But, as Charlie fumbles with his keys, I can’t help myself as I say, “Is everything really okay?”
“Fine.” His smile is tight.
The unease that ripples over me is annoying, because he’s hurting and I can’t force him to let me help.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask in a last-ditch attempt to salvage this.
“No.” Charlie’s voice is unexpectedly sharp, and his face turns birdlike as he scowls at me. “I just have to go. Athena is waiting for me.”
And really, what can I say to that?
He tears out of the driveway like he’s on his way to perform emergency surgery, so fast Dante doesn’t have a hope in hell of catching him. Instead, he settles at my feet, whining softly that his game has been spoiled.
I know exactly how he feels.
“Me too, buddy.” I scratch behind his ears. “Me too.”
* * *
I don’t hearfrom Charlie for a few days, and I tell myself that’s fine. Whatever he’s dealing with, he clearly needs some space and I have to give it to him because he said this was a casual thing and I was foolish enough to agree to it. With no promises, I have no hold on him.
I don’t hear from West either, and that’s a little more worrying, but since Mrs. O’Laughlin hasn’t called either, I assume West is at least no worse than he was, and I don’t bother him.
If I slip one night and check Charlie’s Instagram, who needs to know? There’s actually a new picture. He’s sitting outside somewhere and Athena is giving him a giant, sloppy kiss while he scrunches up his face. It’s generically cute, but I’m glad to see him doing normal things like walking his dog. If both my friends have spiraled into house-bound existential crises, I don’t know what I’d do.
Not that Charlie’s my friend. Hell, he’s not really my anything. Client. Hookup. If he never calls me again, what have I lost?
Except it’s been a long time since I felt as powerful as I did watching Charlie come apart on my bed. He fought me, even if he didn’t know he was doing it. There’s so much resistance there. Some old pain, probably whatever made him take off. But helping him relax enough to trust someone else with any part of him was one of the best things I’ve done in a while.
One of the hottest too. The last second, right before he came, where his whole body finally gave in the same way he had emotionally moments before, was a spectacle. He was shaky and raw. When he finally came, I could feel it all the way from my balls to the roots of my hair. Holding back my own orgasm was out of the question when that kind of beauty was on display in front of me.
So am I disappointed that he doesn’t immediately fall back into my arms? Sure. Am I going to let it ruin my week? Absolutely not.
What does ruin my week is the call I get from Pamela the Yorkie’s human mom.
“Please. You have to come get her.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
She’s crying, big sobs that make every sentence an hour long. From what I can gather, Pamela escaped her bathroom haven, only to declare her independence by peeing on what turned out to be a very important file for a court case her human father has been working on for months.
“He’s going to dump her at a shelter.” The woman sobs. “Please. You have to come get her.”
“I’m just a dog trainer.” These people need a proper counselor. And a lawyer.
“But if you could just keep her for a while. Until he calms down. Please, I can’t give her away.”
And because the idea of any dog landing in a shelter—or worse, on the side of the road—through no fault of their own, because Mr. “My Dick Is As Big As My Mastiffs” Douchecanoe couldn’t be bothered to put his papers away and train his dogs properly, makes my stomach turn, finally I let out a long breath and say, “I’m on my way.”
Also, if Charlie won’t let me help him, I can at least help Pamela, who basically gets tossed into my truck when I arrive. She doesn’t even come with any supplies. If you’re going to evict your dog from your mansion, at least throw in a ziplock bag of kibble. But no. All I’ve got is a trembling Yorkie and a woman weeping incoherent words from the lawn while the mastiffs howl in the distance.
I’m not exactly set up for a small dog like Pamela. Dante and Juniper eat kibble the size of her head. At least I’ve got a spare leash in the cab. So I make a detour to the local pet store to stock up. I bring Pamela in with me. She’s understandably terrified, winding the leash around displays and hiding under shelves. I tell all my clients to never pick up their scared dog, but if I want any hope of getting home again this century, she’s going to have to ride in my arms.
Dog food. That’s all I need. Of course, the bags of dog food are kept on the very last shelf at the back of the store, which has never made any sense to me, given that dog owners have to make up the majority of their revenue. Why are the terrariums and lizard protein mixes kept at the front? Pamela squirms in my arms and yelps at any person or animal we pass, so I stuff her inside the front of my hoodie, where she settles down almost immediately. She keeps her head poked out over the top of the zipper, but suddenly passersby pose no interest whatsoever.
But one is very interesting to me.
“Shit. Stop. Athena. Athena, come!”
