I slipped on an old Donnas T-shirt and a clean pair of undies, Monster following me around tight on my heels. Jet was more independent than Mack. She was confident in her place in the world, and that place was on a stack of mattresses. With a pea hidden somewhere in the middle. Mack needed to be closer, to be reassured more often that he was safe and loved. Understandable, given his start. “Hey pally, who’s a good boy, huh?”
His tongue lolled to the side. That big old smile melted my heart every time. I put on my much deeper Mack voice and answered for him. “Me mama, Iza good boy. Iza the bestest.”
“Yes, you are.” I smooched the top of his head. “You’re the bestest boy ever.” After kissing his snout, I pulled a comb through my hair. “Guess what, pally. I met a pretty girl today who has a scar on her tummy like yours. Her dad said he’s going to help find the fuckers who did it to you.” I hoped.
Following me to the spare bedroom-turned-office, he watched as I pulled out the folder I’d stashed in my desk over a year ago. It was time to study it with fresh eyes. Seven dogs with that scar, two that had barely escaped with their lives. Five weren’t so lucky. One with a failed attempt at a slit throat, and my boy with scars from buckshot that had been stuck in his nose, neck, and shoulder.
Collapsing on the couch, I pulled my legs under me. It was never fun to go down this rabbit hole, but Mack had no voice. I would be the voice he didn’t have. With his head on my hip, and Jet’s fluffy butt brushing my other thigh, I cracked open the file. Nothing killed lady-wood quicker than puppy mill research.
Sometime later, I woke up on the couch to a text alert. My open laptop was sitting on top of Mack’s snoring body.
I picked up my phone. Eight thirty p.m. Jesus, I was tired.
Then, I saw who the text was from. Wide fucking awake.
Brody: Shit. I left a Hershey bar on the counter for five seconds, and when I turned around it was gone, wrapper and all. CC has foil hanging from her lip. Do I need to take her to the emergency vet?
Brody sent a picture of the offending counter surfer with Hershey wrapper stuck to her lip. I barked out a laugh.
Me: First, I didn’t think you guys were allowed to eat stuff like that. Second, don’t panic. Was it dark chocolate?
Brody: First, off-season. Second, it was milk chocolate.
Me: She probably doesn’t need to go to the vet but keep your eye on her. Dark chocolate is worse for dogs. Also, CC’s a big girl—it would take a lot of chocolate to poison a dog her size. If she starts acting agitated, has muscle contractions, excess vomiting—then you need to call the vet. Chances are she’ll be fine.
There was a long pause.
Brody: What about the wrapper? She swallowed it, too. Do I just wait for her to...you know?
Talking about dog poop was a way of life for me. I forgot now and then that it made other people uncomfortable.
Me: It’ll pass. Keep an eye on her poop to make sure she’s going normally. If she gets diarrhea or seems constipated, call your vet. CC is a big dog who produces big piles. Much less chance of her having an issue than a Yorkie.
When he didn’t answer right away, I plugged in my laptop and put the dogs out for the last time that night. After whistling them back in, I crawled into bed, huddling down in the covers. It was my favorite season in Dallas—that two days between winter and summer when it was cold at night, but the sun was warm during the day. Spring, that was it. I wished it lasted longer than two days.
After I patted the bed, both dogs jumped in. Mack bracketed my left side while Jet curled into my ribcage on the right. I was starting to doze when the phone pinged with another text. Sigh. I’d given Brody my number because I knew he’d worry constantly for the next few weeks. I was beginning to think it was a mistake—I couldn’t stop thinking about his handsome ass if he wouldn’t stop texting.
Brody: I took her out, seems fine. not the least bit bothered, but I feel horrible.
Me: If it makes you feel better, Mack once ate a sock. I didn’t know until he threw it up on the couch. It wasn’t blue anymore.
Brody: LMAO! I gotta meet this dude.
Brody: Our first manners class is in two weeks. Is there anything special I’ll need?
Me: We have private lessons at the center, if you’d rather? They’ll email you a list of stuff you’ll need for class.
Brody: Are you offering to give me...private lessons? Why, Ms. Costello, I’m scandalized. ;)
Me: Did you really just send me a winky emoji?
Brody: Hey, it wasn’t a dick pic.
Me: Classy, dude. Real classy.
Brody: Is anyone else sending you flirty winky emojis or dick pics?
I felt my eyebrows pull together, but a part of me really, really wanted to go down the flirty text road. Sigh. Time to nip it in the bud.
Me: First, none of your business, but no. Second, your attention span with women is like a spider monkey on meth. I don’t date my stepdad’s employees, Shaw. And I don’t hook up with guys I’m working with.
Yikes. That was blunt even for me. It was a solid minute before the dots popped up.
Brody: You know all the orgy stuff is a bunch of bullshit, right?
Honestly, I didn’t know if I believed him or not. The evidence was pretty damning.
Me: I know we have chemistry, okay? But the dogs come first. Always.
Brody: Yeah. TBH, getting involved with you would be a shit storm. If the media got ahold of it, they’d say I’m sleeping with you to get in good with Dick...and that’s not why I want you under me.
Brody: At. All.
Me: Brody!
Brody: Not gonna lie. I’ve been thinking about having you under me since we first met. You in that purple dress. The way it showed off your ass-sets... I wanted that particular ass-set filling my palms.
Me: BRODY! You have to stop.
Brody: One condition.
Me: Thank God, anything.
Brody: Tell me you’ve never thought about me? How we’d...fit, Liliana? How we’d move?
The truth was I’d thought about what it would be like having Brody between my thighs a lot.
He was the kind of man that took up all the air in the room. Not only handsome and built, but engaging and smart. When I talked to Brody Shaw, I felt like he was invested in listening to what I had to say. Every word of every sentence. Even discussing football, he never tried to mansplain it to me like other players had.
His reaction when he’d found out my father was a Hall of Fame linebacker, was comical. We’d been talking about his lucky streak of playing his entire football career in Dallas, and I told him that even my dad had played for another team before I was born.