Bennett’s laughter catches my attention, and I turn to him, Poppy and Mae with a scowl as they stroll across the parking lot. “You’re late.”
Poppy lets out a whistle. “What size steel rod have you got up your ass today?” She giggles as she moves past me into the animal shelter with Bennett, leaving Mae staring after her with stunned eyes, shock evident on her face from the comment.
She’s wearing a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, and I can’t help but let my gaze travel lower than necessary. Her rounded hips are accentuated, and I clear my throat and gesture for her to enter the shelter in front of me.
Definitely not because I want to get a look at her ass.
Because I don’t.
The smell of cleaning products wafts up my nose as we step into the reception. It causes it to crinkle up, overly sensitive to the alcohol in them.
A million and one thoughts race through my mind whenever the smell is present, but I’ve learned to ignore them. Push them away. Project the intense sensation into another notion instead—something more positive. Something that will actually benefit me, because dwelling on my past certainly doesn’t.
We get ourselves checked in and are made to wear name badges that indicate we’re volunteers. Photos of us are taken, and I plaster on a smile. Darrell and Renee need to approve of these, and if we don’t look happy to be here, they won’t make the cut and won’t be released to the press.
A sense of guilt spikes inside me. We’re only here to clean up our image. It screams entitlement, and I disapprove of using these charities this way. But either way, they’re getting help, so I suppose it’s a win-win situation.
Mae appears giddy, entirely in her element here, much more at ease than a few days ago at the bar. It was impossible to miss the way her eyes lit up with excitement when Poppy brought up volunteering here. I hadn’t expected such a bright reaction from her, like the clouds had cleared and the sun had come out.
“We’ve got some dogs that need some attention, and the cat area needs cleaning,” the lady behind the desk tells us, a wide grin on her face.
“I’m allergic to cats,” I state, and Mae turns to me with a frown.
“Why didn’t you say that when we discussed the idea of volunteering here the other day?” Her hands are on her hips as she subtly scolds me.
Why does a sick part of me not mind it?
“Because I don’t care where we volunteer.”
I’m not afraid to admit that I don’t let people in. I keep chit-chat to a minimum—except with the people I trust. Because caring can be hazardous.
As a child, I cared way too much, and it came back to bite me in the butt when trying to accomplish what I was supposed to. Or what was expected of me. I learned the hard way. Caring only dwindles your chances of being happy, because when everything in your life goes to shit, you end up disappointed that it didn’t work out.
Bennett studies me, shaking his head and muttering something about not wanting to clean up cat shit, but he keeps the complaint quiet enough so that the lady helping us—Sheila, I believe her name is— doesn’t hear.
“I love cats,” Poppy speaks up, raising her eyebrows at me— silently warning me to be nice—before beckoning Bennett with a nod of her head and heading down the corridor.
I huff. I’m not one for surface-level conversation, and the last person I want to have that with is Coach Renee’s daughter.
I have my back up when it comes to Mae. I’d be the same with any of the cheerleaders, but there’s something about her being the daughter of the woman who despises me and wants me off the team that makes it ten times worse.
Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous, too. I can already tell she has a mouth on her, and I know she’s going to drive me up the fucking wall.
I just have to get through this season, though. These charity appearances won’t last forever, and then I won't have to see her again. She’ll be leaving, and our paths won’t cross again.
We’re led down the barren corridor, where the sound of dogs crying for attention gets louder. Rows of kennels line the wall, with worn-out toys and blankets scattered over the floor. The walls are painted a cheerful yellow, but it does little to mask the underlying sadness lingering in the eyes of the dogs, all gawking up at us with a mixture of hope, fear and anticipation.
Mae kneels in front of one of the kennels and coos at the excitable brown dog, eyes expanding. He rises on his hind legs, licking her fingers through the wire, letting out enthusiastic yips.
“Hi, gorgeous boy.”
“Came in as a stray with a nasty wound on his leg the other day, that one. The vet here got him stitched up, but be careful of it,” Sheila informs us, the middle-aged woman nodding down at the young dog. “He’s yet to be named. A bit of a handful, but I’m sure you’ll cope.” She grins down at Mae, who’s still fussing over the pup.
I can’t tell what breed he is. He looks like a strange mix, and I know this gives him less of a chance of being chosen for adoption. People come here hoping to find the perfect dog, and looks are a huge factor.
This dog is cute. There’s no doubt about that, but he’s… unique.
“You look like you have a little bit of beagle in you, don’t you, bud?” Mae questions the dog as if he’s about to talk back.
