Trask kept his eyes peeled, searching for an exit that had what he needed, and was frustrated when another ten miles went by with nothing showing up.
Just when he thought he was screwed, the ramp ahead displayed signs for the gas station he needed.
Halleluia.
“We got lucky, boys,” he told the dogs, letting some of the tension leach from his body. “And after I gas up, I’ll let you have a bathroom break. Would you like to get out of the truck for a few minutes?”
The dogs, as if they understood, started bouncing around in the back seat, flying back and forth from window to window while making small yips.
Good.
At least they now had their little dog-minds on something other than aerating their assholes.
Two minutes later, Trask was pumping gas, thankfully under a canopy because it was snowing like a bitch now, and it was a wet, heavy snow. He knew he’d be getting soaked the minute he let the dogs run, but what choice did he have? If they pooped out a little of what was bugging their guts, the rest of the trip might be more pleasant, at least on theinsideof his truck.
He finished at the pump, paid, then opened the back door for Tinker and Langly.
They both bolted out, streaked across the semi-cleared pavement, and almost instantly began rolling in the couple inches of snow that had already fallen on the nearby grass.
“Guys! Guys. We don’t have time to play,” Trask huffed, then realized he was talking to the pair like Jett did, conversationally and without an ounce of authority.
Clearly, she’d already begun scrambling his brain.
He needed to get his alpha back on.
“Langly. Tinker. Heel,” he ordered in his best military voice.
The duo instantly jumped up and ran to his side where they sat, tails wagging.
He looked them both in the eyes and gave a direct command. “Go do your business,” he barked.
The dogs didn’t hesitate. They took off for the only tree on the gas station grounds and lifted their legs. After that, the pups sniffed around, sniffed around, sniffed around, then…
At last. They squatted side by side and each took a good dump, which?—
Crap.
Literally.
He wasn’t quite sure of protocol, but wasn’t he supposed to go pick up the dogs’ shit? That had to be a thing, he was almost certain.
But if that was the case, he didn’t have any bags.
Sighing heavily, he relegated himself to having a few more minutes wasted, while he took care of their…business.
Trask whistled to the pups as soon as they were finished—and in danger of letting their noses lead them off—eventually having to go over and herd the enthusiastic pair to the vehicle.
“I’ll be right back,” he told them, then scolded himself for acting again as if they were human as he closed the door behind them.
He was going fucking soft in the head.
And it was all Jett’s fault.
His phone rang in his pocket as he walked toward the gas station.
Speaking of the devil-woman…
“Hi Jett. I’m halfway home. I just gassed up and gave your dogs a bathroom break. Now I’m about to pick up their crap. What’s going on with you?”
