Like all her pets—four cats and Norm—and like Mila herself, Norm was a stray. She’d rescued him from the Front Street Animal Shelter when he was still a puppy. A six-month old, sixty-five pound puppy. He’d been surrendered because he was huge and excitable and way too much for his first owner to handle. She’d adopted him because he was on the kill list. Nobody wanted a gigantic dog with boundless energy.
The person who’d given him up hadn’t known what kind of dog he was, and the shelter hadn’t, either, except everybody was fairly sure there was pit bull in there. Though his fur was a shaggy brindle and his ears stood tall like a German Shepherd, he had the heavy musculature and wide head of a pittie—one that had been fed Miracle-Gro, maybe. Now he was four years old, a hundred and forty pounds, and looked like a beast straight from the bowels of Hell.
In reality, he was terrified of storms, fireworks, backfiring trucks, leaf-blowers and lawnmowers, bumblebees, brooms, puddles, dog crates, and most especially Arya, the ten-pound, ten-year-old tortie who ruled this roost.
But if someone made any kind of suspicious move toward Mila, Norm shoved all his neuroses aside and made sure that someone understood the grave error of their ways.
He was still extremely excitable and had destroyed more than a few breakable things bounding around the apartment. In the early days, before Mila figured out what he needed to stay calm while she was away, he’d also eaten two couches, half a door, and a basket of laundry she’d left on the dryer.
Mila would never love another living soul the way she loved this dopey, damaged dog.
What he’d needed to stay calm, by the way? Kittens. Of his own. Arya and Sansa had already been ensconced when she’d brought Norm home, and they’d hated him at first. In the past four years they’d become accustomed to his existence, but grudgingly. They ignored him, unless Arya felt he needed a lesson.
Norm had been lonely. Mila understood loneliness.
He could be aggressive with other dogs, but he was obviously okay with cats, if a little cowed by them. So she’d brought him into the shelter to meet some kittens.
Norm had behaved like she’d led him straight to heaven. He’d lain on the floor and let kittens crawl all over him, his tail wagging, his eyes rolled up, and his mouth slack, big dumb pink tongue flopping.
They’d come back out with Maverick and Goose, two brothers, one grey and one white. Norm was a very devoted father. Even now, when the boys were nearly three years old.
Mila lived with five pets in an apartment with a two-pet limit. After an itinerant childhood during which she’d sometimes had three or even four different addresses in a single year, there were few things in life Mila despised more than moving. But she would have done so for the animals. Luckily, her landlord was an MMA fan, so he took a bigger deposit and looked the other way.
After Norm got his requisite snuggles and she picked up Maverick and Goose, who were, as usual, right behind Norm, and gave them each a squeeze and a kiss on the head, she went to the kitchen. Arya and Sansa sat on the counter—which was gross, but they ignored her complaints—staring at her with silent condemnation. They tolerated her head scritches but did not soften their outlook.
Behind her, the brothers meowed and Norm did his happy dance, slamming his butt so hard into the island it shook.
“Alright, alright, I’m getting it. Geez, be patient. Sit, Normie.” Norm sat, but barely. He danced in place, whimpering a little with anticipation.
She took the stoneware cat bowls from the dishwasher—the faint chime as they settled on the tile counter made the brothers’ chorus go to eleven—and opened a few cans of Fancy Feast.
Norm waited until the cats were eating—the boys like they’d last eaten a month ago and the girls like they supposed they had nothing better to do just now—and Mila could cut up some leftover grilled chicken and some carrots for his bowl.
When she set his bowl in its frame, he whimpered louder and stared at her as if he might cry. “Okay, bubbie. Come.”
He leapt at the bowl. He was excitable, but he was a good boy and listened to his mama.
Mila stood at the counter and smiled. She had a family. She’d made one for herself.
Before she made herself some supper, she emptied her pockets. As she pulled her phone out, a white card slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
Her encounter with the homeless-shelter guy had totally slipped her mind, but she remembered when she saw that white rectangle. She picked it up and considered it: Hector Lopez, B.A. M.S.W.
Good odds that he’d grown up poor and was the first in his family to go to college. Among the first, at least. Mila hadn’t gone to college, but she knew that people for whom college was no big deal didn’t put their undergraduate degree on their business cards.
Mr. Hector Lopez—Hex, apparently, to his friends—had been pretty interesting. Good looking, well educated, the kind of job that probably paid shit but definitely improved the world. He’d been nice, maybe a little funny, possibly charming. He’d probably be fun on a date. Just a date. A prelude to a nice romp. Nothing more than that, of course.
He wanted her to call him, and she wanted to call.
But Bobby Macias, the owner of Cap City and the team’s head coach, had talked to her that afternoon. She’d been offered a huge fight—pay-per-view, main card, against Bettina Lewison, the number three flyweight in the league. In October. Six months from now. If she beat Lewison, that put her in perfect position to take on Sonia Silva, who’d held the belt for almost three years.
Mila needed to spend the next six months wholly focused on training.
She tore up the little white rectangle and tossed it in the trash.
TWO
Hex shoved his arm out from under the covers and flailed around until he caught hold of his phone. He dragged it, still tethered to its cable, under the pillow with him and shut the damn alarm off. It was Sunday, but that didn’t matter. He hadn’t had an actual weekend off in more than a year.
It was 5:45 in the morning and still dark. The screen’s light was obnoxiously bright, but he blinked away his discomfort and checked his messages.
Two from Byron, about work. Both routine.
One from Allison, asking if he wanted to come over for a cookout tonight.
Nothing else. The little chica guapa from the rummage sale had neither called nor texted. Oh well.
Dragging himself from under the pillow, Hex rolled to his back and started his habitual round of social media, but he wasn’t really reading anything he scrolled past. His mind was on little Mila.
She really was cute. Tiny, not much more than five feet, if that. He had no idea what her shape was, she’d been wearing loose black track pants and a baggy red hoodie that left everything to the imagination, but she was tiny all over. Long, silky hair, almost black. Pretty, dark eyes. Nice smile, with a little challenge in it. A single dimple, topped by a pretty round dot of a mole on her left cheek. She’d had an appealing sprinkle of snark in her attitude, too.
Something about her called to him, almost like she was familiar. But Hex was good with names and faces—it was an important skill to have in the work he did—and he was sure he’d remember that pretty face if he’d met her before. He’d just picked up a vibe of interest, is all, that little zing that said interest was shared. He’d been pretty confident she’d call. She’d seemed into him enough for at least that.