Chapter One
Murphy’s Law: Shit can ALWAYS get worse.
Lily
“Oh, goddamn. I ain’t got time for this now.” I clenched my teeth as traffic slowed to a crawl. Heading south on the Dallas North Tollway—yes, I knew how ridiculous that sounded but it was accurate—I was late to a meeting with a new client. At four p.m. on a Friday, you could always expect traffic going north on the tollway, but going south? Frisco was far enough from the city that it shouldn’t have been a problem. Instead, there I was, doing five goddamned miles an hour.
“Well, shit.” I pulled the rubber band from my hair and regathered it at my nape.
I hated Dallas traffic on a good day. Today it was the cherry on top of my shit sundae.
It had started first thing this morning. I’d been in Starbucks when an asshole in a dually parked so close to my driver’s side door that I didn’t have a prayer of squeezing my butt through the opening. Already running late to teach my morning puppy kindergarten class, I crawled across the passenger seat. As I was shimmying over the console, I kicked over my coffee. Then, the dually driver emerged, glanced through my window, shrugged, and left.
Next, I got peed on.
After puppy class ended, I was speaking with Pickles the Pupper’s mom when Cassie (or Casshole, as her mother referred to her, because of her need to destroy all puppies in her general vicinity) came through the door. Cassie was nearly thirteen. She had agility and nose work titles, and she’d earned the right to be a bitch if she damn well pleased.
She was also the reason the Unruly Dog Training Center had a no-greeting-between-dogs policy.
The next part happened in a matter of seconds. Pickles the Pupper’s tail started wiggling at helicopter speed as she pulled her leash tight toward a barking Cassie. Knowing the dachshund’s barking wasn’t a friendly hello, but an Ima tek yo face off, puppeh! I quickly scooped up Pickles as Casshole snapped out, nicking the puppy’s lip.
That was when Pickles peed on me. Down the front of my last clean work shirt, over my khaki pants, and right on the inside of my sneaker.
Now, I’d hit traffic when I was late to a client meeting. Can this day get any worse?
The cosmos threw her head back with a witch cackle. Oh child, ask and you shall receive. Muahahahaha!
Contemplating the merits of anger-management classes, I didn’t bother to check the caller ID when my phone rang. I hit the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel and immediately wanted to punch myself in the face.
“Yeah?”
“‘Yeah’? We don’t say ‘yeah’ when we answer the phone, Liliana.” My mother’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard sending hair on my nape up.
“What do you need, Mom? I’m late for a training appointment.”
She huffed. “That’s why I called. Your father—”
“Stepfather. Dick is not my father.” My father was Billy Costello—one of the foremost linebackers in Dallas Bulldog history. Unfortunately, he’d died when I was younger. Not long after he passed, my mom turned to Dick as her meal ticket.
A weary sigh filled my car speaker. “Please stop calling him Dick. Richard detests when you do that. Speaking of training appointments, don’t you think it’s time to let the dog thing go?”
“Umm, no? Is that why you called? To harass me into working for Richard? Because you might as well stop there. I won’t work for the team.”
“Liliana, the Dallas Bulldogs have been good to us. Your stepfather needs someone he can trust in the head trainer’s position, and...well, playing with dogs all day instead of using your expertise...it’s an affront to the family.”
“Hmphf. To Richard, right? Don’t you mean it’s an insult to Dick?”
Her voice got higher. I could hear the annoyance. “We’ve discussed this. You are the daughter—”
“Stepdaughter.”
“Step. Daughter.” I was sure that ugly vein in her overly Botoxed forehead was starting to bulge. “As the stepdaughter of the general manager of the Dallas Bulldogs football team, you knew Richard expected you to use the degree he paid for by working for the team.”
Dick needs someone he can trust in the head trainer’s position. Uh-huh. Sure, he did. Dick could give a good goddamn that working with dogs was what made me happy. He saw me as a tool he could use to better the team—that was the reason he’d paid my tuition. Now, he was pissed he wasn’t getting any return on his investment.
“I’m not having this argument again.” I seriously thought about beating my head on the steering wheel. Instead, I looked over my shoulder and turned on my signal, trying to nose my way into the exit lane. No one was budging.
Yes, I had a master’s in kinesiology, but my undergrad had been in political science. I’d planned to go to law school, but a guy happened, and law school didn’t. Long story. Anyhow, when I was little, my real dad took me to the Bodies exhibit when it came through Dallas—you know, donated human bodies dissected, preserved, posed, and displayed? I’d been fascinated with human mechanics ever since. Instead of applying to law schools, I applied to the Master of Science in Kinesiology program at UNT.
Dick had almost been as gleeful to have me slotted in the head trainer position for the Bulldogs as he was to have a lawyer he thought he could bring on staff. I never had any intention of working for my stepfather. As it turned out, I didn’t have the highest peopling threshold. Hence, me not using said degree. Besides, Dick had shady written on his forehead. He had to have an ulterior motive for wanting me working for the Bulldogs—Dick didn’t do anything that didn’t benefit him—I just didn’t know what the reason was. Best guess was because of who my father was, but I didn’t think that was entirely it, either.
Why were most humans such asshats?
Like the person driving the F-150 sitting in my blind spot. Ignoring. My. Turn. Signal! Dogs, however, were as close to the divine as people would ever get. If they only lived longer...
“I’m not going to work for the team, Mom. I don’t want anything to do with the Bulldogs. Ever. I don’t give two shits who’s disappointed in my job choice.” Dammit, if this jerk would only speed up or slow down...
“Language. I raised you better.” Screeeeech, went the nails on the chalkboard. “Besides, isn’t it about time you let all that ugliness go?”
Raised me? Ha. I raised myself. And ugliness? She made it sound like a pimple on prom night. Not only did Dick have the word shady written on his forehead, the Dallas Bulldogs employed my cheating, creepy ex-fiancé. I’d rather dig out my eyeballs with a spork than work for the team that employed that prick. The little voice in the back of my brain told me this conversation would go a lot faster if I kept my mouth shut.