by Natasha Deen
Just a few minutes—a quick doze. She padded to the rug of sunlight on the floor, warmth penetrated through her coat and with the strength and speed of a powerful narcotic. She sank to the floor and allowed blissful sleep overtake her.
The sound of the key in the lock jerked her from slumber. Bounding to her feet, she raced to the door—not so much to greet Dillon, but to run through when he opened it.
“Hey—Princess!” His form filled her view. She wriggled past him, but he crouched and caught her by the chest and hips. “How did you get out?”
“Don’t ask—and from now on, leave the toilet seat down.” The scent of a woman’s musky perfume, the dosage heavy and cloying, surrounded her senses. She sneezed and blinked the burning sensation from her eyes.
“What’s that?”
The nasal voice grated on Aggie and set her growling. She squiggled, nosing her way past Dillon’s hips and arms, poking her snout and eyes through the gap in his hold, to see the owner of the voice. Brandy.
The woman’s lip curled into a snarl as she pointed to Aggie with a long, red, fingernail. “When did you get that?”
“I found her on my porch this morning, when I went to get the newspaper,” said Dillon, panting with exertion as he restrained Aggie. “That’s funny. She’s never growled, before.”
Brandy’s dark eyes narrowed with dislike. “I’m not a dog person.”
“That makes us even, I’ve always disliked brandy,” said Aggie, who had matters of a genie-kind on her mind and was in no mood to stay a dog for a second more than necessary. She continued to slither and snake in Dillon’s arms, twisting and shimmying, but he held fast.
“I think I need to get her inside for a minute,” he panted, his breaths coming in warm puffs that tickled her ear. “Do you want to come in?”
“I suppose.” She acquiesced with ill-grace and a petulant tone. Brandy stepped into the foyer and placed a large, cloth bag to the side as Dillon hauled Aggie inside and closed the door.
She whimpered, and then gave him the most heart-wrenching look that she could manage, and scratched at the door.
“Do you need to go outside, Princess?”
Brandy snorted. “She’s a little scraggly to be called “Princess.””
Aggie growled and met Dillon’s gaze. He offered a small smile as he rolled his eyes.
“Hand me the collar and leash from the bag, please.” He crouched beside Aggie and scratched that spot behind her ears. Pleasure made her eyes roll back, and she whined with delight. She pressed into him, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity and not roll onto her back.
“Your bag is still on the steps.” Brandy followed her words with an investigation of her nails and a fluffing of her hair.
This time, it was Dillon who growled. “Could you hold the dog while I get it, then?”
Brandy barred her lips in contempt. “You just found it—it could have a disease or insects.”
“I don’t know what you’re afraid of,” Aggie said, “pestilence would be too terrified to land on you.”
Dillon sighed. “Fine. Then could you please go outside and get the bag while I hold her?”
She grimaced, as though he’d asked her to lay tar while wearing a bikini and stilettos. Brandy wrenched the door open, scooped the bag off the step and then slammed the door behind her. “Here.”
“Thank you.”
The dark green burlap bag rasped dully as Dillon reached in and pulled out a pink collar with the name “Princess” in tiny diamantes.
“Pink? On a red-coloured dog?”
If that woman didn’t shut up soon, Aggie was going to bite her. Hard.
“Aggie has red hair, and she says it’s the shade of pink you choose.”
“Aggie, Aggie, Aggie. That’s the only name you’ve talked about all day. God, you’d think the two of you were an old married couple.”
“She’s my best friend, and she’s missing.” He looped the collar around Aggie’s throat and tightened it.
“She’s a grown woman—she probably went off with some guy for the weekend.”
Dillon jerked open the door. “You should leave. I mean, thank you for waiting and lending me a hand with my dog. Everything’s under control, and I have to take Princess for a walk. You can go. Now.”
“Oh.” Brandy’s eyes dimmed. “Why don’t I come with you—then I’ll take you out for dinner. My treat, for your help today.”
“Thanks, but I should stay home. In case Aggie calls and needs me.” He gestured to the porch. “Drive safe.”
His curt dismissal had Aggie’s tail wagging and her tongue lolling from her mouth in a wide, doggy smile. Brandy traipsed through the door, but she paused at the threshold and flicked a finger under his chin. He jerked back, she followed. Dillon kept retreating, she pressed into his personal space until not even sunlight could get between them.
A wet dog nose, however, could prove an effective tool to pry them apart. Aggie held her breath, swallowed her revulsion and goosed Brandy. The redhead yelped and leaped aside. She adjusted her skirt and seared Aggie with a contemptuous look.
“Not so close, Princess. We hardly know each other.”
“I know all I need to—now get.” Her words came out as a low growl.
Brandy’s face oozed dislike but she mopped her expression before turning to Dillon, and saying, “I’ll see you later. I had a great time—I’ll call you, and we’ll do dinner.”
He watched her saunter to her luxury car and muttered, “Remind me to change my number.”
Aggie stepped outside. The wooden slats of the porch creaked under her weight and the breeze curled around her, tossing her hair into playful tufts. Her inner dog wanted to snap at the air and play chase with the aromas curling around her, but human nature pushed her home, and to Ebony. She broke into a trot and felt an unceremonious yank at her collar.
Aggie launched an evil glare and hit the target—Dillon’s dark eyes. He shrugged and loosened his grip on the pink leash. She pulled. He reigned her back. Sighing with exasperation, she stretched, then shook her body, starting at her head and working her way through to her tail. Her ears flapped against her head and her jowls made the most un-lady-like slapping sound. Then she sat and gave him the most pitiful, “how could you yank my collar?” look she could manage.
“Pout all you want,” he said, “but I’m not losing you. The posters are up, and you’re my charge until your owners claim you.”
“I don’t have owners—but I’ll let you claim my heart, if you want.”
He gave the sides of her face a vigorous rub, and despite the indignity of having her jowls mashed and squashed, the impromptu massage made her smile and sent soothing chemicals canoeing through her blood.
“You’re such a good girl, no matter what Brandy says.”
“Come on, let’s go to my house and get this genie wish over and done with.” She tugged at her leash, pulling him towards her home.
“What are you doing?” He yanked her backwards—not hard—but with enough pressure to heave her to an abrupt stop. Then he began to haul her in the opposite direction, towards the back of his house.
She pulled.
He tugged.
“Hello, Dillon, I need to get home. Men may find it romantic and Nature-Boyish to pee in the great outdoors, but I’d rather have my low-flow and some toilet paper.” Bearing all of her weight down, Aggie gave a good, hard, yank, and launched him off his feet. She stumbled back; he stumbled forwards, losing his grip on the leash. Once she’d ascertained that he’d keep his balance, she ran for her home.
As she bolted up the steps, the piercing realization that she couldn’t get into the house, stabbed her brain, punctured the rhythm of her stride, and sent her careening into the front door. She rotated to the side, and hit the metal with a solid clunk, but no concussion. “Crap. Now what?”
Dillon barrelled up the stairs and provided the answer. She whined, scratched at the door, and made a grade-A ass of herself in a despe
rate attempt to impersonate Lassie.
“What is it, girl?”
“Timmy’s in the well.” Her doggy voice box left a lot to be desired when it came to sarcasm, but figuring even dogs got annoyed, she let the irritation pour out and said, “God’s sake, man, I’m all but throwing myself against the door. Take the damn hint and open it!” She cast a mournful look at the claw marks her nails left in the paint.
“Did you hear something while I was gone?” Fear tightened his voice and made his skin look like leather pulled too tight.
“Oh, no, don’t worry.” Contrition left a guilty hole in her stomach. “I’m fine—I have an urge to chase the magpie in that tree, but honest, I’m good. Please, just open the door and let me get the lamp.”
But Dillon was already digging into the hanging flower pot and pulling out her key. “I always told her it was a stupid idea to keep her key there, but she never listened. Now, some psycho’s taken the key, broken into the house and done something terrible to her.” He blew the dirt from it, moved to the door and engaged the lock in a quick, harried action.
“Right, but he had the courtesy to replace the key back into the pot. Honestly, Dillon, you’re sweet and imaginative, but those brain cells aren’t firing properly.”
The door opened and Aggie nosed it ajar, only to have him yank her back.
“There could be a psycho in there—you’re not going in, first.”
He didn’t just melt her heart, he liquefied it with the genuine concern he had for a stray dog. The beauty and kindness of his spirit tattooed her heart with the everlasting ink of forever love and engraved his name on her soul. She hopped to her hind feet, laid her paws on his chest, and licked his nose.
He grinned. “I swear, it’s like you know what I’m saying.”
She jumped down, and let him precede her into the house, knowing that he’d find nothing—except a tarnished Turkish teapot and the left over crumbs of her dinner.
Dillon moved with caution. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, then peered around the jamb, and Aggie, who respected his caution but had no time to waste, danced behind him, impatient but trying to honour his motivation.
Dillon stepped into the house and put his finger to his lips. An expression of consternation crossed his face.
Yeah, I’d feel pretty stupid shushing a dog and using sign language to do it.
Standing in the foyer with late afternoon light washing the house with orange tones, he scanned the open plan—from the living room to the great room and back. His shoulders dropped and a deep sigh hissed through his teeth.
“I was—I was afraid she’d be broken and bleeding on the carpet.” His voice caught as emotion overwhelmed him. The scents of relief, anxiety, and fear entwined, a pungent melody of aromas that left her heart breaking for his worry, and hastening her steps to the kitchen, for the lamp.
“Where are you going?”
“Kitchen. The sooner I change, the sooner you stop worrying about me.”
He followed behind, then as her foot-falls laid her path, he pulled ahead, taking the lead. So sweet, so protective, and so brave. She would never—could never—love anyone the way she loved him.
Aggie followed him into the kitchen. Afternoon light poured in through the windows, illuminating the room. Everything was as she’d left it, though the lamp eluded her vision.
Dillon moved to the patio door, opening it, and stepping onto the balcony. He came back in, closed the door, then changed his mind and pushed it ajar. “Just in case we need to make a hasty exit—don’t want to fiddle with locks and knobs. I’m going to check upstairs. Stay here.”
“No problem.”
His footsteps receded down the hall and she turned her attention to locating the lamp. The faint scent of figs and honey became thicker as she moved from the patio to the sink. Hoisting herself to her hind feet, she peered into the silver basin and found her treasure. It lay on its side, motionless.
“Ebony, can you hear me?”
No answer.
Worry for her genie friend and concern for herself had droplets of acid raining in her stomach. Even on her back legs, she hadn’t the height to dip her head into the sink and pull it out. Casting a quick glance at the hallway, she went to the table and grabbing a stool leg between her teeth, dragged it to the sink. Metal screeched against the floor, a horrible shrieking sound that made her ears ring and vibrated through her teeth.
She glanced backwards, cocking her ears for any sound of Dillon’s approach, but the house remained quiet. Aggie hopped on to the seat and grasping the lamp in a gentle, toothy vice, she pulled it out. She jumped down, landing with an awkward thump that twisted her back ankle. Ignoring the tendrils of pain beginning to curl around her tendons, she nosed the lamp.
Apparently, nosing a lamp didn’t count as a rub. She tried to rub it, but her paw movements were jerky, succeeding in shoving the lamp or spinning it. In the midst of yet another attempt, rapid contractions to her bladder reminded her that she hadn’t seen a bathroom since early that morning. Unwilling to leave the lamp, she held it in her teeth and headed out the back door. A backwards trot down the steps, quick diversion to the side of the house—where there were no windows for Dillon to peer out and see her—and she emerged, relieved in more ways than one.
Halfway up the stairs, she paused. If Dillon saw her taking the lamp out of the house, he’d make her put it back. And if he did a thorough search of the home, then he wouldn’t return. She back pedalled down the steps and ran to the common fence that separated their properties. Hiking to her back legs and bracing her front paws on the wooden slates, she tossed the lamp at the rim of the fence—and hit it. She tried again, and again, and on the fourth attempt, the genie gods took pity on her and the lamp toddled over the edge and into Dillon’s yard.
Delighted at her clever manoeuvre, she raced up the steps, into the house and went looking for her friend. She found him in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser with the panty drawer sprawled open.
“Just a clue, Dillon, but murderers don’t generally hide in a woman’s underwear drawer.”
He turned at the sound of her barks and gestured to the mound of lace and silk. “Women—my mother—always put personal items in their underwear drawer. I have no idea why, but…” a deep, heavy sigh ladened the room. “I thought maybe, if she had a boyfriend or a secret, I might find it in here.” He held up a handful of thongs and bikinis. “But all I’ve found is her addiction to Victoria Secret.”
“It’s not an addiction. Lots of women have panties for each minute of the day.” She walked to the drawer and nosed it closed.
“I don’t know what to do, Princess.” He flopped onto the bed. “The police say she has to be gone for a week before I can do anything.” His hand scraped his jaw-line, his eyes took on a tired, weary quality. “But disappearing without a word just isn’t her style.”
She placed her paw on his denim-clad knee and licked his hand. “I’m right here—and if you take me home, I can figure out how to undo this damn wish.”
His gaze met hers and in the fathomless depths of his dark pupils, she saw resignation, worry, and…love. They misted with tears, leaving glistening jewelled droplets on his eyelashes. “You want to hear something terrible, Princess? I came up here, wondering if I would find her lifeless body and when I didn’t, I almost passed out with relief. But then I started thinking about what Brandy said, how Aggie could have a secret boyfriend—and the idea that she might be in love made me as sick as when I thought she was dead. And the thing is, it’s not the fact that she would have kept it from me.” He took a deep breath. “It was the idea that she might be in love, and the man wasn’t me.”
His words shocked the strength from her legs. She fell to the ground, with a woofed, “What?”
“I know. Best friends aren’t supposed to have those kinds of thoughts. They aren’t supposed to notice their buddy’s behind or link her to Juliet.” He rose from the bed
in a slow, painful movement, crossed the room, and rested his head against the pane of window. “I’m in love with my best friend. Madly. Deeply. You’re not supposed to be in love with your best friend. That’s not just wrong, it’s stupid. You can lose a girlfriend, and you can lose a friend. But do you know how screwed you’d be if you lost both in one fell swoop?”
She wanted to move to him, to comfort him. And once he’d settled, she wanted to throttle him for the illogical bend of his thinking that had kept them apart for three years and turned her into a dog, but she couldn’t do either. The surprise of his confession, the fruition of her dreams, stole all thought and strength and left her in a muddled, furry mess.
“She’s gone. My Aggie’s gone, and I don’t know where to find her. She was upset last night, and I wasn’t paying attention—she needed me, and I assumed it was just work related. And now,” his voice broke. “She’s missing. Her car’s here, her purse is here, and the only conclusions left to me are so horrible to consider that I can’t even bear to think of them.”
What are you thinking? Where could I be, if not by your side? I love you, Dillon. I love you.
A tear trailed down his cheek. “I feel like such a failure—I can’t go to the police. She’s an orphan, there’s no family for me to call. None of our friends know where she is, and her office is closed until Monday. The only other place she’d go is my parents, but they say she never called.”
He turned back to the window. “Do you think she might be in the woods—do you think she might have done something…unspeakable to herself?”
Bolts of comprehension lit the sky of her mind and sent realization thrumming through her body. “You think I might have offed myself?”
That he’d dived off the deep end of possibilities spurred her into action. She jumped up, raced to him and grasping his jeans in her mouth, pulled him to the door.
