“What are you guessing, future social worker?” Val asked me after he left, switching into teacher mode.
I frowned, thinking back to my internship with the Animal Welfare Department last summer in Duluth, and came back with a sad, terrible guess. “Dog fighting? And that’s where the rest of the litter went.”
“Got it in one.” Val pointed at me and clicked her teeth like the host of the saddest quiz show ever. “And there’s still a puppy mama out there who’s probably not receiving even a minimum of care.”
My heart wrenched, but I didn’t even bother to suggest calling the Animal Welfare Department in Duluth. Interning there, I’d learned firsthand that they were inundated with welfare check requests. The chance of any of the caseworkers making the three-hour drive all the way to Gemidgee was pretty much nil.
But still, I hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and when I came in for my volunteer shift the next day, I got the news that the black-and-tan newborn had passed away.
“What can we do?” I asked Val as we prepared the poor little guy’s remains to be picked up by a local farm vet who also had a cremation business on the side. “We have to figure out how to save his mother.”
And that was how Operation Puppy Mama had been born.
Attracting Tommy’s interest had been easy enough. Between my last name and his particular brand of playboy narcissism—not to mention his delusion about his mediocre skill level as a hockey player being enough to earn him a spot on the Minnesota Raptors—he had no problem believing it when I “bumped intohim” at the winter back-to-school event and immediately started coming on strong.
The only problem was, he wanted to swing by my place for our hookup. It had taken weeks to get myself invited to one of his games.
So, knowing I probably wouldn’t get the opportunity again, I ignored Claudia’s warning about staying out of Artyom Rustanov’s sight and took the chance of stepping into the same vicinity as him to seal the deal with Tommy.
Huge mistake.
In his thirst for vengeance, Artyom ruined all the setup work I’d put into getting myself invited to Tommy Hanson’s house.
Val and I had worried that all was lost. She’d even gone as far as to make a suggestion she never did, even though I’d used my Christmas bonus to gift a sizable donation to the shelter ever since I first started volunteering there as a freshman.
“Maybe it’s time to call your parents, kid? I mean, your father’s some kind of real estate guy, right? Maybe he can at least get us an address.”
It was funny; people always thought rich college kids had the same kind of access our parents had. But the thing was, we didn’t.
Okay, maybe Artyom Rustanov did. His appearance in my Clara Quinn seminar proved that.
But I highly doubted my father would be willing to help me, even as I sent him a voice text, asking, “Hey, Dad, can we talk? I have this problem, and I could really use your help.”
It took my father over thirty-six hours to call me back, and after I explained that I’d need someone to help me find an address and maybe break into someone’s house, he asked, “Is this one of those viral social media pranks I was reading about in theNational Review?”
“No, Dad. I’m really worried about the welfare of this puppy’s mother?—”
“Thedead dog’smother,” he clarified in the same tone he used when talking to his friends about various representatives who introduced bills to charge corporations at higher tax rates.
“Okay, the puppy didn’t survive,” I conceded. “But that doesn’t mean his mother can’t be?—”
“Speaking of mothers.” Dad made a dramatic noise somewhere between a raspberry and a sigh. “Why am I getting a call about this and not yourmother?”
I crinkled my nose. “You really think she’d be able to?—”
“No, but she would have dissuaded you from wasting my valuable time with this request,” Dad answered before I could finish. “And what’s this she tells me about you not coming to Paul’s birthday party?”
So, not only had the phone call been a bust, but my Dad sharked me into agreeing to come to Chicago for Paul’s birthday party after all.Double damn.
Luckily for me, Trish ended up saving the day—in the midst of a lot of crying.
Technically, she was pursuing a degree in psychology to better help BIPOC queer youth navigate a world that didn’t always support them.
But she wasn’t above using what she’d learned about the male brain for my side project.
“They revert to primal urges and ego when sex is on the table,” she assured me with a smirk. “If you throw yourself at him hard enough and suck his dick with compliments, he’ll eventually crack.”
To my shock, Trish’s advice to act as thirsty as possible—and her help composing text messages that sounded like they were sent from some sort of porn bot—had actually worked!
