
“Well, enjoy it for now. I’ll be blocking your account.”
Ha. She always has a comeback.
Then an idea springs to mind.
Maybe I can alleviate her pain, and she can help me with my business. She seems like she would be perfect to work at my store. She spends all her time with dogs, and she can get the other protesters off my back. Working with
a dog rescuer who has a big following will do wonders for my optics.
And I’d love to see her in a skimpy bikini in Hawai’i.
But it won’t be easy to get her to agree to help me. I mean, why should she? She’s clearly appalled by my existence.
She has to have some Achilles’ heel that I can use to get her to help me out.
I recheck Instagram, this time heading to her rescue page. A picture of a sorry-looking Chihuahua with a pink collar is right at the top.
Bingo.
I follow her and her rescue on Instagram, and then I put my phone back in my pocket. “I changed my mind about dinner.”
She exhales loudly. I think I see a flash of disappointment cross her face but a second later it’s gone without a trace, making me wonder if I imagined it. “Good. I didn’t want to go anyway.”
“What are you going to do about that dog you posted earlier on your rescue page? The Chihuahua?”
Her lips tremble, and her voice softens. “I don’t know. You should’ve seen her owner. He didn’t care at all that she was going to die. I don’t have anywhere to place her.” She looks at the ground and halfheartedly kicks some rocks on the sidewalk.
I smile.
This is almost too easy. “I’ll take her.”
“What?” Yessi’s head whips up, her dark gaze pinning me in place.
“I said, I’ll take her. She can stay at the store. I’ll get her ready for the grand opening. You can adopt her out at our store.”
“Are you serious?” She sounds hopeful but is eyeing me cautiously. “Do you even have any dogs of your own? I’ve never seen any on your Instagram.”
I love that she knows what I post on Instagram. That means I have a chance. “Yes, I’m serious. And no, I don’t have any dogs of my own. Not yet. But I do want to help out this dog. Where is she?”
“She’s still with her owner. Actually, I’m freaking out about it. He was completely wasted—I’m afraid he’s going to dump her tonight at the shelter’s night drop.”
Night drop? For animals? Is that a thing? Pets, discarded like trash? Maybe she’s exaggerating. The thought of dogs and cats, abandoned, locked in cages in some cold, abandoned building creeps into my mind, but I push it out of my head.
Doggy Style Page 2
