by Mal Olson
Me and Brad
by Mal Olson
COPYRIGHT © 2011 by Mal Olson
All rights reserved. No part of any of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
Me and Brad
Liz didn’t need a dog.
She didn’t want a dog, and no way was Jenny going to con her into taking the pound’s latest inmate.
“Dogs shed,” she pointed out to her best friend, a Humane Society volunteer. “And you have to get up early and walk a dog.” Not that the extra inch that had accumulated around her hips since Jason had betrayed her couldn’t use a little help in the calorie-burning department. But, pent up inside her were at least six more months of moping, eating chocolate for breakfast, and crying jags before she would consider herself on the road to healing. And even then, a dog didn’t fit into the picture.
“But you’re lonely, and you have to get over You Know Who sometime.”
“I will…sometime…maybe when he catches an STD and loses all of his hair.”
“Can you lose your hair from that?”
“I don’t know.” Liz curved her mouth in a half grin. “But it’d serve him right…they say time wounds all heels.” But as far as Liz’s wounds healing…“No more serious relationships for me.”
Jen cocked her eyebrow. “You need someone around.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
“You know what I mean. It’s been three years since your mom…”
Died. There had been no time to prepare for it. Her mom had up and died suddenly of a brain aneurysm when Liz was a senior in college. And since she had no siblings and the Gulf War had claimed her dad when she was an infant, she was alone in the world. “Some people are destined to live a solitary life.” She pasted on a smile. “It’s not so bad. You never have to host Thanksgiving dinner for a crowd.”
“Anyway,” Jenny segued as she led Liz past a row of cages holding puppies, kittens, and one with an iguana, “the dog I was telling you about is a Belgian Malinois. He’s very intelligent. Probably a veteran police dog or military animal.”
“An attack dog?” Liz stopped short. “Aren’t they vicious? Really, Jen, do you want your best friend to be ravaged in her sleep by a ferocious animal?”
Jenny laughed as they came to a stop next to the last cage in the row. A handsome but forlorn, buff-colored dog lay moping in the corner. He barely acknowledged their presence.
“There’s nothing like a pet to brighten your life and give you a sense of responsibility and purpose,” Jen said.
“You think I have no purpose in my life?”
“I think you need companionship, something to brighten your perspective.”
“I can see this guy’s a glowing ray of sunshine. Just what the doctor ordered.” Liz edged closer to the cage, eyeing his black-muzzled face resting between large paws on the bottom of the cage. “He’s kind of big isn’t he?”
“Give it a try, Liz. Just wait and see, he’ll bring happiness into your life.”
“Uh-huh…that sunny disposition’s already cheering me up. Have you tried spiking his Alpo with Prozac?”
“The vet thinks all he needs is someone to take him under their wing. Um…you know…to snap him out of his depression. We can’t really give him psychotherapy here—”
“Psychotherapy? They have that for dogs? I can’t even afford psychotherapy for myself.”
While Jenny rolled her eyes, Liz added, “You think he’s a manic depressant?”
“Psychotherapy as in stuff like the dog whisperer does. Anyway, we don’t have that option, and we’re short on space.” Jen reached down and opened the cage door, scratching the dog behind the ears. “If he becomes a problem, they’ll have to…you know.”
The dog perked one ear and glanced at Liz.
She sighed, and a twinge poked her in the stomach, a twinge she didn’t want to feel. “What’s his name?”
“I’ve been calling him Sparky.”
It was Liz’s turn to roll her eyes. “How apropos.”
“You can name him anything you want if you agree to take him,” Jenny said hopefully.
***
Half an hour later, bemoaning her ability to say “no,” Liz found herself driving home with “Brad.” She’d decided if she named the dog after a handsome movie star it might give him a lift. It certainly gave her a lift to think she’d be spending the lazy summer Friday evening—dateless Friday evening—with Brad Pitt.
She glanced over the seat. “So, Brad, how are Angie and the kids doing?”
The number one box office star’s namesake ignored the comment.
She puffed out a breath. Really, Liz, you’re going to name the dog Brad?
Fido? Rover? Benji? About as original as Spot. How about something macho like Terminator? She glanced once more at the apathetic blob curled up on the backseat of her Honda. A Terminator who couldn’t scare a kitten.
When she turned her attention back to driving, blue and red lights swirled in her rearview mirror, and a sick uneasy feeling spread across her chest. Oh, Lord, had she been speeding? She certainly hadn’t been concentrating on driving. Glaring at the dog, she said, “If I get a ticket, it’s your fault.”
He lifted his head and yawned.
***
Of course, the officer who pulled her over was wearing sunglasses like a daunting hard-nosed cop from the movies. The Camaro he drove was unmarked, but the words McCoy County Sheriff’s Department was embroidered on the patch that stretched across his thick biceps.
Thump, thump, went her heart when he leaned over and placed his clean-shaven, perfectly chiseled face in full view.
“Ma’am,” he said in a double-rich voice that flowed from full sexy lips like hot-fudge sauce oozing over Ben and Jerry’s special delight.
“Did I do something wrong, Sir?” she managed to ask.
“You were swerving a little, and you were going ten miles over the limit. May I see your driver’s license, please?” He straightened and made a note on his clipboard. She noticed a pair a handcuffs hanging from his belt. Wow, I wouldn’t mind being cuffed to him for a night or three.
A grin tilted the corner of his mouth like he knew what she was thinking, and heat surged up Liz’s neck and splotched her cheeks. When she handed over her driver’s license, he examined it a few seconds and asked, “Is this address current?”
“Yes.” And how about my phone number?
“And this car is registered to you?” He lowered his sunglasses, and met her gaze with startlingly blue eyes. His glance slid to her lips. Hers fell to his ringless left hand.
“Ah--” I think so. “Um…y-yes, it’s registered to me.”
Then, all stern and cop-like, he said, “You haven’t been drinking have you?”
“No, of course not…I just turned around for a second to check on my dog.”
Looking into the back seat, he locked his attention on the pooch, and his expression softened. Then he turned those Caribbean blue heartbreakers on Liz. Smiled again. “This’ll just take a minute while I check the registration with DOT.”
He was gone for five minutes. When he returned and handed back her driver’s license, he settled his gaze directly into her eyes. “Miss Elizabeth Jorden, is it?”
“Y—yes.” Liz to you.
“I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but take it easy, okay, Miss Jorden?”
“Thank you—I sure will—take it easy…I mean.”
Walking back to the Camaro, the deputy gave her one last glance over his shoulder.
“Woof,” came a comment from the peanut gallery. Looking longingly out the side window, watching Sheriff Yummy climb back into the squ
ad car, Brad pranced in a circle and started whining.
“What? You like men in uniform?”
As the handsome enforcer of the law drove off, Brad continued to whine.
“Hey, he’s my X-rated fantasy, not yours. Watch it, Fido, your stay of execution is not official yet.”
Brad’s ears flattened, along with his body, as he plopped his belly on the seat, melancholia rolling off his back like a wave of fleas.
Oh, jeez, could the mutt understand her? “Just kidding, no one’s going to take you for that long walk to you-know-where. The G, A, L, L, O, W, S,” she spelled.
He woofed and laid his head between his paws, looking up at her with big, brown, and yes, sad, puppy-dog eyes.
Kachink went her heart.
***
When Liz got up Saturday morning, mellow from dreaming about cops and handcuffs, and…umm… she found Brad asleep outside her bedroom door, curled up with one of her slippers. The sight stirred up butterflies in her stomach. “You know how to work it, don’t you, boy?”
He startled awake and shot up, standing in a tense pose until she nuzzled his head, her fingers gliding over silky fur. “Whoa, kind of jumpy aren’t you?”
He followed her into the kitchen and stood patiently by the back door.
“Oh…you want to go out? You could have said something. I’m a newbie at this, you know?” She grabbed a sweatshirt, unlatched the door, and waited on the porch while he promptly took care of business and returned to the kitchen to curl up next to his bowl. She filled it with Crunchy Canine Delight, and he sat up and munched half-heartedly at the offering. Then it was back to his favorite pastime, lying on the floor unobtrusively, staring at her like a mooning cow.
It was surprising how well Brad fit into her routine. But then, how could a nearly comatose, undemanding dog not fit into my dull, undemanding routine?
Later that morning, she brushed him and checked him over for scars and injuries. His lean muscular body showed no signs of having been mistreated. But something had hurt him.
“Who broke your heart anyway, fella? Huh?”
He whined a reply.
“I wish you could tell me about it.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. His warm silky tongue bathed her face from chin to ear.
“Someday, I’ll tell you about Jason the Three-timing Rat Fink.” When he whimpered, she vowed no one was ever going to hurt this dog again.
As she sat on the couch to watch her workout video, her dog curled up by her feet. He even seemed to take mild interest in the instructor who wore a drill sergeant getup as he flexed his muscles and barked out commands.
“You like exercise videos?”
A soft yip ensued.
“Or do you just like watching TV? Maybe we should rent a Lassie movie or something.”
With a quiet moan, Brad looked at her and licked the potato chip salt residue from her hand. She got up and padded to the kitchen for another bag of goodies and returned with a bowl of chips for the dog. He sniffed, turned away, and rested his head on her foot.
“How about a Milk-Bone?” As she reached in her pocket, his ears half perked, and when she held out the biscuit he daintily took it. Something warm and fuzzy swelled inside her.
“Maybe we should go for a walk.”
Brad rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.
“No you don’t, Big Boy. You need some fresh air.” And so did she.
She gathered up the new leash she’d bought after she’d left the Humane Society and attached it to Brad’s new hand-tooled leather collar while he stayed stretched out on the hardwood floor.
With a bit of coaxing, she managed to lure him up and toward the door, but once they were outside, he sulked as he ambled along behind her all the way to the park.
Liz sat on a bench to watch a father pushing his son on one of the swings. Little girls giggling on the merry-go-round. Families having fun.
She sighed and turned her attention to the dog standing listlessly beside her. “Sit, Brad.”
Man’s best friend remained standing, sniffing the warm summer breeze until Liz patted him on the head. Then his hindquarters dropped to the ground and he pushed his nose against her hand. One Milk-Bone coming up.
After doling out his treat, she stood. “Okay, let’s try this.” She tugged on the leash. “Heel.”
Dragging a team of mules could possibly have been easier. Hands on her hips, she gave up temporarily. “Sometimes I think you’re playing me.”
Several Milk-Bones later, Brad consented to following her, dawdling along, investigating dried twigs and soggy leaves until suddenly, on the other side of the park along the edge of a wooded area, a flurry of activity erupted. Brad’s attention honed in on the commotion.
A voice screamed, “He’s got my purse. Someone stop him!”
Brad took off like a NASA rocket, dragging Liz along as she fought to hold him back. Sprinting at a pace her muscles had forgotten existed, she sucked in a breath and sputtered, “Whoa!”
Like a thoroughbred on Kentucky Derby day, Brad charged onward, Liz still gripping the leash. As they closed in on the purse thief, she genuinely hoped the dog intended to do the dirty work of taking the robber down, because the six-foot-plus perpetrator sported more muscles than she wanted to tangle with. “Brad, stop!”
He lurched on.
A man in an army-olive T-shirt and desert fatigue style running shorts stepped in—rather ran in—like a knight in shining armor.
Deputy McSexy commanded, “Stueten!” and her dog halted immediately.
Even out of uniform and unarmed, the deputy who had pulled her over yesterday was a force to be reckoned with as he tackled the purse-clutching robber. Within seconds, he had the thief pinned, his knee on the guy’s back while Brad stood on alert nearby. The deputy dragged out a cell phone, called for backup, and that was that. A uniformed cop arrived on the scene and took care of things from there.
Liz watched in muted amazement, shaking slightly from the confrontation, from witnessing her dog’s aggression, from the sight of the cute deputy sheriff with pumped biceps, who now stood looking her over while she smoothed her flyaway hair behind her ear.
Dressed in Saturday casual, McSexy looked every bit as yummy as he had the first time she’d seen him in the tan shirt with the star-shaped badge accenting his solid chest. For a guy like this, she’d give up fudge brownies forever.
“Nice dog,” he said. “Um…didn’t I almost give you a ticket the other day?”
Before she could reply, he held out his hand and said, “Dan Bartolotta.” That same charming smile she remembered crossed his lips, and as she reached to shake hands her stomach twittered. “How’d you do that? Get him to follow your command.”
His hand was big and solid. And hot. And when she realized she was holding onto him too long, she dropped his grip, suddenly unable to figure out what to do with the appendage attached to her wrist.
“A lot of service dogs are trained using German or Dutch commands. Is he your dog?”
“I just got him...from the Humane Society.”
“Ah…I see…that explains…He’s smart, and I can see he’s very well-trained.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.”
Dan Bartolotta’s gaze slid down Liz’s body, and she wished she’d gotten started on working off those ten extra pounds a month ago. He grinned. “The dog must be doing something right to get himself adopted by such a pretty woman.”
As a pickup line, it was kind of lame, but considering the mega hunk it originated from, she’d take it. Especially when it seemed Dan wasn’t repelled by the generous curve of her hips.
Meanwhile, Brad wagged his tail and then sat on the ground next to the object of both of their fancies.
“So…Elizabeth…Liz…Is it all right if I call you Liz? Do you live around here?”
He remembered her name.
“Yes and yes.” You can call me anything your little ol’ heart desires.
“Me too, over on Jackson Street…” He shrugged, seemingly running out of words, which gave him an approachable, down-to-earth-appeal, this larger than life crusader for the common man. Besides, who needed words when a guy like him was looking at her the way he was?
His cell phone buzzed.
“Excuse me.” He hiked a couple of steps away, the phone to his ear. Brad tagged after him, and the deputy absently reached down and stroked his head. Then Officer Bartolotta—Dan—stiffened and said, “Ten four. See you in five.” With a look of almost regret on his face, he strode back toward Liz. “Duty calls…Sorry to run off like this…Maybe we’ll run into each other again some time?”
Right. I’ve heard that one before.
When he took off jogging, Brad started to follow him, but Liz grabbed the leash and commanded, “Stueten.”
Her dog halted, but his gaze followed the broad-shouldered hero until he disappeared from sight.
***
Sunday morning was a replay of Saturday. Liz and Brad watching exercise videos, Brad picking at Canine Crunchies, Liz scarfing down potato chips. But she went cold turkey on the a.m. brownies, a futile endeavor, considering no Deputy Bartolotta showed up during their walk in the park.
On Monday when she walked out the door for work, her parting words to her new roommate were, “It’d be nice if you started supper before I got home.”
Brad rolled onto his back, legs in the air, and wriggled around, apparently scratching his back.
On the way home from work, Liz found herself looking forward to Brad’s company, low-key that it was. She stopped at the grocery store and searched the pet food aisle. Maybe he preferred canned food since he hadn’t taken a shine to the crunchy stuff. Perusing the shelves of hound chow proved daunting. Maybe something bacon flavored? Beef and gravy? In the end, she grabbed one can each of six different offerings, and on impulse snatched a squeaky rubber ball that lurked on a rack just waiting to lure that impetuous shopper.
Home at last, arms laden with grocery bags, she shoved the back door open with her hip, and yelled, “Honey, I’m home.”
No response. Par for Brad’s course.
“I’ve got a surprise.” She rattled the bags, digging for the ball.
“Hey, sunshine? You want something to eat?”
