She crosses her arms over her perfect tits. “Is that so? Funny, my philosophy is there can never be enough love. Not for dogs. Not for anything. In fact, love is all there is.”
I’m down seven points in the final ten seconds. It’s fourth and goal from the one. I’ve got one more chance to score the tying touchdown. Instead, I pull out a lame running play and dash straight into a linebacker. “I think a guy might be better suited to do this.”
Her smile fades, and in that moment, suicide by drowning seems better than continuing this conversation. I eye my dock. If I could just get a running start down the slope in the backyard... “Are you trying to imply that I can’t teach dogs discipline because I’m a woman?”
I cringe and stutter like an idiot. “I-I…”
She glares at me. Her eyes are two blue pools of ice. “This is unbelievable! You are unbelievable!”
No. Actually, my douchedome is so fucking believable, my own mother would put her hand on the Holy Bible and swear to it. Time to start backtracking.
“I’m sorry, I know I put my foot in my mouth.”
“You certainly did.”
I wonder if I hit my knees and beg for forgiveness, if that would keep her here. I’m not immune to trying it. “I didn’t mean to–”
“I don’t need to do this. I really don’t. You’re the kind of client who is gonna be nothing but a pain in the ass. Business is great, by the way, and I don’t need your money.”
As she turns to leave…to leave me…I get an ache so deep inside I almost double over. She can’t leave. She can’t. “Wait a second, Brooke. Please!”
She takes off, my dogs bounding around her, I trail after her like a pathetic piece of shit who knows he’s wrong. Dead ass wrong. I know how badly I’ve fucked up, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I’ve done it. I didn’t mean to say that she couldn’t do the job because of her gender. I don’t believe that for a minute. It’s clear that Brooke is amazing at what she does. Hell, the snowboarding bulldog shoves the proof right in front of me or any other doubter.
The only reason why I jumble my words in front of her is because she’s getting to me. In a feral way. In a visceral way. And now, she’s right. I’m not used to people sharing their opinions so openly. Especially not someone I’m so attracted to like Brooke.
I know I’m not Stephen King or John Grisham, but there are a lot of perks that come with being a famous author. Sometimes, when I drop my name I get upgraded from coach to first class. My comfy life excites me and satisfies me all at the same time. I know how blessed I am.
But I’m also insulated from the day-to-day minutia of working a day job. There are zero office politics when you just wake up, make a pot of coffee and work from home all day in your faded mustache pants. I never have to worry about the boss catching me on Facebook or goofing off. Hell, I am the boss.
What I say goes.
Except for right now. What I just said is akin to the verbal sinking of the Titanic.
When Carla was alive, I was even more sheltered from the outside world. She insisted on doing all of the grocery shopping, which incited my gratitude and relief. I hardly knew how to make a grilled cheese sandwich, scrambled eggs, or noodles with butter. But Carla could work wonders in the kitchen. I still miss her homemade lasagna.
Back then, there were stretches when I didn’t leave the house for weeks at a time with the exception of my early morning walks. Nothing like the cold air in your lungs to clear your head and start the day. It’s still a daily ritual for me.
These days, I’m forced to go out for food and basic necessities. Trips to the grocery store are not my favorite pastime. Hence, my juvenile, embarrassing, blow up over the Thin Mints. But you still can’t blame me completely for that one. What kind of Girl Scouts run out of Thin Mints?
Now, as I catch up with Brooke, I realize that I have ruined my chance to make a good impression on her.
“Brooke!”
It’s too late. She hands the leashes to me before getting in her car and firing up the engine. I glance down at Taco, Burrito, Chili, and Fajita, feeling any chance I had at peace in my household getting ready to drive away with the woman I just insulted to within an inch of her life.
Chapter 7
Brooke
I can hardly believe what an asshole one of my favorite authors turned out to be. I’ve never wanted to flee the scene of a client encounter so much in my life. Not since the time Mrs. Renway’s poodle lifted his leg and pissed on my favorite pair of Miss Me’s have I felt negative feelings about a paying client.
W. Ellis Cole, aka Landon, is the biggest prick this side of the Mississippi. He’s detestable. He’s odious.
He’s so fucking hot he could make Satan jealous.
I make a promise to myself that I will only remember the negative, hold it close to my heart, and draw upon it if I ever feel tempted in the man’s presence again. Sitting behind the wheel of my car, ready to make my dramatic exit, I curse.
Dammit. I left my purse on the coffee table.
This whole ordeal can’t end quickly enough. Turning off the engine, I open the door and storm out. He’s a few steps in front of my car, uttering half-hearted apologies. He can’t even say he’s sorry with any modicum of sincerity.
I ignore him and march to his front door. Climbing the steps, I feel a whoosh between my legs. It’s the cutest of the four dogs, Burrito, his leash trailing behind him. He bounds up the stairs, trying to entice me into a game of tag. As much as I want to leave, I’m torn. These adorable dogs can’t help that their owner is a douchebag.
I take a deep breath and chase after Burrito as he barks up a storm. I can tell they don’t get much attention or affection. Note to self, I’m never reading another one of his books, and I’m taking his movie off my Netflix queue.
“Burrito!” Dogs always tug at my heartstrings until I end up putting everything else aside, including my foolish pride. The dogs come first.
“Brooke, please, wait a second,” Landon says.
I glance down at him. It’s hard to detect his level of sincerity or lack thereof. The guy obviously has issues that years of talk therapy couldn’t alleviate. My five-year-old niece, Madison, would say, “He’s a meanie, auntie!”
I don’t like meanies. And I’m not quite sure if I can make an exception, even for the sake of four cute Chihuahuas. This internal crisis provides a dilemma that isn’t lost on me. When I reach the top of the stairs, Burrito’s barking escalates. I follow the sound toward a bedroom down the hall. Landon climbs the stairs behind me, but he’s a few yards back.
“If you insist on leaving, can you please at least do something to get him to shut the hell up before you go!” he snaps.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I snap back. “As I’ve already told you at length, dogs need positive reinforcement.”
“Whatever.”
I walk into the room where Burrito spins like a top to the tune of his loud yips. Glancing around at the old lady décor, I see the walls are painted a cream color. A queen-sized bed covered with a colorful quilt highlights the center of the room. I notice a picture on the dresser of Landon and a drop-dead gorgeous honey blonde woman.
He looks…happy.
In the photo, he has his arm wrapped around her, pulling her close as he smiles down into her adoring eyes. Behind them, a sand beach and the light of a million rays of sun. She appears almost angelic. I pause and stare at the picture for a moment. It doesn’t depict the Landon I just met today.
Burrito cozies up to my leg. I kneel to pet him and unclip the leash. “Come here, Burrito. That’s it. You like that, don’t you?” He quiets down and wags his tail.
“What are you doing in here?” Landon stands in the doorway. “This room is strictly off limits.”
“This is where I found Burrito,” I reply. “But all is well now. I think he just needed some attention.” I glance back at the picture and can’t stop myself from asking. “Who’s that woman in the pictur
e? You two look so happy together.”
His brown eyes flatten, suddenly cold. An expression flits across his face that actually strikes terror deep into my soul. “You need to leave. Right now.”
I am appalled by his reaction. I hesitate for a moment before shouting, “That’s what I was trying to do, asshole. I should go on social media and tell the world about the real W. Ellis Cole!”
He clears his throat like he’s trying to compose himself. Maybe he’s wondering about how best to kill me and bury the body in the backyard. “If that’s what you feel you need to do, so be it. I just want you to leave.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I stand up and make my way to the door. Burrito follows me, he’s right on my heels. For a moment, I consider rescuing the cutie pie. I could put him in my purse and assholeman would be none the wiser.
“This turned out to be a total waste of my fucking time.”
“The feeling is more than mutual!” I stomp over to my purse. I can’t believe how awful the whole thing turned out. I look at him and shout. “But I’m still sending you a bill. I earned every penny of my rate today, putting up with you!”
He stops cold, his lifeless eyes sweeping over every inch of me. “Over my dead body!”
As I approach the front door, Burrito, Chili, Taco, and Fajita follow me. I kneel down and look at them. “I’m sorry, guys. I really wanted to help you, but a certain someone is a real douche.”
“Douche?” He lets out a big laugh as he walks my way. “That’s a new one. Burrito probably stole one today. It’s in the front yard. Why don’t you pick it up on the way out?”
They look up at me as if they comprehend exactly what’s happening. They would know, right? They have no choice but to live with him. I try to center my thoughts.
Even though I couldn’t care less if Landon dropped dead, my job isn’t about people. It’s all about being there for the dogs. As much as I want to wash my hands of the whole situation, I don’t know if I have the heart to leave the Chihuahuas in a lurch with the likes of Landon. What if he has the capacity to hurt them?
I put my best scowl on my face. “Look, I probably shouldn’t even say this, but if you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
His nostrils flare. “You don’t have to worry about hearing from me, I’ve already deleted your number.”
“Fine!” I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “Goodbye, Mr. Crabby Pants!”
“Mr. Crabby Pants? Are you serious?” Landon smirks. He probably thinks he looks cute when he smirks. And he does. But that’s beside the point. As his lips tug upward, all I can imagine is pressing my lips to his. Touching the skin at the base of his neck, smelling him. Skimming my hands down his back and committing the muscles to memory.
Fuck me.
I storm outside and sprint for my car. Once behind the wheel, I punch it and take off, delighting in the spray of gravel from my tires littering his front lawn. I know I shouldn’t be going forty mph in a residential neighborhood, but I can’t wait to get the hell away from that miserably sexy man.
On the drive back to Bark Buddies, I keep picturing the adorable faces of the Chihuahuas. I just want to go back when he’s not at home, scoop them up into my arms. But on the other hand, I can’t erase the memory of Landon. What in the hell is that man’s problem?
I decide to stop at the Starbucks in Target for a macchiato. In reality, I could use a stiff drink, but the work day isn’t over yet, and I don’t want to attempt to train dogs under the influence. I park my car and walk into the building.
A little caffeine might be just what the doctor ordered.
I stand in line. No matter when I come here, it’s always busy. Lunchtime ended hours ago, and it makes absolutely no difference.
My favorite barista, Kim, greets me with a smile. “What can I get for you today?”
“I’ll have my usual.” I think of Pam. I can’t go back to the training facility without a little something for her. “And a skim milk latte, please.”
“Sounds great, Brooke. Coming right up.”
I pay with my Starbucks app and stand near the counter while Kim gets started on my order. There are a few people sitting on stools at the coffee bar. A biker-looking dude zones out on his iPod. Two teenage girls share an enormous oatmeal cookie. It looks good. Suddenly, I want one of those. Maybe two.
As I ponder the question of how many sugary treats to buy, I look over and notice a man sitting by the window, reading a W. Ellis Cole book. I fight the urge to snatch it out of his hands and stomp all over it until every single written page is a blurred obliteration of literature on the dirty floor of Target. The man notices me staring at him. I smile and wave awkwardly.
“Brooke?” Kim calls out. “Here’s your macchiato and latte.”
“Right here,” I say as I grab my order. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good one.”
“You too.”
I walk out of Target and head back to the training facility. I park in the back and notice that Pam’s car isn’t there. She’s probably out with a client. What a waste. I know she won’t want cold coffee. Should have gotten iced. But she can nuke it when she gets back in.
I open the door and smile when I see Christine standing behind the counter. Jeans and a white t-shirt hug her petite curves. Her spiky black hair stands on end, and along with her crimson lipstick and heavy eyeliner, she looks like a female version of goth Marilyn Manson.
Despite her emo vibe, she’s been a real asset to the company. She’s so great with dogs that Pam and I promoted her from volunteer to part-time assistant. She goes to the community college, so we schedule her work hours around her classes.
“Hey, Brooke!” She flashes a big smile that warms my heart and makes my suck-ass day a little bit brighter.
I lift up a cup. “Hey, do you happen to like skim milk lattes?”
“I don’t like skim milk anything, but a burst of caffeine would be so freakin’ awesome about now.”
I hand her the latte. So much for nuking it. Pam can just get a fresh one. I fire off a text to her, so she knows to stop on the way home for one.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I got it for Pam. I would’ve picked up something for you if I would’ve known you were coming in today.”
“I had a little downtime, so I just decided to pop in.”
“That’s cool. How are classes coming?” I sip the macchiato. The flavor provides a small slither of heaven. Kim gets it right. Every freakin’ time.
“Okay, I guess, but Algebra kicks my butt in a way I just can’t explain.”
“I totally understand.” I walk over to a stool and slip into it, letting my feet dangle. “Math was never my strong suit unless it came to money.”
She smiles while taking a sip of her latte. “Why does it have to be so damn difficult? I know how to add and subtract. Isn’t that enough?”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re a smart girl.”
She shrugs and tugs on her lower lip with her teeth. “Most of the time, I’m not so sure about that.”
“You are smart, Christine. Believe me. You just need to shore up your confidence. Have you thought about getting a tutor?”
“There is this hot guy who tutors math on Fridays. Maybe I’ll look into hiring him. Maybe I could date him and kill two birds with one stone.”
“You should.” I give her an encouraging smile. “So, did I miss anything?”
“No, a few people called, and I just took some messages. Nothing seems really urgent though.”
“That’s good.” A sigh comes out of my mouth before I can repress it. It sounds strangely like a moan of air. “After the day I’ve had, I don’t really feel like being bothered by any more annoying customers.”
“Wait. What happened? Did you encounter your first sociopath?”
I flash a nervous smile. Christine is a nice kid, but sometimes she weirds me out. “No. Nothing like that.”
She c
asts a questioning gaze my way. “So, what is it?”
“Well, have you ever heard of the author W. Ellis Cole?”
She blinks and scrunches up her face. “Unless it’s required reading, I steer clear of books. I’m all about my music. The classic stuff. David Bowie is my absolute fave. I would totally have his babies.”
What!? I’m so taken aback, I don’t know what to say. Christine procreating with the dead rock star is not a pleasant visual. Their kids would probably turn out looking like baby versions of Dracula crossed with Liberace.
“Our kids would be so freakin’ cute, don’t you think?” Christine stares off into space and grins. After a few seconds, she glances at me. I can only assume that she has snapped out of her morbid fantasy. “You were saying something about a writer?”
“Yes. Well, he’s actually a famous mystery author, but apparently not as famous as David Bowie.”
She smiles and nods, the sprayed spikes of her ebony hair swaying under the effort. “Of course not. But anyway, what’s his deal?”
“So, he sent me an email saying he needed help with his dogs. It turns out that he has four adorable Chihuahuas that require a bit of obedience training.”
“Chihuahuas are the cutest.”
“Yeah, and you should’ve seen these guys.” My mind drifts back to the poor dogs that I just can’t seem to forget, as much as I’d like to eradicate their prickly owner from my recent memory. “And the names. That’s what really got me. Burrito, Taco, Chili, and Fajita.”
She laughs. “Wow! Somebody digs Mexican.”
“I know, right? So anyway, things start off fine, but they take a bad turn when he insists on yelling at the dogs to make them listen. And when I say yelling, I don’t mean out of frustration, I mean like an overgrown bully. He’s obviously not a dog lover.”
“No way! Who isn’t a dog lover? Like I always say, you can’t trust a man unless he loves dogs.”
Crabbypants Page 10
