Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order

by Kelly, Diane

  Both his words and expression were full of insinuations, but his teasing tone made him more flirtatious than offensive.

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” I said. Seriously, what’s gotten into me? Thanks to my stutter, I’d never been much of a flirt. But there was something about this guy, an easy and natural sensuality, that made it so damn easy.

  He untied Jack, swung up onto the horse with the strength and grace of Mikhail Baryshnikov, and tipped his hat one final time. “Until we meet again, darlin’.” With that, he clucked to signal his horse into action and turned away to head to the cattle barn.

  FIVE

  COUNTING SHEEP

  Brigit

  She liked the tall man who’d talked to Megan. He’d sneaked her a couple bites of his barbecue beef sandwich when Megan wasn’t looking.

  His horse was a good-looking steed, too. Then again, Brigit had something going with Blast. It wouldn’t be right to start something up with Jack the horse, would it? Besides, he was the wrong species. What would the other farm animals say? No sense rocking the barn with such a scandal. Looked like the two would just have to be friends.

  SIX

  PRIVILEGES

  Robin Hood

  She stood in front of the gas pump and inserted her Texaco credit card into the slot, removing it quickly as the screen directed. A moment later the machine declined her card with an accusatory beep.

  Damn. She had made only the minimum payments on the card each month, the principal mounting with each bill. Apparently she’d reached her credit limit.

  She returned the gas card to her wallet and pulled out her Visa card. She ran it through the slot and waited.

  Beep.

  The Visa was likewise declined.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  A sixtyish woman at the adjacent pump glanced over and looked her up and down, a judgmental expression on her face. Robin Hood could tell exactly what the woman was thinking. Learn to live within your means, young lady.

  She hoped the woman could tell exactly what she was thinking, too. Mind your own business, you nosy bitch.

  Today was a payday and, though she could have used her debit card, she had earmarked her earnings for much more important things than gasoline. She needed a mani-pedi desperately, as well as an eyebrow wax. And her weekly massage was essential. Plus, there was that great pair of silver earrings she’d seen at the mall.

  She checked the cash in her wallet. Three singles. Ugh. She opened her car door and leaned in, rounding up what little change she could find in her ashtray and the cup holders. Her efforts garnered her another dollar and seventy-three cents. It wouldn’t get her far, but it would at least get her to work. After that, well, she’d have to figure something out.

  She slammed the door and went inside to give the coins to the cashier.

  * * *

  An hour later, she pushed a metal cart down the hallway, forcing a polite smile to her lips as she slipped quietly into each of the executives’ offices and placed their mail in their in-boxes.

  Some greeted her, perhaps even inquired about her well-being. “Good mornin’. How are you today?”

  Others gave her a nod or a quick Thanks or, if they were talking on their phone, a raised hand.

  Some failed to acknowledge her at all, as if she were merely a nameless, faceless apparition.

  As if she were unworthy of recognition.

  As if I don’t even exist.

  Her job might seem menial to these latter types, but where would these executives be without the precious contracts, financial statements, and performance reports she delivered to them? They wouldn’t be able to function without the information she delivered. They’d be useless. Worthless.

  Yes, her job was critical to the functioning of the company. Not that her entry-level salary reflected that fact. She was a smart young woman, though. She knew that though her job was important, it took virtually no skill to accomplish. Anyone who could read the names on the envelopes and door plaques and push the mail cart could do it. Hell, she’d been qualified to do this job since second grade.

  Given that she walked at least two miles a day up and down the halls of the building, it would have made more sense for her to wear slacks and comfortable loafers, especially since business casual attire was standard. But she’d always heard that a person should dress not for the job she had, but for the job she wanted. So she strolled up and down the hall in a tasteful gray pencil skirt that stopped just above her knees, a sleek white blouse that looked professional yet feminine, a fitted black blazer, and a pair of black stiletto pumps.

  Given this classy business attire, did she aspire for a job as an executive assistant? Maybe a management position over the administrative staff?

  Oh, hell no.

  The position she sought entailed such duties as shoe shopping, choosing restaurants for dinner, and meeting with decorators to furnish a four-bedroom, three-bath home. What position did she seek? Trophy wife.

  Problem was, the definition of trophy wife seemed to have evolved since she’d been an adolescent. Back then, according to the TV shows she watched, all a successful man wanted was a pretty woman with a nice body to serve as arm candy. Now, though, many prosperous men not only wanted their wives to be physically attractive, but they wanted them to be career women, as well. Educated women with something smart to say. Women who helped bring home the bacon. On her salary, and with her credit cards not only maxed out but also three months past due, the only thing Robin Hood could bring home was a package of nearly expired baloney reduced for quick sale.

  Of course she could have attended college if she’d wanted to. With her parents’ meager income, she would have qualified for free government grants or need-based scholarships. And she was certainly smart enough. After all, she’d been her elementary school spelling bee champion and had even advanced to the citywide competition, spelling and spelling and spelling her heart out until the only two contestants who remained were her and an Asian-American boy wearing a ridiculous pin-striped three-piece suit.

  She remembered that day like it was yesterday. She’d stood on that stage in front of a crowd of hundreds at a local high school, a spotlight shining down on her, warming her face and illuminating her as if she were some type of angel, as if she were somebody, as if she were special.

  It was the last time I’d felt like somebody, the last time I’d felt special.

  The pink polka-dot dress she had worn was a hand-me-down, having already served her two older sisters, who sat in the third row with her parents. The frock had faded some, but at least her mother had ironed it and tied a pink bow in her mousy brown hair. She’d have preferred a new dress, but she wasn’t going to let her secondhand outfit spoil her moment in the spotlight.

  She’d stared down at the judge’s table, her heart pounding so loudly she feared she wouldn’t hear the judge when he assigned her final word.

  The judge leaned forward to speak into the microphone on the table before him and looked up at her. “Your word is privileged.”

  Privileged. A word that didn’t apply to her at all, yet a word with which she was far too familiar.

  Privileged. Those families who hired her mother to clean their enormous, custom-designed homes.

  Privileged. Those church ladies who brought her and her sisters donated Christmas gifts, who came after bedtime when the girls were supposed to be asleep rather than staring out the window, dreaming of a better, easier life. On Christmas morning, when she and her sisters opened their presents, Robin Hood had to bite her tongue not to tell her parents she knew the gifts weren’t from Santa Claus, that she’d seen the church ladies drive up to her family’s rusty singlewide trailer in their sleek, silver Mercedes with a trunk full of wrapped boxes.

  Privileged. Those junior high school girls she spotted from the school bus window, the ones who had their hair professionally highlighted, who wore Juicy Couture and carried their M.A.C lip pencils in their Kate Spade purses.


  When she had hesitated, the judge again leaned toward his microphone. “Would you like me to use the word in a sentence?”

  As if I were so poor I wouldn’t even know the word.

  “Not,” she hissed into her own mic, “necessary.” She knew this word. She’d practiced it, multiple times. She took a deep breath and began. “P-R-I.”

  Uh-oh. Not only was her dress a hand-me-down, but so were her panties. She’d begged her mother for new underwear—my God, it was the least my parents could give me!—but her mother had refused.

  “There’s plenty of life left in these panties,” her mom had insisted when she’d pulled them from the dryer. “And I washed them twice so stop your complaining. Don’t you know there are kids in India who don’t even have underwear?”

  On stage, in the bright glow of the spotlight, she felt the waistband loosen as the worn elastic began to give way. “V-I-L.”

  The panties began to slip down over her backside. She reached down and tried to grab the waistband through the fabric of her dress.

  But I was too late.

  The panties slid out from under her dress, over her knobby knees, and down her skinny legs, pooling around the scuffed patent-leather Mary Janes her mother had bought at the thrift store.

  She continued to spell over the crowd’s deafening laughter, the heat on her cheeks now coming not from the spotlight above but from the shame and rage within her.

  “E-D-G-E-D.”

  When she finished, she looked down at the judge’s table. One of the judges looked down at his lap, his shoulders shaking with barely contained guffaws. The other male judge, the one who’d assigned her word, had a hand crooked over his mouth to hide his smile. The female judge had bit her lip in an effort to keep her giggles from escaping, but the pity in her eyes was far worse than her amusement.

  I didn’t want pity.

  I wanted my fair share.

  When the crowd settled down and the primary judge was finally able to speak, he said, “I am sorry. That is incorrect.”

  The Asian boy was given a chance to spell the word. He performed perfectly, leaving out the extra d she had inadvertently added while distracted by the stiff sensation of the starched cotton fabric of the dress against her bare bottom.

  Robin Hood had turned to the boy, shaken his hand, then stepped out of her underwear and walked off the stage, her head held high, her secondhand panties left behind.

  The unpleasant memory left her feeling restless and cheated. Her grip tightened on the mail cart, her knuckles turning white as she punished the handle for a crime it had not committed.

  She reached Evan’s office and peered through the open door. An attractive woman from the accounting department stood next to him. She wore tan zippered boots and a shimmery fitted suit in golden ivory tweed. An Alexander McQueen design, if Robin Hood wasn’t mistaken. She’d seen it at the Neiman Marcus store in Ridgmar Mall. The woman bent forward to point out something on the spreadsheet unfolded on his desk.

  Though the woman and Evan behaved with perfect professionalism, Robin Hood nonetheless felt a knife of envy slice through her gut. This woman had what Robin Hood wanted. Money. Nice clothes. Security. An engagement ring large enough to choke one of the bulls at the upcoming stock show. Someone who loved her enough to give her that ring …

  It wasn’t right that fate had given this woman so much, yet had given Robin Hood so little. Is it too much to ask that the fates be fair?

  She grabbed Evan’s stack of mail from the cart and slipped into the room. The woman continued to spout off about the numbers on the sheet without so much as a glance in her direction. Evan looked up, guilt darkening his eyes. He’d called her just once since New Year’s Day, and then it was only to tell her that he thought they should cool things off for a while, that he wasn’t yet over his divorce and didn’t feel ready to make a commitment. She’d let him off easy, telling him she understood and that she hoped his heart would heal soon.

  As if I give a damn about his heart.

  “Thanks,” he said softly as she placed his mail in his in-box.

  She offered him a polite smile. “My pleasure, Mr. Underhill.”

  As she made her way back to the door, she spotted Evan’s platinum-accented Montblanc pen lying near the edge of his credenza. Those designer pens didn’t come cheap. The thing must have cost four or five hundred dollars new. She’d love to have a beautiful pen like that, but she’d probably never make enough money to afford one. Just like she’d never be able to afford a fancy car or a luxurious apartment or any of the other things she was entitled to.

  A quick look over her shoulder confirmed that Evan and the accountant were absorbed in their numbers. In a swift, smooth move, she scooped the pen up and into the front pocket of her blazer. Robin Hood strikes again.

  If fate wouldn’t give her what she deserved, she’d just have to take it.

  This pen was a nice start …

  SEVEN

  LUNCH AND LIVESTOCK

  Megan

  Seth phoned late Saturday morning. “How about lunch?”

  I glanced at the clock. “It’ll have to be somewhere near the rodeo grounds. I go on duty at two.”

  “How about Dos Gringos?”

  “Perfect.” Their chalupas were among my favorites.

  We met at the restaurant at noon. Seth had left Blast at home today. Brigit seemed disappointed, lying on the floor under the table with her head between her paws. That is, until her chicken fajitas arrived. Then all thoughts of her canine lover were replaced by carnivorous desires.

  Seth and I had been like ships in the night since we’d reconciled on New Year’s Day, our erratic work schedules preventing us from spending much time together other than quick meet-ups for meals. Nice, but not exactly the fun-filled, romantic evenings a girl dreams about.

  Seth dug into his enchiladas, while I took a crunchy bite of my chalupa, savoring the spicy salsa.

  When he’d swallowed his bite he asked, “How do you like working the stock show? Sounds like more fun than street patrol.”

  I supposed it would to some, but I’d never been big on crowds. Too many people in a confined space gave me a sense of claustrophobia, not to mention the constant aroma of bovine manure. Still, yesterday hadn’t been all bad. Meeting Clint had been fun.

  At the thought of Clint, my gut rippled with guilt. Ridiculous, since Clint and I had only gone so far as harmless flirtation. I supposed I had no real reason to feel guilty. After all, Seth and I had agreed we could date other people and, for all I knew, Seth could have a dozen girls on the side. Something told me he didn’t, though.

  Seth took a sip of his soda. “I haven’t been to the stock show in years. How about I get a ticket this afternoon? As long as I don’t get in your way it won’t be a problem, right?”

  I took another bite of my chalupa, buying myself time to think through my feelings and come up with a response. Did I want Seth to come to the stock show? Part of me thought it could be a nice way to spend more time together. Another part of me thought I might not get that ride Clint had promised me if Seth were tagging along. Another part of me thought that wanting two men was cheap and wrong. Another part of me thought it might be fun to be cheap and wrong. Another part of me was ashamed I’d had that thought. Another part of me thought too many parts were chiming in and maybe they should all shut up.

  “Okay,” I told Seth. “Come to the show. But don’t blame me if you go home smelling like cow poop.”

  * * *

  At half past two that afternoon, I led Brigit into one of the exhibit halls with Seth following along beside me. I’d suggested we go inside mostly to avoid the cold outdoor temperatures but, admittedly, I’d also thought we’d have less chance of crossing paths with Clint if we stayed indoors.

  On our way into the building, my eyes spotted a head topped with rust-orange hair cut in a short burr sticking up among the cowboy hats up ahead.

  Blurgh. Say it isn’t so.

  Damn
. It was so.

  Out from the crowd emerged Derek Mackey, who headed toward us, evidently on his way out of the building. He wore his uniform, meaning he was on duty. He also wore his typical condescending, smug expression, meaning he’d experienced no sudden improvement in personality.

  As he approached, my thoughts tumbled out of my mouth before I could rein them in. “What are you doing here?”

  I supposed I shouldn’t be so rude. After all, it was Derek who’d discovered me tied to the carousel horse with the bomb on my chest. If he hadn’t happened by the mall that evening, I’d be dead. Still, I knew his finding me had been mere coincidence and luck. It’s not like he’d set out to rescue me.

  Mackey grunted. “What am I doing here? What does it look like, Einstein? I’m working.” With that, he continued on past us and out the door.

  It wasn’t too surprising the chief would ask Mackey to work the event. If he wanted to beef up the police presence, what better way to do it than with one of the beefier officers? Derek’s biceps and pecs were nearly as big as his ego. Still, his presence here meant I wouldn’t be getting the reprieve I’d hoped for.

  A sheep show was under way in the hall’s arena. Seth and I stopped at the fence and rested our arms on it, watching the goings-on. Breeders paraded Dorper, Dorset, and Rambouillet sheep around a pen. Not that I knew anything about the breeds, but the announcer identified them as such. Judges with clipboards circled the animals, groping them through their woolly coats and feeling up and down their legs like some kind of perverts.

  “Cute sheep, huh?” Seth said.

  I shrugged. “Honestly, they kind of look like those British barristers to me. You know, the ones that wear those goofy white wigs?”

  Seth cut me a glance, an amused twinkle in his eye. “You have an odd way of looking at the world, Megan.”

  “I’m just perceptive,” I argued. “That’s a good trait for a cop.”

  “Point taken,” Seth replied. He lowered his voice and leaned his head in to mine. “If you’re so perceptive, can you tell how bad I want to get you alone and kiss you?”