And so did Blake. He was back, crouching down beside me. “He heard me! Scout heard me!”
A small, sad smile twitched on his lips. The sadness in his smile zapped my snippet of optimism. He handed me my phone; his was in his jeans pocket.
“I already called 911. What’s Dr. Chase’s number?”
“I have it on speed-dial.” Thank goodness, I’d added his name to my list of contacts. I quickly found it and hit call.
The phone rang five times. It felt like an eternity. My heart hammering, I feared the call would go to his voicemail or an answering service. It was Sunday and his office was likely closed. Then, finally on the next ring, he picked up. Thank God!
“Jen, hi! What can I do—?”
I cut him off. My voice panicked, tearful. “Dr. Chase, Scout’s been shot.”
“Jesus. Where?”
“I think in his abdomen.”
No further questions asked. His tone remained calm and collected. “Hold a tight compress to the wound. Text me your address. I’m going to call Pet Medevac to transport him to the VCA. They have the best team of canine surgeons in the state. I’ll meet you there.”
Five minutes later, sirens were blaring in our ears. Red lights flashing in the driveway twenty stories below.
And the white towel we were holding against Scout’s bullet hole was now soaked.
Crimson red.
Chapter 27
Blake
Scout wasn’t the only one critically wounded in the life and death showdown.
When Jen and I maneuvered him so we could put a compress to his wound, we discovered that he’d bit Krystal in the neck. Like Scout, she was hemorrhaging, the blood spurting like a fountain. He must have hit an artery. There was blood everywhere, her white suit soaked red. I thought Jen might faint, but my brave tiger surprised me and didn’t. While she held the compress, I took Krystal’s pulse.
“Is she still alive?” Jen asked anxiously.
Springer’s sister had a faint pulse, but I wanted to say no. Pretend she was dead and let the fucking bitch, who almost killed us all, bleed out. But then the scrawny, unconscious woman let out a faint moan and gave it away that she was still alive.
“Blake, we need to do something! We can’t let her die!”
I just didn’t get my wife sometimes. Screw Krystal. This sick piece of shit woman deserved to die. She was a murderer. Just like her sorry ass brother. They deserved to rot in hell together.
She moaned again, turning her head slightly. Jen moved closer to me. “Blake, I’ll stay here and hold Scout’s compress. Make another one for Krystal. We’ve got to control the bleeding.”
Reluctantly, I did as she asked. A few minutes later, we were like a first responder team, with me holding a compress to Scout’s abdomen, Jen to the psycho’s neck with both hands. I secretly wished it was the other way around. I’d just dab her neck and let her bleed. Or press too hard and cut off her air supply.
The police followed by the paramedics arrived, the latter relieving me of my duty. They couldn’t take her out on the gurney fast enough. Good-bye and good riddance! I let one of the kind EMTs help me attend to Scout while we waited for the pet transport; another treated Jen’s ankle, wrapping it in an Ace bandage. It was thankfully just a mild sprain and with RICE—rest, ice, compression, and elevation—it would heal soon.
The PetVac team arrived shortly afterward. By then, our apartment was in a state of chaos. In addition to the mess from the earthquake, it was swarmed by an army of uniformed cops, plain-clothes detectives, crime scene investigators, and forensic specialists. Our entire living room had been cordoned off with wide yellow tape and looked like a scene straight out of our popular Conquest crime series, Criminal Justice. For both Jen and me, it was déjà-vu, reminding us of the night I stopped Don Springer from killing her. How could this happen to us twice? What were the odds? One in a gazillion? Then, I remembered my father’s rule of statistics: things either happen or they don’t. So one in two. Fifty-fifty.
I kept an arm around Jen’s shoulders as the PetVac team carefully lifted our limp, unconscious Scout onto a gurney. They had managed to stop the bleeding by binding his middle, and numerous IVs were attached to him. Even my heart sunk at the sight of him. Jen sniffled.
“Blake, I want to go with him!”
I did too. But unfortunately, we couldn’t. The CSI unit needed us to stay put. They wanted to interrogate us. It was going to be a long, agonizing day.
We finally got to the VCA hospital in the mid afternoon. Three forty-five to be exact. Holding Jen’s hand, we raced up to the check-in. That buxom redhead, who we’d encountered the first time we were here, was sitting behind the console behind her computer. Frizzball.
“We’re here for our dog Scout,” Jen said breathlessly. “He’s in surgery.”
The attendant’s eyes lifted and glinted with recognition. “I remember you two! And now you’re all over the Internet.”
I bristled. We were already headline news. In this digital age of social media, news traveled fast. I bet Conquest Broadcasting would be running the story on its five o’clock local news broadcast with Skye Collins. It could even be the lead story since Conquest favored ratings-getting sensational news. Dammit. My parents would find out about our life and death experience online or on TV before hearing it from me. They were on their way to Australia and I hadn’t been able to reach them.
“How’s Scout doing?” asked Jen, her voice jittery and filled with trepidation.
“Let me call back to the operating room.” I gripped my tiger’s hand harder as the woman picked up a desk phone and dialed an extension. My eyes stayed glued on her jowly face, looking for any sign. Good or bad. She simply nodded and hung up the phone.
“He’s still in surgery.”
Shit. He’d been here for hours. “When will he be out?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Why don’t the two of you have a seat? Someone will let me know.”
I let out an exasperated breath. For the second time, I wanted to punch her. Until her expression softened and she said, “We’re all rooting for him.”
Jen and I sat side by side in the crowded waiting room. Silently. My cell phone muted. Now dressed in comfy sweats instead of that hideous pantsuit which I planned to burn, she held my hand while her other iced her ankle, the ice pack courtesy of the animal hospital.
Thirty anxious minutes later, my tiger excused herself to use the restroom.
Shortly after she disappeared, a plainly dressed silver-haired woman wearing a large cross around her neck took the other vacant chair next to me. Lying on the floor by her side was a large, handsome Golden Retriever. She turned to me, her face kind and reassuring.
“He’s going to be okay. Your dog is brave and strong. What a wonderful animal!”
She, too, must have seen the story on the Internet. I wanted to believe her. Her crinkly eyes exuded warmth and compassion. While I was in no mood for conversation, I asked her why she was here. Her Retriever looked perfectly healthy.
“Nemo had an in-grown toenail. This is a follow-up visit. We drove down here from Santa Barbara.”
“Wow! That’s far away. What made you come all the way here?”
She smiled. “We love this hospital. Especially Dr. Chase who used to work here. He’s treated all our therapy dogs.”
“Therapy dogs?”
“Yes. I work at a rehabilitation facility. We use trained therapy dogs to work with our patients. They can make such a big difference in a person’s life and help them heal faster, both mentally and physically.” She glanced down at her big copper-colored dog. “Nemo is one of our best. Both our patients and staff love him.”
“He’s a beautiful dog.” He truly was with his lustrous coat and expressive face.
“Thank you. All dogs are beautiful.”
I reflected on her words. The truth is, I’d never really seen an ugly dog. Some were funny looking, but I wouldn’t go as far as calling them ugly.
D-O-G. G-O-D. She was right! Strangely, I’d never made that connection.
“There is God in every dog. I believe they are heaven-sent.”
“Do you mean like angels?”
“Yes. They are guardian angels. They are here on earth to love and protect us.”
Her words went straight to my heart. And I thought about Scout. He’d saved our lives! Even taken a bullet for me. He was our guardian angel. I felt overwhelmed with emotion. Scout couldn’t die! It just wasn’t fair.
Frizzball’s booming voice broke into my distraught thoughts. “Sister Marie . . . Nemo. Dr. Rattan is ready for you.”
“That’s us!” beamed the woman next to me, who was obviously a nun. “Come on, Nemo.” The big dog sprung to his feet and began to pant excitedly.
Sister Marie collected her minimal belongings and then she placed one of her large hands on top of mine. It was warm and comforting. She held me in her soulful gaze.
“Tell your lovely wife I’m going to pray for your dog. God bless you all.”
She rose and I thanked her. She was a special human being. Fate had put her in my life. As she strode off with Nemo, a newfound spirituality washed over me. An unexpected, profound lightness of being.
Pray. That’s all we could do.
I wasn’t very religious, but believed in the power of prayer. When Jen had her hysterectomy and was facing a possible diagnosis of cancer, that’s what I did. And it worked.
It could work again. Hope filled me.
C’mon, Scout. You’ve got this. You make it home and I’ll even let you have one of Jen’s G-strings.
The minutes ticked like hours. It was close to five o’clock and the sun-filled sky had begun to darken. My stomach growled. Except for the Starbucks coffee and muffin I’d grabbed at Vegas’s McCarran airport, I hadn’t eaten all day, but I wasn’t hungry. The only thing I craved was news of our Scout. Good news!
I was about to nod off when a familiar raspy voice, calling out our names, startled me. Jen, who’d fallen asleep against me, startled, too, and bolted to an upright position.
Dr. Chase!
Heading toward us, he was wearing scrubs and looked exhausted. A five o’clock shadow laced his jaw. Both Jen and I jumped to our feet. My heart beating a mile a minute, I squeezed Jen’s hand.
“How is he, doc?” The words flew out of my mouth.
“He’s one hell of a dog.”
“He’s okay?” stammered Jen.
“Yup, he’s going to be okay.”
“Oh my God! Thank goodness!” Tears filled Jen’s eyes and she flung her arms around Dr. Chase. Under any other circumstances, jealousy would have flooded me and I might have punched him in the gut. But right now, all I wanted to do was hug him too. Don’t tell anyone!
Relief washed over us as Dr. Chase filled us in. Our superdog had sailed through the five-hour operation. They’d opened him up and retrieved the bullet. It took thirty-five sutures to close him up, something that made us both shudder. But Dr. Chase reassured us that there was nothing to worry about. They’d also sewn up the gash on his head with another nine stitches. Fortunately, an MRI showed there was no brain damage.
“Can we take him home?” Jen asked anxiously.
Dr. Chase shook his head. “We want to keep him here a few days for observation. Make sure he doesn’t get an infection and can eat properly.”
He went on to tell us that Scout was going to have to get used to his new outfit—a girdle-like bandage around his middle and a cone around his head to prevent him from tearing at the dressing. He was also going to have to be on a soft diet for several weeks until his stomach lining healed.
“Like matzo balls and noodle kugel?” I bet Grandma, who adored Scout, was going to have a field day.
Dr. Chase laughed. “Yeah, that would work. Bring me some too!”
Jen and I shared the laugh as our vet reached into a pocket.
“Oh, I almost forgot. We found something else in his stomach.”
My brows lifted in wonderment as he withdrew his hand, his fingers fisted. Slowly, he uncurled them.
Jen’s emerald eyes lit up like lanterns. “Oh my God! Don Springer’s pinky ring!”
Holy shit! I couldn’t believe it. The gaudy diamond ring shone in my eyes. Our dog must have swallowed it when he took a chunk out of Krystal’s neck. Dessert!
Dr. Chase lightly touched the platinum and diamond unicorn broach that was pinned to my tiger’s hoodie. Jen had insisted on wearing it because she truly believed it brought us good luck. She was right.
The vet chuckled. “I thought Scout had better taste in jewelry.”
“Me too!” Taking the ring from him and shoving it into a pocket, I couldn’t help but laugh as well. Operation Chasehole had bit the dust. Okay, he was a handsome rake, had a little bit of a thing for my wife, but I actually liked Chase Sexton. He was smart, funny, and caring. Best of all, he’d helped save our dog’s life. I had a feeling we were going to be buds.
“So, doc, can we see our dog before we take off?”
“Absolutely. He’s in recovery, but he may be up by now. Follow me.”
The recovery room was a smallish room on the second floor of the building. There was an attendant and several beds, but Scout was the only animal occupying one. He was lying on a soft blanket and appeared to be asleep.
My tiger stopped dead in her tracks upon seeing him and gasped. Even I wasn’t prepared to see him hooked up to so many monitors and IVs. I hated anything that resembled a needle. My stomach churned. Plus, his head was shaved where they’d given him stitches. Dr. Chase had assured us that his hair would grow back over time and that in a few months we would not even be able to see a scar. The same with the incision along his underside. But still.
“Oh my God, Blake. Our poor baby! His bandage is so big!”
It was pretty massive. A mishmash of gauze, elastic, and adhesive tape that wrapped around almost his entire torso. He wasn’t yet wearing the cone of shame, as my father used to call those things. Though for our heroic Scout, it was more like a crown of honor. Scout’s honor.
Holding hands, our fingers threaded, we inched closer to him. Each step, a little less hesitant. Up close, we could see his breathing was even and he wasn’t manifesting any signs of agitation.
“Baby, do you think he’s in pain?” Jen asked.
“Nah. Dr. Chase said they shot him up with some painkillers and he’s also on them intravenously.”
Standing by his side, Jen bent over and gave him a tender kiss on his head, careful not to go near his stitches. I petted him gently. My heart swelled with emotion. I never thought I’d be so happy to see the dog I didn’t want. I owed him my life.
Suddenly, he lifted his head a little and his eyes slid open. They were glazed from the anesthesia, but glinted with recognition.
“Scout!” Jen’s voice rose, growing brighter. “Mommy and Daddy are here! We love you so much!”
Scout raised his head a little more and that goofy tongue-driven smile of his or whatever it was lit up his face. Even his tail wagged! And then as fast as his eyes opened, they shut again though the content smile on his face remained.
His light snoring was like music to my ears. I took Jen into my arms and engulfed her in my warmth. And my love. I pressed my lips on her head, and we both wept. All the tension of the day melted away. Replaced by tears of gratitude. Tears of joy.
We held each other. Did a slow dance. Our hearts and bodies melded.
Without warning, as I swayed my wife, a stench filled the room. A too familiar scent. A deadly but silent stink bomb.
I silently laughed. Squeezed my tiger tighter.
That dog was back!
And he was here to stay.
Chapter 28
Blake
One Year Later
“Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!”
The fluffy duvet pulled down below my knees, I
felt a warm naked body straddling mine, soft, silky lips fluttering across my chest, shoulders, and neck.
Groggily with a contented moan, I peeled one eye open, then the other. My tiger! Thank fuck, it wasn’t Scout!
Stark naked, her hair loose, she clutched my shoulders, teased my lips, and began rocking her body against mine as she continued to sing to me. My morning wood already buried deep inside her, her lovely breasts grazing my chest. Man, I loved this. My tiger was doing all the work. All I had to do was lay back and meet her slow, sensual, rhythmic bucks. Enjoy the ride. It felt fan-fucking-tastic. Birthday fucks were the best.
“Mmm,” I murmured. “And Happy Anniversary.”
December 21st. My thirty-second birthday. And our second anniversary.
The bedroom door was shut. But as we got close to reaching our climaxes, our breaths growing ragged, there was a scratching at the door. And a wail from the nursery next door.
Jen picked up her pace.
And I came. We both did. Hard.
Still clinging to my shoulders, Jen lifted her head and her glazed après le fuck eyes latched onto mine. A wry smile curled up her lips.
“This is the first of your many birthday surprises.”
“Really?”
I had a few surprises in store for her too. Later tonight, after I fucked her brains out, I was going to present her with the gorgeous onyx pin I had custom-made by my mother’s jeweler. And hidden deep in my sock drawer, far away from the likes of Scout. Believe me, I never wanted a repeat of the unicorn incident. This pin was a replica of our dog, complete with a ruby-studded red collar and a pair of chocolate diamond eyes. On the back, I’d inscribed the date and Woof! I love you!
Yup. No bones about it. I fucking loved my wife. More than ever if more was possible.
It was a monumental day. Not only my birthday and our second anniversary. It was also almost the five-month birthday of our son Leo, who was born on July 23rd. And the fourteen-month anniversary of when we’d conceived him in a petri dish and had his embryo transferred into my sister Marcy’s uterus. As I devoured the delicious, maple syrup-soaked pancakes and bacon my tiger had made, happiness filled every molecule of my being. Our lives had changed so much over the last two years. Especially the past one.
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