Roscoe bunched his hind legs and leaped high into the air.
“Roscoe!” She tried to grab him, but he was too fast.
He landed on the counter, skidded sideways, and shoved his tongue into one of the two empty wine bottles. His yip was one of joy.
“No.” She hurried to him and tried to take the bottle.
He growled, shaking his head. He whined, sounding pained.
Oh God. His tongue was stuck in the bottle. How the heck had he done that? “It’s okay, baby.” She patted his head as he flopped down across the stovetop, his eyes wide and his tongue in the bottle.
Was the glass rough inside? She didn’t think so. Gently, she stroked his large head. “I need you to stay calm.” If he freaked out, he’d break the bottle and might cut his tongue.
He whined louder.
“Honey, it’s an empty bottle,” she soothed, leaning forward to better see. She tilted it up. Yep. His tongue was in there but good. The neck was smaller than most wine bottles. “This was a homemade bottle from a neighbor down the way, and it wasn’t even that full-bodied.” She kept her voice calm as she reached for a jug of olive oil from the nearest cupboard. “We have to work on this drinking problem you have.”
His nose wrinkled, his eyes widened, and he sneezed. The bottle shot across the kitchen and hit the wall, dropping to the counter and rolling to the floor, where it shattered. He looked over the side of the counter, and she could swear he sighed.
She surveyed the mess. “Oh, Roscoe,” she murmured.
He whimpered and turned his head away, facing the dials for the burners. Her heart softened. “It’s okay, sweetie. We all like wine sometimes.”
He hunched his powerful shoulders, and his ears twitched, but he didn’t turn toward her.
She bit her lip. Broken glass tinged with red covered her kitchen floor, and a hundred-pound soldier dog lay across her stovetop, too embarrassed to look at her. Man, her world had gotten weird really fast. “All right. Just stay there and let me clean up the glass.” She couldn’t let his paws get cut.
He didn’t move.
Just another stubborn male in her life. They all had such issues. She fetched the broom and quickly cleaned up the mess, using a wet cloth to pull up the remaining wine. Finally she moved to the dog. “It’s okay, Roscoe. How about you come down and have some dinner?”
He stiffened but didn’t turn toward her.
She gingerly ran a hand down his back. Just how upset was he? It seemed the canine was half human. Definitely fit in with the guys. “It’s all right. Let’s forget about this and just have a nice dinner.”
He didn’t move.
Her heart went out to him even as she tried not to laugh. “I’ll tell you all my secrets.” She leaned in and snuggled her face against his warm fur. “I like Raider but I haven’t told him the truth. He’s a guy all about truth.”
Roscoe shuddered but didn’t move.
She leaned back. There was only one solution. “Do you want to try on some of my shoes?”
He jerked and then slowly turned his head, his honey-brown eyes focusing on her.
She nodded. “Yeah. Come on. I have a new three inch pair I foolishly bought. I’ll never wear them, but—”
The dog leaped off the counter and headed for the bedroom, pausing at the doorway to look over his shoulder with an “Are you coming?” expression.
Shaking her head at how bizarre life had become, she stepped over the wet area on the floor to help a dog try on her shoes.
* * *
At first appearance, Deoch looked like any old-time neighborhood bar with worn wood, weathered sign, and faded paint. On closer scrutiny, the door was made of heavy, impenetrable steel, and the cameras covering the area were high-end and well protected. Raider let rain slide off his leather jacket as he shoved open the heavy door and strode inside.
A long oak bar with gold railing covered the entire right side of the establishment, with bottles of liquor neatly placed on glass shelves in front of mirrors. Black bar stools spanned the entire length, and four men sat at various points along the way. Tables had been arranged in a grid pattern, with a couple of pool tables and dartboards placed at the far end. Atmospheric music played from invisible speakers, the floor was heavy wood, and the walls a mint green color. The place smelled of cleanser and booze in a comfortable combination.
The bartender, a giant of a man with a bald head and gold hoop earring, took one look at Raider and reached beneath the counter. Hopefully to push a button and not grab a shotgun. Then he strode around the bar and gestured for Raider to lift his arms.
