Brock:
Me: Get to work, assholes.
Ford: Trivia on Tap tonight at Drafthouse West?
Brock: In.
Gunnar: In.
Me: Have a date.
Gunnar: Of course you do.
Brock: Leave our little Romeo alone.
Me: Says the Don Juan who’s probably meeting up with two girls at Trivia on Tap tonight.
Brock: Love that you’re jealous, bro.
Ford: Didn’t want you there anyway.
The sun is still overhead, the air cool as I press the unlock button on my key fob. Just as I open my door, a woman’s voice shrieks right behind me.
“Oh, no! Stop!!”
Then a blur runs by me as tires screech close enough to make me jump. I whip around to find Bree dropping to the ground while the driver of the car hops out.
“Did I hit it?” The stricken look on the gentleman’s face, likely in his sixties, hits me in the gut.
Bree reaches out her hand to the small dog huddling near the car’s tire. “No, thank gawd.” The guy stands in front of his car, waving the traffic on.
The poor thing is shaking visibly, so I walk over and crouch next to the little ball of fluff, a sandy orange puggle mix, from the look of it. “Hi.” As it sniffs my knee, I unbutton my flannel, and in a calm voice I say, “I am going to hand this to you. We’re going to wrap it in the shirt and carry it into one of these businesses.”
The thing about Indigo Hills is that it’s full of locally owned businesses. We look out for our own.
Bree slides my shirt around the pup, whose shaking worries me. I’ve never seen a dog that scared. I place my hand on its back, and when it doesn’t growl or bite, I slide my hand underneath its belly and pick it up, quickly wrapping my sleeves around body so that only its head is showing.
The driver who stopped leaves his number in case there’s a problem, and then drives off while I stand on the sidewalk with Bree.
“Bring her in here.”
I don’t pay attention to where I am until I step inside Sun Ridge Records, my buddy from high school’s business. “You work here?” I’m a little confused as I scan the small reception area.
Sun Ridge was built in an old bank building, the old bank vault still intact and serving as the recording studio. Gold records and authographed photos line the wall, evidence that Nash Rivers has come a long way from the football player who played guitar for fun.
“Mhmm. I do. I’m an executive assistant here.” Bree feels along the pup’s neck, the wood floor creaking as she changes positions. “I don’t feel a chip, but we should take her to a vet and get her scanned anyway. I’ll check Maps and see if any are still open.”
I reach out for the dog, Bree’s gaze sliding over my biceps, which flex underneath my white tee. Am I imagining the heat in her eyes?
She heads upstairs while I plop on the ground with the dog, who I realize is an older puppy. A few months old, maybe. I slowly unwrap the little thing to check her out more thoroughly. I hold one hand at her chest and slide the other down her spine, checking for signs of pain. Nothing until I reach her hind leg. She winces and runs off, heading toward the vault door, which leads to the recording studio. I missed the ribbon-cutting, but Nash gave me a tour after one of the chamber meetings, so at least I know where I am.
“It’s okay. Not gonna hurt you.”
I follow the pup into the studio and find it hiding behind a chair under the soundboard. I sit in the middle of the floor, talking softly. “It’s okay, little thing.”
The lighting in here is more subtle, ambient noise muted from the soundproofing texture on all the walls. The equipment is shining and new, likely state of the art.
“I found a vet about a five-minute drive from here that can scan her for a chip.” Bree steps into the studio, stopping in her tracks about two feet in. “Why are you sitting on the floor in here?”
