THAT MAN 8

by L'Amour, Nelle

  As I clenched my fists and simmered, pretty-face Chase told us we could pick up Scout’s prescriptions at the front desk. Jen thanked him cheerfully. I was eager to get home. And to get this fricking dog to take a dump. My obsession with Chasehole had almost made me forget the reason we’d come here.

  Just as I was about to say adieu, Chasehole stopped me in my tracks.

  “Hey, Blake. Did you by chance go to UCLA? Class of ’95?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I graduated from UCLA that year too. You were on the track team with me . . . but I don’t remember your last name being Burns.”

  Ah-ha! That’s how I knew him! I told him my last name used to be the same as my father’s—Bernstein—but that I’d changed it for professional reasons. I didn’t get into my male modeling stint—something that was long in the past, yet every once in a while came back to bite me in the ass when some crazed woman recognized me and practically tore my clothes off.

  “You looked familiar too.” I remembered him now. As good looking and as athletic as he was, he kept to himself, studying in the library and not partying with the rest of us. “Your last name is familiar too. What does your father do?”

  “He’s an accountant . . . Charles Sexton.”

  “You mean like the Sexton in Sexton and Meyers?” That was my father’s accounting firm and Charles Sexton was his personal accountant. They had offices all over the country. While not quite the billionaire my old man was, his father was loaded.

  “Yes,” replied Chasehole, who was becoming less of a real threat to me. Thank fuck, he didn’t go by the name Dr. Sex.

  “My real name is actually Charles—Charles Sexton the Third—but I’ve been Chase for as long as I remember. I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps.”

  Neither did I, but here I was being groomed to be the next head of Conquest Broadcasting. I had to say I’ve never for one day regretted working for my old man. Though we had totally different ways of doing business—I shot from my gut; he was methodical—I admired and learned a lot from him. He was a brilliant businessman and respected leader, and I looked forward to our weekly chats on his terrace, drinking bourbon and smoking cigars, talking about life and the biz. And I had much to thank him for. If he hadn’t hired my tiger, I would have likely never seen her again after that unforgettable blindfolded kiss.

  Chasehole continued, breaking into my mental ramblings. “I never wanted to be a bean counter. I’ve always loved animals and for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a vet. After I graduated UCLA, I attended UC-Davis, which has one of the best veterinary medicine programs in the country.”

  “That’s wonderful,” beamed Jen. “And it’s so exciting you’re opening your own practice.”

  “Yeah, I’m excited about it too. I’m going to miss this place, but it’s time. And my dream. I’m putting an emphasis on holistic medicine and natural, organic products. On the way out, I’ll also give you a sample of the organic dog food I recommend. Dogs love it—and it really helps them regulate their bowel movements. You can buy it on Chewy.com and I’ll also be stocking it at my new office.”

  “I will and I love Chewy!” gushed Jen. “Oh, and by the way, if you need an assistant or receptionist, I know the perfect one.”

  Scrunching my brows. I wondered whom she was talking about. No one in our family or circle of friends stood out.

  “I might,” replied Chase. “Can you get us in touch?”

  Jen’s face brightened. “I will!”

  “Great! Here’s my new business card.” He reached into a pocket and handed one to Jen. “And one last thing, given the damage Scout caused in your house tonight with his rowdy behavior, I highly recommend you get him into training right away.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Enroll him in obedience school. There’s a great class that meets in Roxbury Park every Sunday morning. A new session is starting tomorrow.” He wrote down a name and web address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Tell Martha I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.”

  “Thanks.” Internally, I growled. I hated school and the last thing I wanted to do on a Sunday morning was go to school with the beast. At least, Jen would be there, too, and when the instructor wasn’t looking, I could squeeze her ass or pinch her tits.

  “And one final last thing, take Scout for a walk as soon as you get home. If the laxative doesn’t work, try again tomorrow morning. Good luck and keep me posted.”

  “Isn’t he the best?” gushed Jen as we took the elevator down to the parking structure. “I’m crazy about him!”

  She was back to gushing over the damn dog who’d already cost me close to two thousand smackereroos. Make that twenty-five if I didn’t get the broach back.

  “Do you mean Scout?” I asked snarkily.

  “No, I mean Dr. Chase.”

  I felt my muscles clenching. I was just beginning to like the guy, and now jealousy was pouring back into my veins like hot lava.

  “And did you notice he wasn’t wearing a wedding band?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.” All my attention had been on the two of them, exchanging flirtatious smiles.

  “I bet he’s single! He’s so cute!”

  Seriously!? Mental palm slap. Give me a frigging break!

  “He’d be perfect for Libby!”

  “Yeah, he’d be perfect for her!” I readily agreed. And they should move to Zimbabwe, take care of endangered animals, and live happily ever after. Libby could even conduct focus groups with monkeys. Under the influence, she could talk to anyone and anything about everything.

  As the elevator reached our parking level and the doors slid open, I made a new mental note: Find another vet or find a way to get rid of this dog.

  Or both.

  Chapter 13

  Blake

  It was close to midnight when we got home. Jen and I quickly changed into sweats and our running shoes while a thirsty Scout slurped up some water in the kitchen. Five minutes later, we were out the door with Scout on his leash. Jen was carrying a tote filled with plastic bags, bottles of water, and a pair of chopsticks. Scout was filled with boundless energy, eager to take a walk. Over an hour had passed since he’d taken the laxative and fingers crossed its magic would work.

  Heading east on still busy, high rise-lined Wilshire, we made a right turn onto a side street, which led us into a neighborhood of well-groomed older, moderate-sized houses with front lawns and tree-lined sidewalks.

  ‘This is a pretty neighborhood,” commented Jen.

  “Yeah, it is.” Surprisingly, for as long as I’d lived on the Wilshire Corridor, I’d never explored the surrounding area.

  “Would you want to live here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean like buy a house here.”

  “I don’t think so.” While the houses had curb appeal, they were too on top of each other for my taste. And too small. While I didn’t want to live in a palatial mansion or a gated community like my parents, I wanted something that was more spacious and with more property . . . and preferably close to the Santa Monica steps and the beach. There was a street called Adelaide that I loved, but in all the years I’d parked along it, I’d rarely seen a For Sale sign.

  “I’d love to buy something on Adelaide,” I told Jen. She loved that street, too, as the houses reminded her of the grand houses in Des Moines. Though what sold for five hundred thousand dollars there was probably five million here. Real estate prices in Los Angeles, especially close to the ocean, were astronomical. Even a small two-bedroom cottage close to the beach sold for a million dollars or more.

  “Could we afford to?” My wife still hadn’t gotten used to my wealth and still shopped at moderately priced stores, seeking out sales and bargains. Something she had in common with my grandma and bonded them.

  “We can afford just about anything.”

  A long stretch of silence followed. We continued to walk, with Scout stopping
to sniff whatever he fancied. So far, he’d lifted his leg twice to pee, but nothing had inspired him to take a dump. It was getting chilly and I was getting fed up. We’d been outside for over a half hour.

  “I don’t think that laxative stuff is working,” I grumbled. All hope of getting back the broach was evaporating like water. And my faith in this quack doctor was waning exponentially.

  “You have to be patient, Blake.” My tiger hugged herself to stay warm. “Dr. Chase said it could take several tries.”

  Patience was not one of my virtues. I was ready to turn back when Scout began circling a patch of grass.

  Jen glommed on to my arm. “Blake, I think he’s going to make a poop!”

  My eyes stayed fixed on him as he squatted. C’mon, boy, sock it to me! He squeezed out whatever was inside him, then stood up, vigorously kicking his hind legs behind him, covering the turd with a tuft of dirt and grass.

  “Blake, do you see the broach?” my wife asked excitedly.

  On the dark, dimly lit street, it was hard to see shit (no pun intended), especially now that it was camouflaged by nature. I carefully circled it, hoping not to step in it. I knew I was close because the stench drifted up my nose. Ugh! It rivaled his flatulence. I squatted down. Nothing that sparkled met my eyes.

  “Jen, can you hold his leash while I look?”

  “Sure.” She took it from me as I pulled out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight, aiming it at the giant turd. “Give me one of the chopsticks.”

  Holding my breath and on to the tiniest glimmer of hope, I poked an end of the wooden stick into the giant pile of shit, then began swirling it around, trying to uncover the missing bauble. Hoping to see the tip of the unicorn’s diamond cone peek through. The stench was overwhelming. “UGH!” I choked, wishing I’d brought along one of the scarves we’d brought in Scotland to wrap around my face and ward off the vomiticious smell. Vomiticious was a word made up by Jennifer, but it had become part of my vocabulary.

  I swirled and I swirled and I swirled with what I was now dubbing the Shitstick. Some clever telemarketer could probably package them and turn them into an As Seen on TV product. And make a bloody fortune. I could hear his voice in my head . . . “And that’s not all. They’re washable. Reusable. Recyclable. Use them for anything . . . from dog shit to sushi.”

  God, I was genius, but then Jen cut into my mental ramblings. And into my swelling ego. “Do you see anything?”

  Squinting, I shook my head. I swirled some more. Nothing. I was losing hope. Nada. Absolutely fucking nada. For all I knew, the broach had dissolved in the beast’s stomach, destroyed by his lethal gastric acids. Rising to my feet, I let out a loud, exasperated breath. It sounded like a deflating balloon. “Let’s go home, baby. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  After tossing the Shitstick into the nearest trash bin along with a bagful of dog shit, we walked back to our condo, me holding Scout’s leash in one hand, Jen’s hand in the other. Our fingers were threaded.

  “Tiger, maybe he’ll poop out the broach tomorrow after we give him another dose of the laxative.” I knew I didn’t sound convincing as I didn’t believe my own words.

  Jen squeezed my hand. “Blake, it’s not that important. I know the broach means a lot to you, but that’s not what matters to me. Scout’s alive. You’re alive. We have each other—that’s all we need. I love you so much and I know you love me.”

  Her heartfelt words resonated deep inside me. I stopped in my tracks, holding a boisterous Scout back with all I had.

  “Look at me, baby.” She turned to face me, and on my next breath, I curled my free arm around her waist, drawing her close to me. The full moon shining upon us.

  “Happy Birthday, tiger.” Maybe it was already the next day, but who gave a shit, no pun intended. “I do love you. So fucking much.” Then, I tilted up her chin so I could swoop down and give her a hot, passionate kiss. The gnawing, sucking, lip-bruising you-are-mine kind. She moaned against my mouth just as Scout tugged at the leash. I had no choice but to let go of her and head back to our condo. Despite how much I hated this dog, I felt better. My tiger’s lips had healing powers. Like a balm.

  Scout was happy to be home. Bypassing the night doorman, he burst inside our building, sliding across the marble floor to the elevators as if he was speed skating on ice. Jen and I were running an Olympic six-meter race to keep up with him. The elevator doors pinged open and we followed a panting Scout inside it.

  Breathless, we reached our apartment and I undid the deadbolt with my key.

  “Baby boy, we’re home,” breathed Jen, glancing down at Scout the Jewel Thief.

  I pushed the door open, but the beast just stood there. Like he was suddenly unsure if he wanted to go inside. And then he squatted.

  “Oh no!” shrieked Jen, her face aghast.

  That familiar awful stench drifted up my nose and then I looked down.

  Christ. He’d made a deposit, this one gross and liquidy. Diarrhea. But lo and behold, diamonds glittered in my eyes.

  Holy shit! No pun intended! He’d at last pooped out the broach!

  “Way to go!” I commended, patting him as I bent down to retrieve it from the steaming puddle of poo. I didn’t give a flying fuck that shit was all over my fingers. The broach was in my possession!

  “Oh my God! The broach!” Jen was as excited as I was and kept up with me as I hurried to the kitchen sink to wash it off. Along with my fingers. First with some dishwashing soap and warm water, then with a non-abrasive scouring pad. Using a soft clean dishcloth, I dried it off. Wow! The unicorn broach was more beautiful than I remembered. With its platinum body, emerald eyes (the color of Jen’s), and sparkling pave diamond cone.

  All cleaned up, I held it in the palm of my hand as Jen gazed down at it. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened with awe.

  “Oh, Blake, it’s so beautiful!”

  I reflected on its significance as I pinned it onto her hoodie.

  On our tour of Edinburgh, we’d passed a famous bronze statue of a unicorn, and our personal guide had explained that while the animal is mythological, the ideals it represents made it the perfect choice, fit to be the national animal of Scotland. And because like this proud beast, Scots would fight to remain unconquered. While I was finger-fucking Jen beneath her tiny kilt, half listening, something had sunk in. I identified with unicorns. Their fearlessness was much like the That Man I was. Plus, they were a symbol of good luck. Unicorns made dreams come true. Perhaps one would bring us a baby. So, when I saw this antique jeweled one in the window of a small shop in the city’s charming West End district, I knew I had to have it despite the exorbitant price. The kind, elderly proprietor told me that the previous owner had given it to his infertile wife and she subsequently produced three heirs. That sealed the deal. When I left the shop, the box was in my pocket.

  Without getting into details, I told Jen what unicorns symbolized. She kept her eyes on the broach. “It will bring us good luck, Blake. It already has.”

  “It has?”

  “It’s brought us the best fur baby in the world.” She paused reflectively. “And I know, just know, our dream of having a child will come true.”

  Scout, who had followed us into the kitchen, barked twice.

  Perhaps, he was seconding her wish.

  Jen looped her arms around my neck.

  “Thank you, my love, for the best birthday ever.”

  There was a mess to clean up by the front door, but I was going to let it go.

  And make my tiger’s birthday even better.

  Chapter 14

  Blake

  The Royal Canine Obedience School was held in Roxbury Park on Pico close to Conquest Broadcasting and a mere fifteen minute drive from my condo, given there was little traffic on a Sunday morning. I’d wanted Jen to come along, but she was meeting with her new speech coach. A rising star at Conquest Broadcasting with many important presentations and interviews ahead of her, it was suggested by both my father and our head
of Public Relations that she consult with one and embellish her public speaking skills. Wanting to go far in the company, she agreed to their suggestion.

  I found parking easily and marched Scout through the grass. Or should I say he marched me, tugging at his leash. The ground muddy, we left footmarks in our tracks.

  “Hey, bud, sorry you have to go to school on a Sunday,” I muttered out loud, thinking about all the weekend detentions I’d had to endure as a kid, all the way through high school. Scout didn’t seem to mind one bit. Sniffing everything, he chugged ahead, stopping only to lift his leg a few times until we reached our destination.

  I followed the signs. The school was located in a shady area just outside the adult community center. In the near distance, there was a children’s park filled with swings, a sandbox, seesaws, and benches. It was already crowded with kids and their parents. Close to the community center, older men and women, dressed in all white, were playing a leisurely game of bocce ball. Lawn bowling as it was called here.

  I recognized the instructor from the school’s website. Her name was Martha Churchill. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, with cropped gray coarse hair, a square jaw, and handsome features, and outfitted in khaki Bermuda shorts, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt with a silhouette of a crown-bearing dog—the school’s logo. A wide-brimmed hat that resembled a drill sergeant’s hung from her bullish neck along with a whistle suspended from a lanyard. She looked like the no nonsense, militaristic type and reminded me of my pickle-up-her-butt homeroom teacher, Mrs. Aston (aka Mrs. Asshat), who followed me through high school and threatened to have me expelled for being perennially late and throwing spitballs. Lucky for me, too bad for her, my parents were major donors of the posh private school I attended. Every morning she was reminded when we did our daily convocation in the Saul and Helen Bernstein Auditorium.