Untamable
Page 1
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
EPILOGUE
Untamable
A Romantic Comedy
By Jamie Schlosser
Copyright © 2017 Jamie Schlosser
All rights reserved.
This novel is for your enjoyment only and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without permission from the author except for brief quotations in a book review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to locations or incidents, is coincidental.
Due to language and sexual content, this book is intended for readers 18 and older.
Cover design: Jay Aheer at Simply Defined Art
Formatting: Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction
Editing: Emily Lawrence at Lawrence Editing
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
To Dad—the best storyteller I know.
PROLOGUE
Two Years Ago
EMERY
“Emery! We need you in exam three.”
I lifted my head out of the cage I was cleaning and glanced at Christine.
Ignoring her panicked whisper, I asked, “Who put the regular cat litter in Fritzy’s box? The note specifically says he likes the newspaper shreds.”
Wide-eyed, she anxiously tugged at the hem of her zoo-themed scrub top. “I’m serious. Doctor Carson is about to blow a gasket.”
“See, the problem is,” I continued, wiping down the stainless-steel cage, “he won’t go to the bathroom in there. So he pees outside of the box, then sits in it. Now he needs a bath.”
“We can get to that later.” Swiping the frizzy hair away from her face, the middle-aged woman huffed. “We’ve got bigger problems right now.”
I let out a sigh. “All right. What’s going on?”
“It’s Arnold Miller.”
Ah. That explained the terror-stricken look on Christine’s face. She’d been a vet tech for decades. She knew all the ins and outs of this business, but no one put the fear of God in her like Arnold Miller.
The cat was hostile. Vicious. A pain in everyone’s ass.
Arnold was a cat whose full name was actually Twinkle Star Snowy Nose Tickle Toes. I had no idea where the hell that name came from, or why his owner called him Arnold. But his unfortunate title had nothing to do with the fact that he was an asshole.
Honestly, he was just misunderstood. I wouldn’t want to get shoved into a crate and brought to the doctor against my will either. Being aggressive was a natural fear-based response.
A low howl escalated to a high screech, and Christine shuddered as it echoed through the building. I sighed before quickly placing some fresh newspaper down for Fritzy, then I moved toward the awful sound coming from the exam room.
Christine didn’t follow.
When I got inside, there was a man I didn’t recognize in the far corner. Dressed in a sleek black suit, he looked extremely out of place among the linoleum floors and the cute kitten posters tacked to the wall. A hairball lingered near his shiny shoes. He glanced up from his cell phone with a bored expression, then went back to typing over the keys.
Next, my eyes went to Marty Miller, Arnold’s fearless owner. With his long gray beard, shaved head, and leather biker jacket, some people found him intimidating. But in the four years I’d worked at Remington Animal Medical Center, I’d gotten to know him pretty well.
Marty was a big softie who loved his asshole cat.
“Hey, Emery.” He gave a tight smile as he struggled with the angry animal on the metal exam table. “This tough guy got into a fight with the neighbor’s cat the other day. He’s got an infected bite on his hind leg.”
“Is he limping?” I asked.
“No. But he won’t stop licking at it and it’s oozing now. Probably got an abscess. You know how it goes.”
I nodded. This wasn’t the first time Arnold had been in here for this, and it wouldn’t be his last.
Doctor Carson cleared his throat. He was a few feet away, armed with the protective gloves. That was a mistake on his part.
“You won’t get anywhere near Arnold with those things on,” I told him. “He hates the gloves.”
He gave me an annoyed look. “I can’t risk getting injured.”
Going over to the cabinet, I pulled out an old towel and slid it across the table to Marty. Knowing the drill, he unfolded it and began wrapping it around the black furball in his arms.
I faced Doctor Carson to give him the rundown.
“He’s gonna swaddle Arnold like a baby, nice and snug. You’ve got about sixty seconds to get what needs done before he loses it.” The more I talked, the wider his eyes grew, his face getting paler with every word. Telling Dr. Clueless what to do was overstepping, and I knew it. But fuck if anyone was going to stop me. “Here’s what we can do. We can sedate him or we can go straight to an antibiotic shot. Either way, we’ll need to get close enough to give him an injection, so my vote goes for the meds.”
Nodding, he got rid of the gloves and fumbled with a syringe.
The doc was fresh out of vet med school. He’d started working here a few months ago, and I’d hoped to see him become more confident in his new position.
Unfortunately, I was beginning to think this profession just wasn’t his thing.
A sheen of sweat broke out on Doctor Carson’s forehead, right below his perfectly coiffed hair. Nervously shifting toward Arnold, he took a deep breath. Trembled. Hesitated. He was taking too long.
As if the cat read my mind, he let out
an impatient growl, and Doctor Carson jumped back.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I grabbed the syringe from his hand and quickly administered the antibiotic shot to Arnold’s rump, dodging his hind legs as they kicked with claws ready for scratching. It was over before anyone could object to my interference.
I’d given injections before, but technically I wasn’t certified to do that. Was it unethical? Yeah, sort of.
Was I going to get into trouble? Judging by the grateful expressions on the faces around me, I highly doubted it.
I handed the empty syringe back to Dr. Carson.
“Right, then. Thank you, Emery.” Standing tall, like he didn’t just nearly piss his pants, he turned to Marty. “Let us know if he shows signs of not feeling well…”
His voice faded away as I quietly slipped out of the exam room to go back to my previous task. I’d just finished bathing Fritzy when the mysterious spiffy-suit dude approached me.
“You’re pretty good with cats,” he stated.
“Yeah, you could say that.” I closed the metal cage with a clank.
He handed me a business card. “We’re looking for someone like you. I don’t know how you feel about being on a documentary…” He trailed off, his face screwing up with distaste as he eyed my dirty scrubs. “But it’s a better opportunity than working here.”
“A documentary about cats?”
He waved his hand. “Reality show, documentary… Same thing.”
“Reality show?” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think you’d look great on camera. We’d need to get some meat on your bones, but the man bun thing is really popular these days.” He gestured toward me. “It gives you a certain ruggedness we’re going for.”
My hand went to the mass of light brown hair tied at the back of my head. I didn’t wear my hair like this because it was trendy; I just didn’t have the time or money for regular haircuts.
“Consider it,” he insisted. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Call that number if you want to set up an audition.” With a final nod, he left.
I glanced down at the card.
Steve Feldman. Talent Scout/Producer.
As my eyes traveled around the room, I thought about all the work I still had to do before my day was finished. Litter boxes needed to be changed. The kennels disinfected. The old mop bucket waited for me in the corner, filled with bleach water and soap.
I thought about the measly paycheck that wouldn’t even come close to covering all the expenses I had. It was plain pasta and hot dogs on the menu for dinner again tonight. Yeah, it was nasty shit, especially when I’d eaten that the past three nights in a row, but I only had twenty dollars left to last me the rest of the week.
Then I thought about Dr. Carson, too incompetent and fearful to perform a job I would do just about anything for. Being a veterinarian had been my dream since I was five years old, but college wasn’t in the cards for me. Instead, I settled for being a peon at a vet clinic. I’d clean up crap all day if it meant I got to work with animals.
Spiffy Dude was right about one thing—I didn’t have anything to lose. When you’re at the bottom of the barrel, you’ve got nowhere else to go but up.
Taking a deep breath, I whipped out my cell phone and made a call that would change my life.
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
EMERY
“I’m Emery Matheson, and I will tame your pussy.” I shot my signature grin into the dark lens, the large green screen glowing behind me.
Steve poked his head around the camera man and squinted his eyes.
“Can I get a little more feeling behind that?” he asked seriously. “I really need to believe that you’re going to tame my pussy.”
My lips twitched as I fought a smile. I had no idea how he could say that with a straight face. Adjusting the fluffy Himalayan in my arms, I squared my shoulders and repeated the line, this time with a little more feeling.
Steve seemed satisfied. “That’s a wrap, guys. I’ll see you all at the location on Monday morning.”
Everyone started to disperse as I gently placed Princess back in her kennel. Her blue eyes peered back at me and I felt a niggling of guilt knowing she’d be going back to the animal shelter. She’d spent the past two days on the set, being passed from person to person without one complaint.
The local shelter had allowed us to use her for our latest promotional shoot in exchange for a donation. Honestly, I would’ve given them the money either way. I had a soft spot for all the animals that sat there for months waiting to be adopted.
But Princess wouldn’t have any trouble finding a home. She was beautiful, docile, and sweet.
“Bye,” I whispered, giving her one last scratch under the chin.
We were gearing up for the first shoot of season three. The cable channel we worked for—Night Time Television—was only a few years old and instantly popular. And The Pussy Tamer was the network’s most popular show.
The idea was genius—a late-night reality show that targeted a predominantly female audience by combining cute, flawed animals and an attractive man who dedicated his life to fixing them. Filled with humor, heart, and sexual innuendo, it was the perfect recipe for success.
A panicked-looking guy scurried by as he yammered into his headset about technical issues with his sound equipment. Several caterers refreshed the sandwich spread on a nearby table. The amount of manpower that went into production behind the scenes never ceased to amaze me. There were assistant producers, stylists, lighting specialists, caterers, the camera crew.
And I was the center of it all.
People constantly buzzed around me, asking if I needed anything. Powdered my face when it got shiny. Made sure my hair wasn’t out of place. If it was too hot, someone found a fan. Too cold, and they turned up the heat.
The only person who didn’t seem overly concerned about my well-being was Steve.
“Hey, you got a sec?” I called to my producer as he walked by. He didn’t look up from his phone but motioned at me like he was listening. “I want to do some kind of promotion for the shelter. I was thinking we could feature some of the animals at the end of every episode. Maybe gain some interest—”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” he cut me off, obviously distracted. “I’ll get someone on that.”
God, he was such a dick. A dick I owed everything to, but still a dick.
I’d come a long way from the lanky, broke-as-a-joke guy Steve found cleaning kennels two years ago. In my time as The Pussy Tamer, I’d traveled all around the country, made more money than I ever thought possible, and most importantly, I had made a difference in people’s lives.
Nothing felt better than getting letters and pictures from the families I helped.
Well, almost nothing.
A few months ago, I’d acquired my vet tech certification—paid for by the show. I wasn’t a doctor—yet—but I was one step closer to my goal.
The producers had said they wanted me to have adequate medical training, and I couldn’t agree fast enough. It eliminated the need for them to hire a tech, and now I was able to do basic exams and administer certain medications when needed.
“You ready for this next one?” Rhonda, my favorite assistant producer, handed me the information packet on the next client. “It’s a lot different than anything we’ve done before. Steve says it’ll be the most dramatic season yet.”
“I’m always ready,” I replied, shooting her a cocky grin. “And doesn’t he say that every time?”
“Just wait till you check out the specs on this project.” Wrapping both hands around my bicep, she let out an impressed whistle. “Look at these arms.”
“Thanks. The personal trainers have been kicking my ass for the last two months. I’m ready for a cheeseburger.”
Lifting my T-shirt, she lightly slapped my stomach. “I’d say you deserve one. That’s a nice eight-pack you’ve got there.”
Although she admired m
y body, her interest wasn’t the least bit sexual.
Rhonda was in her mid-forties and she used to do semi-professional body building in her younger days. Although she claimed she was too old for it now, fitness was still a big part of her life. She had a short, no-nonsense hairstyle and an intimidating personality to match. Sometimes she was a bit of a drill sergeant, other times she was a mother hen.
It was what made her so good at her job. Everyone knew one thing: You don’t fuck with Rhonda.
Adjusting the stack of folders in her arm, she took a giant gulp from her Starbucks coffee cup. The team had a long night ahead. I almost felt bad about the fact that I got to go home while everyone else had to prepare for the shoot.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help with around here?”
That earned a stern glare. “Go home, Emery. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
“All right. Don’t work too hard.”
“You know I always do,” she replied before chasing down one of the camera men.
Holding onto the Manila folder, I headed for the exit. The heavy door swung open, and I took a deep inhale of the cool fall air as I left the studio.
Sunsets were hard to see in Chicago, but an orange glow emitted from behind the skyscrapers, matching the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves at the park in the distance. The city skyline was beautiful—there was nothing like it—but it was a lot different from where I spent my first twenty-two years.
For a second, old memories seeped in. The sound of crashing waves, the smell of the sea, and the gritty sand between my toes as I watched the bright orb sink below the horizon.
Living just an hour away from the beach had been my favorite part about growing up in South Carolina. The roots I often longed for were still planted there, an invisible tie that would always pull me back.
As I strode across the parking lot, that longing grew until it felt like an anvil in my chest.
I pushed it down.
Raking a hand through my hair, I shook myself from the reverie of the life I left behind as the gravel crunched under my boots. Being homesick seemed to be a regular occurrence these days, but it wasn’t on my agenda tonight.