“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Chapter Three
December 6th
Nellie
“Sir, please take your hands off my wiener.”
I turned my face into Leighton’s shoulder, trying desperately to contain the burst of laughter threatening to escape. It wasn’t every day that your semi-famous friend scolded a stranger for manhandling her dog.
The man beside us held his hands up in front of him. “I just wanted to pet him.”
“Her,” Nora corrected. “And she doesn’t appreciate strange men touching her.”
“Me neither,” Leighton and I echoed in unison. Apparently, all three of us—well, four including Banger—were in our feminine rage era.
Banger, aka Nora and Bowie’s short-haired Dachshund, was equal parts princess and menace, a vengeful bitch packaged into ten pounds of black and tan adorableness. She didn’t take kindly to strangers, especially men with facial hair, so it had come as no surprise to any of us when she’d snarled at Kirkland brand Colonel Sanders here for trying to pick her up—without asking first, no less. I wasn’t even a pet owner, and even I knew better than that.
“Bitches,” the colonel muttered under his breath.
“That’s right,” I said without missing a beat. “Just call us the Bitches of Brentwood. And as the nastiest bitch in the coven, I can tell you two things: one, this boot on my leg can wield a lot of damage, and two, I know every legal loophole in the California code. So, what’s it going to be?”
We must have looked comical to any passersby. Me, decked out in my new holly-patterned jumpsuit and Aircast, standing toe to toe with a wannabe extra fromDuck Dynasty. Outside of a pet supply store, no less. Nora, fresh from a photoshoot, looking like she’d just stepped off the pages ofVogue.And Leighton, who must have been on the tail end of her period, because she was practically dressed for bed—baggy, oversized sweatpants, one of Killian’s shirts, and a ratty pair of flip flops.
He swallowed and then said, “Whatever,” before backing away.
Nora waited until he was nearly out of earshot before shouting, “Merry Christmas, asshole.” The three of us ducked into the shop and made a beeline for the back counter. “Seriously, who the fuck tries to pick somebody else’s dog up without asking? I should have let her maul his face off.”
“I don’t know,” Leighton said, mulling over Nora’s words. “Ankles, maybe, but face? She’s an awfully small dog.”
“Tell that to my favorite pair of boots.”
Long before Nora had come along, Banger had been the love of Bowie’s life, so it was no surprise that it had taken her a while to get used to the idea of another woman warming her owner’s bed. Two years and at least one pair of shoes later, Nora and Banger were practically old chums.
“Aw, we should have gotten her a sweater to wear,” Leighton cooed, skipping over to a display of festive clothing designed for cats and dogs. “Dang, twenty-two dollars. I could make her something for less.”
“Forget it.” Nora shook her head. “Bowie is very anti-clothing on animals.”
“But not anti-pictures with Santa, right?” I pressed.
“Definitely not.”
It had been a tough week, to say the least. Some people had been cut out for working remotely, but as I had quickly come to realize, I was not one of them. There was no hustle and bustle at home, no socializing with coworkers—even the ones who ceaselessly annoyed me. Even worse, there was no good reason to change out of your pajamas.
On top of the mindfuck that inevitably came with working from home, Bennett Studios had been playing phone tag with us all week,andI was still racing against the clock to come up with something for the office holiday hoopla. So, when I’d come across a social media post advertising free photos with Santa at the nearby pet supply store this weekend, I had jumped—not literally, much to my dismay—at the chance to do something,anything, outside the walls of my apartment.
It was either that or bang on my neighbor’s door . . . or bang my neighbor. Come to think of it, maybe a good dicking was exactly what I needed.
“Careful,” Leighton warned, tugging me back when I nearly tripped over a Labradoodle with antlers. “You already broke one foot this year.”
“Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Like the hot Santa that ran you over?” my sister asked, wagging her brows suggestively.
“No.” Yes. “There hasn’t been any time to think about him.” Except every night in bed, with my vibrator cranked up to eleven. “I’m too swamped thinking about this stupid work party thing.” And riding Austin’s face like he was the last of Santa’s reindeer.
“There’s always Disneyland,” Leighton suggested.
