by Mary Calmes
His muscles clamped around me as he broke the kiss to yell, spurting onto the door, shuddering against me as my own orgasm followed his and I pumped into him, filling him up, semen dripping hot and thick between us.
I leaned heavily, still buried in his ass, and kissed along his jaw as he let his head fall back on my shoulder. “I love you,” I said, licking the sweat from his skin. “Be careful while you’re away from me.”
He moved his head, just barely acknowledging my request. “Kiss me more.”
It was all I wanted to do.
IT WAS standing room only on the opposite side of the vet’s office downtown off Cicero. Even though my boyfriend, and therefore his dog, now both lived with me in Lincoln Park, we hadn’t looked into finding a new vet for the werewolf yet. So Chickie and I made the trip out to frighten the locals even without meaning to.
No matter what I said, no one believed that the bear-sized dog sitting beside me wasn’t going to eat anyone. He was simply too big. His paws were as large as my hands splayed out, his head dwarfed mine, and up on his back legs, he could drape his front legs over my shoulders—and I was five eleven in my bare feet. It wasn’t his fault that he made two, or even three, of most dogs. He wasn’t a creature out of a horror movie; he just looked like one.
“Hybrids are illegal in Chicago, you know,” a woman scolded me from where she was cowering with her cat carrier against the far wall.
“Yes ma’am, I know,” I said, letting my head thunk softly back against the wall, as Chickie Baby stretched and put his head in my lap, the movement causing a gasp from the entire left side of the room.
“Someone should report you to the authorities,” another concerned pet owner chimed in.
“Mrs. Gunderson.” Susannah, the perky vet tech, sighed as she walked into the lobby and toward Chickie and me. “If this dog was, in fact, a wolf hybrid, do you think we’d be taking care of him or reporting him to animal control?”
No answer to that.
She reached us and squatted down beside Chickie, who wagged his tail but otherwise didn’t move. “What’s the matter with Ian’s baby?”
“I dunno, but he won’t eat, and that’s cause for concern. I mean, normally he eats his own weight in food a day.”
She chuckled. “Well, let’s go ahead and bring him on back.”
Once the door closed behind me, I heard movement on the other side. “You realize that now everyone can fan out, right?”
She laughed softly. “He is a big dog, Miro.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t actually eat people.”
“No, but he certainly could.”
I lifted the sweet face with the black muzzle. “Look at those eyes. Are those the eyes of a cold-blooded killer?”
When she looked at him, Chickie eased his nose out of my hand and licked my fingers.
“Awww,” she crooned. “No. He’s a sweet baby.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed, following her down the hall to the exam room. After we weighed him—110 pounds of powerful muscle—I took a seat in the chair. Chickie rested his head in my lap, under my hand, and I petted him as Susannah said that he was down three pounds from a year ago.
“Which is a tiny amount of weight for a dog Chickie’s size,” she cautioned.
“All right,” I said, getting worried anyway, scratching behind his ears.
“Is it possible he just misses Ian?” Susannah offered. “How long’s he been gone?”
“He’s only been gone three weeks, so I doubt that’s it.”
“Was he deployed?”
“He was,” I answered, trying not to sound as dejected as I felt. The relationship part of us was still only about six months old, so when he was home I could barely keep my hands off him. Three weeks without him with no end in sight, and I was ready to climb the walls. I hated that since Ian was a reserve officer, the Army could call him up at a moment’s notice. The worrying was taking its toll on me, and I missed having him in my bed.
“Miro?”
I coughed. “Sorry, I just don’t buy Chickie starving himself ’cause Ian’s not home.”
“Oh no?”
“No. That dog doesn’t miss a meal for any reason, and normally he eats more when Ian’s gone.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Ian’s really careful with how often he feeds him, but me, not so much.”
She nodded. “I see. Well, I’d take his temperature, but our large animal thermometer broke last week, and we’re waiting on the new one to come in.”
“That’s okay. His nose is cold, so I think he’s good.”
She shook her head like I was ridiculous.
“What?”
“That’s adorable. Been watching lots of Lassie reruns, have you?”
I smirked at her, and she cackled before promising to send the doctor right in as she closed the door behind her.
I sat there with Ian’s dog and petted him more. “Whatever this is, Chick, we’ll figure it out.”
He yawned wide to show me he wasn’t all that racked up about it, himself.
When the door opened, the vet came in—Dr. Alchureiqi, who was one of the nicest men I had ever met. Chickie liked him as well, as evidenced from his quick rise and trot over.
“Oh, Mr. Wolf, why aren’t you eating?” he asked Chickie in his warm Egyptian accent. “Is it your stomach or—oh, what do we have here, wedged in our tooth?”
It was simple, but what the hell did I know? It wasn’t like Chickie was going to let me floss his teeth or something. But seriously, what kind of dog got a piece of bark stuck between his incisors? What the hell was he doing, gnawing on a tree?
A hundred and fifteen dollars later, I had an appointment to get his teeth cleaned, dog treats that helped clean off plaque, and a stern reprimand about keeping an eye on him when he went outside. I did the patronizing nodding, and everyone in the office was surprised when teeny Susannah smacked me on the arm.
“You broke your hand, didn’t you,” I teased.
“No,” she sulked, even as she shook out her fingers. My bicep was bigger than her thigh; there was no way it hadn’t hurt. “You’re built like a damn lumberjack or something.”
I chuckled and she turned a charming shade of scarlet.
We walked out the front to scattered gasps, having scared everyone again. Watching them all clutch their pets, I rolled my eyes before we hit the front door. Outside, we startled a woman when we arrived on the sidewalk, and she grabbed her kid tight as she rushed by.
Chickie was going to get a complex. It was ridiculous. I wanted to yell out that he only ate men and women, no kids, but since that would in no way help the situation, I let it go.
We crossed the street to the small parking lot, and I put Chickie in the passenger seat of my Toyota Tacoma pickup, buckled him in, and then went around to the driver’s-side door.
“Give me your wallet” came the demand at the same time I felt a gun muzzle shoved between my shoulder blades.
I froze as Chickie began barking inside the cab.
It was a side street right off normally bustling Cicero Avenue, but it was Saturday morning, not quite as much traffic, so I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was.
“Don’t turn around and no one’s gonna get hurt,” the man promised. “Just pass the wallet over your shoulder.”
Deliberately, I pulled my ID from the breast pocket of my Burberry wool-blend military greatcoat and did exactly as he asked, holding it over my right shoulder for him.
“Oh fuck.” He groaned as Chickie wriggled free of the seatbelt and flung himself against the door, pawing the glass, his nails clicking on it, snarling and growling, trying to get to me. “You’re a cop?”
“Marshal,” I corrected as he pushed the muzzle of the gun harder into my back.
“Fuck,” he swore again as Chickie lost his mind and howled.
Grabbing the door fast, I opened it a crack and Chickie exploded from the cab, the force of the door opening knocking me back into
the man, slamming us onto the asphalt at our feet.
He dropped the gun and my ID when he landed, scrambled out from under me, and ran. I was winded for a moment, but he was operating on far more adrenaline than I was. I knew the dog wouldn’t rip my face off; he was under no such impression.
“Chickie,” I yelled, but he was gone, barreling after the fleeing man.
I stood unsteadily, retrieving the gun and my ID, and watched as Chickie caught the guy in a flying leap, grabbed him by the shoulder, jaws clamping down, and lifted him off his feet in a blur of motion before hurling him to the ground like he was a rag doll instead of a man.
I groaned.
“Oh!” a bystander yelled from the other side of the parking lot.
“Jesus Christ!” another shouted from the sidewalk.
A good Samaritan who’d come running to see if I was all right grimaced in sympathy with the criminal. “Oh shit, that had to hurt.”
“Dayum,” a woman standing beside her Volkswagen Beetle two cars away called out as well, all of us watching Chickie dance around his fallen quarry.
The takedown had looked painful and the man wasn’t moving.
It was fortunate that Chickie wasn’t a trained attack dog or he would have gone for the jugular and the guy would be dead. As it was, he growled and barked, circled his victim, wagged his tail, basically waiting for his fallen quarry to twitch or move in any way. Jogging over to them, I called Chickie to me and petted him as the man simply lay there and moaned.
“I called 911 for you, brother,” good Samaritan, who had followed me, said.
“Thank you.” I sighed, squatting down and holding Chickie as the guy on the ground turned over.
“I think he broke my back, marshal,” the would-be-robber said hoarsely, still not in possession of all the air normally in his body.
“And what did we learn?” I asked snidely.
Applause caught my attention, and I turned to see all the people from the veterinarian’s office standing outside the front door, clapping. It was nice that they all saw Chickie for the good boy he was. As I heard sirens in the distance, I petted him while he took a seat beside me.
“Next time just grab the perp’s leg, okay?”
All I got for my trouble was a wet nose in the eye.
I HAD to go down to the police station, file a report, have the vet fax over Chickie’s medical records so I could prove all his shots were up to date and he didn’t have rabies, and then sit for hours before giving a statement about exactly what had occurred. And that was fast!—with them throwing some professional courtesy my way after they found out I was a marshal. The sheer volume of paperwork involved in law enforcement was simply staggering.
“Why didn’t you use your gun?”
“’Cause I figured the dog would hurt more,” I lied. It took a lot for me to pull my gun on someone, certainly a life-and-death struggle, and those were few and far between.
“Really?” the officer taking my statement asked, chuckling as he filled out the report on his computer, leaning forward in his squeaky office chair.
“No, not really,” I groaned. “I usually yell first, right? You warn people before you shoot at them.”
“So then what happened?”
“My dog got there before I could even say ‘Stop or he’ll eat you.’”
The cop grinned wide. “What an idiot.”
“You get a badge when you mug someone, you drop it and run.”
“Right?”
I shrugged.
“Man, what’re they teaching these clowns in the joint nowadays,” the officer muttered.
Unfortunately for my mugger, threatening a peace officer, marshal, any law enforcement personnel at all carried with it a greater penalty than simply trying to rob your average person on the street. He was in for a world of shit.
It was a tedious way to spend my Saturday.
I had my phone out to call my boss and tell him about the robbery attempt as I was on my way home to Lincoln Park, but Chickie got out of the seatbelt and tried to climb into my lap while I was driving. How monster dog thought he was a Chihuahua was beyond me.
“Miro.”
Not my boss. Never in a million years, even if I was dying, would he use my first name. I had obviously misdialed, but I couldn’t make out who it was.
“Shit, Chick, sit—stupid dog, you’re lucky you saved my life today or I’d shoot—” I growled, “Fuck. Hello?”
“Who saved your life?”
“The dog,” I answered, not absorbed in the task of figuring out who I was talking to, more concerned with not dying in traffic because I had dog ass in my face. “Chickie, sit!”
“How did he save your life?”
“Some felon thought I looked like an easy mark,” I said, trying to sound serious as Chickie sat in my lap, completely obscuring my view of the road. “Over there!” I snarled, shoving him into the passenger seat, only to have him twist around and lick my neck.
“Are you all right?” The voice took on a frantic tone.
“Yeah, I’m—” It hit me like a fist in the face. “Ian?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Oh,” I gasped, my heart stopping. I pulled over quickly right before I got on Lakeshore Drive so I didn’t wreck. “Baby?”
He was instantly surly. “Are you asking or do you know?”
“I know.”
“You didn’t sound sure.”
“For crissakes, E,” I snapped, shortening his name to the first syllable, which I hardly ever did, because how dare he doubt me even for a second. “I couldn’t fuckin’ hear you ’cause I’m fighting with your goddamn dog!”
“What? Why? Where are you?” he asked irritably.
“I’m in the car with Chickie.”
“Doing what?”
“I had to take him to the vet ’cause he quit eating.”
“Did you check and see if he got something stuck in his teeth? His gums are really sensitive,” he said logically.
Perfect timing as usual. “No, I didn’t.”
“Is that what it was?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was.” I sighed, because even though we were discussing his annoying dog, I was in heaven talking to him on the phone. “Why are you calling? Are you hurt?”
“What?”
My heart stopped. “Oh shit. Ian—”
“And you called me, asshole.”
I had, but how in the world was he answering? “Ian… honey—”
“No, I’m not fuckin’ hurt!” he yelled. “Why would I get hurt? I’m not the one who had a run in with some—what? Was someone trying to rob you?”
“Yeah, I—”
“Did he pull a gun on you?”
“Yes, but it’s fine, I’m fine, not a scratch on me. Can you say the same? No holes in you? Why are you answering? Tell me why you’re answering!”
“I wanna know what happened with this guy!”
I had to rest my forehead on the steering wheel to try and get my breathing to even out. Chickie whined beside me, worried.
“Miro?”
“Just gimme a… sec,” I said shakily.
He coughed. “Don’t get all freaked out.”
“Hard not to.”
“Yeah,” he grumbled, his voice gravelly. “Me too. When I’m not there and something happens, I—my mind goes to the worst thing I can think of.”
“I know.” After a minute, I took a breath. “So I called you?”
“Yeah.”
“How did I do that?”
“You pushed the button on your screen, I suspect.”
“You’re such a wiseass.”
“Yeah, well,” he conceded. “Can’t be helped, born this way.”
We were both quiet for a long moment.
“So,” he began, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice. “You called by accident.”
“Yes.”
“You happy I picked up?”
Stupid man, stupid question.
Only Ian asked when the truth was so very obvious. “Yes. Very.”
“’Cause why?”
I swallowed first so I wouldn’t make a desperate, urgent sound in the back of my throat. “I miss you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Like bad?”
“You have no idea.”
He was silent again, and it hit me how whiny I must have sounded. “Sorry. I don’t mean to come off so needy. You’ll be home as soon as you can, I know that.”
“Miro!” he snarled.
What was I missing?
“I want you to miss me.”
“Well, that’s good, then.” I chuckled.
“And you know when I’m coming home.”
I did? “How?”
“When have you ever been able to fuckin’ call me when I’m deployed?”
“Never.”
“So what does that tell you?”
The answer occurred to me, and it wasn’t good. “Awww, man, did you accidentally leave your phone on? Did I uncloak your dagger?”
“You’re fuckin’ hysterical.”
“No, I mean, since when do black ops guys get phone calls?”
“We don’t when we’re out in the field.”
“Which means what?”
“Put it together, Jones.”
It hit me after a second. “You’re somewhere you can talk?”
The noise he made confirmed my deduction.
“Where?” I asked before I thought about it, desperate to know his location.
He coughed.
“No, wait,” I muttered. “I’m… sorry. I’m just bein’ stupid. You’re probably on an unsecured line and so—forget I said anything.”
He sighed, sounding exasperated. “Where are you exactly?”
I swallowed down my heart. “I was about to get on Lakeshore.”
“Okay,” he said simply. “Come home, then. I’m here.”
I froze, afraid to even breathe.
“Miro?”
“Ian—”
“For crying out loud, are you coming or not?”
“You’re at home?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Then get yours home!” he snarled.
I was silent a moment. “Well, that was clever,” I apprised him, smiling like an idiot. My man was home.
