by Peter Styles
“That’s a little cynical of you, don’t you think? I was just talking to him.”
“While half naked.”
“You took your shirt off before I did!”
“Yeah,” I admitted peevishly, “but that was because I was hot! You did it because he was hot!”
Diaz sighed. “Okay, even if I admit that the dude is attractive—which, okay, let’s be real, yes, he absolutely is—that has nothing, and I do mean nothing, to do with either of us! I mean, it’s not like I was hooking up with him in the middle of the garage or anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s not the point!” I snapped. “The point is that you wanted to!”
“Well, yeah, sure! He’s a good-looking guy, and I like good-looking humans! What do you want from me?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. After all, it wasn’t like there was some defined thing that I wanted or needed from him, and even if I knew what could help, he couldn’t give it to me. I was being a child, and I knew it. I was acting jealous, as if he’d come in and stolen a brand new toy from my hands, when the fact was that we were dealing with a human being whose emotions and ideas we couldn’t control, no matter how much we wanted to. It wasn’t fair of me to be jealous of Diaz; nothing had happened, and nothing was likely to happen.
That didn’t make me feel any less insecure, though.
I didn’t say any of this, of course, but after a few stony seconds, I realized I didn’t need to. Diaz’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he said, “Ohhh, I get it now.”
I winced. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I totally do.” A grin split his face. “You like him.”
I snorted. “This isn’t middle school, okay? I don’t like him. I just met him. He could be a complete asshole, for all I know.”
“Okay, fine, maybe you don’t like him, but your dick sure does.” He smiled at my glare. “Just admit it! You think he’s attractive. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s healthy. I mean, shit, I was starting to worry that your equipment wasn’t working right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually interested in somebody. Apparently, you just have a type.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “A kind of specific one, too.”
“Dark-haired pretty boys in glasses who seem like they wouldn’t notice if you danced naked in front of them with a tea cup on your head? Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty specific, man.”
I swatted him in the stomach, but I didn’t say he was wrong. After all, he’d pretty much gotten it in one. Aloofness was strangely attractive to me, and this guy had it in spades. The accent didn’t hurt, either.
We went back to cleaning. It was taking a whole lot longer than it usually did, and significantly longer than it was supposed to take, which was all thanks to Pongo darting around underfoot. I yelled at him to sit, stay, or do pretty much anything else, but he continued bounding around. Even when I almost accidentally dropped something on his head, he continued to look up at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth and a grin on his doggy face. It was charming, I had to admit, and it warmed my heart some to see it.
But mostly I just wanted to clean the fucking truck in peace.
After just a little while, sounds of angry shouts came from upstairs, and all of us froze, listening intently. A door banged open, and the man who had been occupying my thoughts since he came in stormed down the stairs. He yelled something in a harsh, guttural language over his shoulder as he stormed out. Diaz let out a little hiss.
“What?” I whispered.
“He just insulted the Chief in German,” Diaz muttered.
“What did he call him?”
Diaz cleared his throat. It wasn’t like him to be shy, especially not about language —he loved to brag about the fact that he knew three and a half languages—but even he looked uncomfortable when he explained, “Well, there’s not, like, one word that it translates to, but it basically means an unplanned child. The literal translation is ‘fuck error.’”
I tried hard not to laugh, especially since the Chief and the head inspector, Mr. Fulmon, were walking down the stairs, but a little snort escaped me anyway.
Chief looked annoyed—or, at least, I thought he looked annoyed, but it was hard to tell with him—but Mr. Fulmon was furious. He sent me a glare that scared me so much I turned back to the truck without any further comment.
The room was deadly quiet. Me and my bunkmates all exchanged anxious glances, wondering if we were supposed to continue working like our boss hadn’t just been called a mistake in front of us. Mr. Fulmon took a long, deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself down.
And then, of course, the silence was broken by Pongo, who knocked a pile of hard hats over and barked happily, apparently very proud of his feat.
Mr. Fulmon growled and stormed back up to the Chief’s office. The Chief turned to me, and for once, his resting, angry face became something very distinctly unpleasant. “You better keep that dog under control,” he told me, “or I’ll shoot it in the head, and you in the ass.”
“Of course, Chief,” I said weakly, and I shot a still proud-looking Pongo a glare as the Chief walked back up the stairs.
Chapter Four
“I wonder what got everybody so pissed off this morning,” I said, as Diaz and I walked down the block together. He was doing me the massive favor of keeping Pongo at his place when we were off work; my apartment was little more than a cardboard box with running water, and the second part of that description wasn’t even always true. It was a little small for an adult man, and it definitely wouldn’t hold up to an adult man and a rambunctious Dalmatian.
Pongo, for his part, was greatly enjoying the walk. We had just gotten everything for him set up at Diaz’s place, and we were walking him down to the pet store. I had a theory that if we let him pick out his own toys, he would be less destructive with everything else and instead distract himself with things he preferred. Diaz didn’t seem to think it would work, but I had faith. Not that anything I’d seen so far showed me that I should, but I still did.
“I think some random guy calling our bosses ‘fuck errors’ probably had a little something to do with it,” Diaz said. He watched as Pongo attempted to pull me off the sidewalk and over to some hydrangeas. “But I could always be wrong.”
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. That’s not the part I’m talking about.” I tugged lightly at Pongo’s leash. He gave me no notice. “I’m wondering why he did that.”
Diaz shrugged. “Who knows? My guess is that the investigator found something the guy didn’t like. It’s not like that never happens, you know. People don’t like to think that something might have happened because they fucked up. Maybe he didn’t like hearing that he shouldn’t have left the stove on or something.”
“Seems like a pretty extreme reaction over something like that,” I mused. “I mean, I’ve had to tell plenty of people that their houses wouldn’t have burned down if they hadn’t been smoking in bed, and the worst I ever got was a simple ‘fuck off.’ It just feels like there’s more to it, you know? Like something’s off.”
“The simplest explanation is often the right one,” Diaz pointed out. “Just because you want to bang the guy…”
“I never said that!”
“You didn’t have to. Your boner and outraged jealousy did it for you.”
We walked on for a bit in silence. “Do you think,” I finally said slowly, trying to decide whether or not my point was even worth bringing up, “that this is about what Reggie said?”
“Which thing? Reggie’s said a lot of stupid shit.”
“About the fire being set for insurance purposes,” I explained. I shuffled my jacket on my shoulders, but I couldn’t seem to get comfortable. “Do you think they’re accusing this guy of burning down his own house?”
“Maybe. Who’s to say he didn’t?”
I shrugged. My stomach felt tight and every part of my body was suddenly itchy with unease. “I don’t know, man. I don’t think he di
d it.”
“Oh, you don’t think he did it?” Diaz asked, smirking. “Well, case closed, then. Maybe you should go in and talk to the inspector yourself. I’m sure he’ll love to hear you saying he’s wrong. Maybe he’ll give you some kind of medal.”
“Quit being such a dick,” I sighed. “I just don’t think he did it. He doesn’t give off that kind of vibe.”
“Ohhh, I see, now you believe in vibes!” Diaz teased. “Fucking white people, dude. You guys don’t believe anything until you’re the ones experiencing it.”
“You once told me that your great-grandmother was sending you ‘signs’ from the great beyond.”
He snorted. “Yeah, in college. You were stoned and I wanted the last donut, so I figured if I told you Abuela was telling you to let me have it, you’d be more likely to give it to me. And I hate to remind you, but it ended up working, remember?”
“Okay, what about that time you refused to stay at a brand-new hotel because you were convinced it was somehow haunted?”
“Three words: Indian burial ground. It was like Poltergeist times three in there. I saved your fucking life.”
I rolled my eyes. “Point is,” I said, irritated, “that people other than you occasionally experience some intuition. And that guy just didn’t scream ‘arsonist’ to me. He didn’t seem like a liar.”
“Well sure, when you’re thinking with your penis, he seems great.”
“What? You thought he was good for it?”
Diaz shrugged and sighed a little. I knew that, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he agreed with me. “Okay, no, he doesn’t. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people are liars, man. And good ones. And we only met him for, like, ten seconds. If Fulmon says he did it, he probably did it. Fulmon may be a piece of shit, but he’s not a stupid piece of shit. He knows how to do his job.”
“Yeah, I know.” We had finally reached the shop, and I felt a little relieved that we could talk about something else. I knew I didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when it came to defending some guy I didn’t even know. I just felt for him; he’d already gone through a shitty enough experience without being told it was his fault. They were rubbing salt in the wound, and I knew how awful that felt.
Something about the air conditioning in the store must have activated some wild, ancient hunting instinct in Pongo’s brain, because while I was momentarily distracted, he yanked his leash out of my slackened grip and bolted off down the aisles, tongue flopping wetly in the breeze.
“Shit!” I looked around and saw shocked patrons and angry employees. By the time I registered what had happened, Pongo had already disappeared around a corner. I did the only thing I could think of and bolted after him.
The chase was by no means easy. As with pretty much any punishment—or any action I took, period—Pongo just thought we were playing some bizarre game, and he was absolutly intent on winning it. Every time I caught a flash of black tail, it was already disappearing down another aisle. I considered myself pretty fast, or at least faster than average, but I’d apparently adopted the Usain Bolt of the dog world. I couldn’t seem to even get near him. After a minute, I stopped, my chest heaving and my brain working feverishly to find some way of catching him before he did something unforgivable and expensive. All I could imagine was him snatching up and eating all of the hamsters in the store, and I shuddered involuntarily.
A couple aisles down, though, I heard a tiny yelp. Relieved, I rushed to it, hoping that Pongo had backed himself into a corner he couldn’t wrestle his way out of.
Instead, I saw the guy from the fire station standing confidently in the middle of the aisle, holding Pongo’s leash. Pongo, amazingly, was doing something I’d only seen him do while half-unconscious: sitting down.
“Holy crap,” I muttered, putting a hand to my chest in relief. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for grabbing him. I just gave him a little bit of slack for a second, and—“
He held the leash out to me. I took it with a sheepish smile.
“You’re the firefighter,” he commented, looking me up and down.
“I am,” I affirmed. I felt stupid the second I said it.
Still, his lips quirked into a blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to really say goodbye,” he said. “Or introduce myself. I’m Rick.”
“Kyle,” I said. I went to offer him my hand, but I was still holding the leash. He raised an eyebrow as my hold loosened, and I immediately clamped back down on it, trying to fight back a blush.
“It’s nice to meet you properly, Kyle.” He raised an eyebrow at Pongo. The second the leash had switched hands, he’d started pulling against me again, sniffing at everything within his reach. I was horrified when he attempted to shove his muzzle into Rick’s crotch, but Rick took it in stride, taking a broad step back and giving the dog an amused once-over. “I’m guessing you’re a fairly new dog owner.”
I smiled. “Is it that obvious?” I joked.
“Painfully. But at least he didn’t hurt anyone or cause any damage. The leash laws only apply when someone is actually holding the leash.”
“I’ll have to make a note of that.” I noticed the cart behind him; it was laden with all types of dog food, treats, and even a couple beds. “Wow. I’m guessing you’ve got a dog or two yourself?”
He followed my gaze. “Ah, right. I run a kennel where I do all of the training programs, and I walk dogs in my spare time.”
“Jesus. You’re like that dog whisperer guy, huh?”
Rick smirked ever so slightly. “I make Cesar Milan look like a little bitch,” he said. His tone was still fairly flat, but there was just a hint of pride in it. “I’m no dog whisperer. I don’t know how to speak to them, and I don’t need to. I know how to control them. That’s enough.”
I couldn’t argue with that; I was a human, and I was already on the verge of doing anything and everything he told me to. That may have been a side effect of the way his tight jeans clung to his narrow hips in some amazing ways, but it was still pretty impressive. And his voice was more than a little commanding. There was a tone to it that immediately made me take note.
Which was helpful when he added, “Your dog is eating a food bag.”
“What?” I turned to see Pongo gnawing on the corner of a bag of cat food. The little bits of kibble spilled out around his mouth as he burrowed his snout into the bag. “Dammit, Pongo! No! Bad!”
Pongo looked over his shoulder at me and gave me what I could only describe as a shit-eating grin before tucking back into the cat food.
“Son of a bitch,” I hissed. I leaned down and tried to bodily haul him away, but his nails scratched at my chest in his fervor to keep eating. He was acting like he’d never seen kibble in his life, which was really rich considering all the food I seemed to be going through with him. I gave up and looked helplessly up at Rick, whose eyebrows were inching higher and higher up on his forehead with every passing second. “Heh. Looks like he was hungry,” I said weakly. “Maybe I’ll just… let him tire himself out.”
Rick snorted. “Dogs don’t get tired of eating. A lot of them will eat as much as they can find. Here.” He made a low, gruff sound in the back of his throat, and I was surprised to see Pongo freeze completely, his mouth still stuffed. Rick took him by the collar and gave it a little shake, pulling the dog away from the still-hemorrhaging food bag. He pressed down just above Pongo’s tail and, to my delighted amazement, the dog actually sat.
“Wow. How did you do that?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Practice, study, and training. It takes time to learn how to manage a relationship with any animal, particularly dogs.” His lips curled a little. “And especially Dalmatians.”
“Why? Are Dalmatians different?”
“A little.” Though his tone didn’t change, I got the feeling that he was trying to be as delicate as possible when breaking this news to me. “It’s not that they’re different, necessarily. Every dog is a bit different. The
re’s no good or bad, no mean or nice. That’s all based on the owner and how they train them. Any breed can learn to behave.”
“But?”
“But,” he said, “and I mean this in the kindest way possible, Dalmatians are possibly the dumbest animals I’ve ever met.”
I could have heard a pin drop in that moment. I could already feel the humiliation that would come with having to tell everyone at the station that I’d bought us a defective dog. “Really? That’s a thing?”
“It is. Especially with Dalmatians of a certain bloodline.” He shrugged. “I’ve heard that some people consider them easy to train, but if there’s an obedient Dalmatian out there, I haven’t seen it yet.”
“But… but…” I looked down at Pongo, who was still sitting and looking up at Rick with adoring eyes. “I got him for the fire house. They’re supposed to be perfect for that.”
Rick tried unsuccessfully to stifle a rueful smile. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s a huge American tradition for Dalmatians to be fire house mascots.”
“To be fair, America also has long-standing traditions of hating people of different skin colors, bombing other countries, and electing celebrities into political office. Tradition may not want to be the platform that you decide to stake your life on.”
“But there’s a whole movie dedicated to what awesome dogs they are!”
“There’s also a movie by the same company about toys that talk when people leave the room, but I don’t think you’re particularly suspicious of your action figures, are you?”
My temper, which had already been at a low simmer for the past couple weeks from having to deal with an unruly puppy, finally overwhelmed my libido. I suddenly didn’t care how hot Rick was, and I wasn’t afraid to say that. “You’re a fucking dick,” I snapped.
His small smile remained. “Excuse me?”
“I said you’re a fucking dick!” I snarled. “You’re standing here, acting all holier than thou and pretending you’re some fucking big shot just because you know a little bit about the most popular pet in the world? Well welcome to earth, numb nuts! Everyone has dogs here! And everyone knows that you need to train them!”
