Laying Down the Paw (2 page)

Given his history, it was no wonder Seth suffered attachment issues and wasn't the best at relationships. I couldn't fault him too much. Besides, I wasn't exactly the poster child for emotional stability myself. I was short-tempered and overly self-reliant, priding myself—
perhaps too much
—on my ability to survive on my own.

But everyone can change, right?

When we came up for air, Seth pressed his forehead to mine. “I want you all to myself. No more deputies. No one else, either. Deal?”

Despite the fact that he looked like a one-eyed Cyclops up close like this, he was nonetheless sexy as hell. And he was finally being honest and open about his feelings. I knew that must have been difficult for him. Unable to resist, I found myself saying, “Okay.”

He took a small step back and gazed down at me, the look in his eyes softening. “I'm not real good at these things,” he said. “But I want to be what you need, Megan.”

Before I could stop it, an airy half snort, half laugh escaped me. “That's really sweet, Seth. But I don't
need
anyone.” Hey, I only said people
can
change. I didn't say I'd necessarily change immediately. Old habits die hard, after all.

The hurt look that flickered across Seth's face caused a pang of guilt to slice through me. He had probably thought long and hard about what to say to me this morning. I shouldn't have shot him down so quickly. It was the knee-jerk reaction of a long-term loner, of the now-grown woman who, as a young girl, had suffered a horrible stutter that caused her to be a pitied outcast and who'd learned, as a result, to be self-sufficient and independent.

“Everyone needs someone for something,” Seth said, surprising me again by his candor. The guy must have done some serious soul-searching over the past month.

“What do
you
need?” I asked. When he didn't respond right away, I looked up into his face, searching for answers.

His green eyes narrowed as if he were thinking, trying to figure out himself what he needed from me. Apparently, his soul-searching had only gone so far. “I don't know exactly,” he said finally. “I only know that, whatever it is, you seem to have it.”

“Oh, Seth!” I spurted out a satisfied sigh, blinking back happy tears. “That's so … sweet.”

He stepped back, his face flushing slightly as if he were embarrassed to have bared himself. “Can we be done for now? All this lovey-dovey stuff is making my testicles shrivel.”

“You're such a romantic.” I rolled my eyes, though secretly I was thrilled he'd gone as far as he had.

Brigit ran between us, Blast chasing after her, putting an end to our intimate interlude.

“Why don't we take them to the dog park?” Seth suggested. “Let them burn off some of that energy.”

“Good idea.” I grabbed the newspaper and my purse and retrieved Brigit's leash, calling her over and clipping it to her collar.

After locking up my apartment, I squeezed past one of my neighbors, a black man who'd decided to enjoy the brief respite from winter to sit on the steps in his boxer shorts and smoke a cigarette. The residents of Eastside Arms didn't stand on formalities. Most had long rap sheets, low credit scores, and sketchy employment histories. As a college graduate with good credit, I was an anomaly. I'd moved into the place hoping the low rent would enable me to pay off my student loans quickly. So much for that plan, huh?

I followed Seth across the lot to his car, a seventies-era blue Nova with orange flames pointed down the side and license plates that read
KABOOM
. The car was simultaneously ridiculous and badass. It had a vinyl bench seat in front, which was held together with several strips of duct tape. Ditto for the dashboard, which had long since cracked in the relentless Texas summer heat.

He held the back door open while the dogs jumped in, then opened the passenger door for me. He lifted his chin to indicate the newspaper in my hands. “What's with the paper?”

I slid into the seat. “I'm looking for a place to rent. A house with a yard. Brigit would be happier in a bigger place.” So would I. My efficiency apartment might be affordable, but the place lacked charm. And hot water. And insulation. My heating bills had been astronomical this winter.

Seth closed the door, circled around the front of the car, and climbed in the driver's side, picking up the conversation where we'd left off. “Where are you planning to look? Around here?”

Though I'd like to live close to work and avoid commuter traffic, my options for rentals that allowed pets were limited. I'd have to take what I could get, where I could get it. “Ideally I'd love to live in W1,” I said, referencing my assigned police district. “But I didn't see anything in the area that allowed pets.”

Seth didn't have to worry about Blast impacting his living arrangements. He lived in his grandparents' house in east Fort Worth, along with his grandfather, whom I'd surmised was both an old curmudgeon and had suffered PTSD since the Vietnam War.

Seth backed out of the space and drove to the dog park. Brigit and Blast stood in the back, tails smacking against the backseat with a
whap-whap-whap
as we pulled into a space. Seth and I retrieved our canine partners, led them through the double gates, and unclipped their leashes.

“Hey.” I lifted a hand to greet a redheaded woman I knew only as Bruiser's Mom. Bruiser was a small, neutered Boston terrier with big balls, metaphorically speaking. He routinely picked fights with dogs three times his size. Fortunately, none of them took the little pip-squeak seriously.

After giving only a passing glance to Bruiser, Brigit trotted over to say hello to a couple of the other regulars, a poodle-pinscher mix named Delilah and a fluffy-haired chow named Tina, after Tina Turner. The trio wagged their tails, sniffed each other's butts, and chased each other around in circles. Blast, meanwhile, reacquainted himself with a speckled heeler, a black lab mix, and an apricot poodle.

After spending a few minutes in idle chitchat with the other dog mommies and daddies, Seth and I began to walk around the perimeter of the park.

As we walked, Seth nudged my hip with his. “Valentine's Day is this coming Saturday.”

I cut a glance his way and raised a brow in question.

“I thought we could go to Reata,” he said.

The Reata restaurant was a famous steakhouse, but it also served an incredible vegetable plate that would satisfy even the most diehard carnivore.

“Sounds great,” I replied. “I work that day, but I'm off at five.”

“I'll make a late reservation.”

We walked back and forth along the park fence a dozen times before our dogs came looking for us, a sign that they'd had their fun, worn themselves out, and were ready to go. After loading them into the car, he leaned in. “You two hungry?”

Woof! Woof-woof!

“I'll take that as a ‘yes.'”

We climbed into our seats and Seth drove to a nearby burger place, pulling into the drive-thru lane. He unrolled his window and leaned his head out to call into the speaker. “Two plain double-meat burgers.”

A garbled voice came back. “You want fries with that?”

Brigit stuck her head over the seat.
Woof-woof!

Seth cast a glance at her, chuckled, and leaned out the window a second time. “Sure. Two large fries.”

Seth insisted on paying for Brigit's lunch even though the department added an amount to my paychecks to cover the cost of her care. Who was I to argue? The beast ate way more than the stipend would ever cover.

The dogs' lunch taken care of, Seth turned to me. “How's Mexican sound?”

“Muy delicioso.”

As Seth aimed his car for Chuy's, a popular Mexican restaurant just west of downtown, I reached into the white food bag, the paper crinkling as I removed the burgers. I tore the burgers into bite-sized pieces and fed them to the dogs. “Wait your turn,” I scolded Brigit when she tried to snatch a chunk intended for Blast.

I finished feeding the dogs as Seth pulled into a curbside parking place across the street from Chuy's. Peeking into the burger bag, I groaned and held up my greasy fingers. “They forgot the napkins.”

Brigit and Blast seized the opportunity to get one last taste of meat.
Slurp. Slurp-slurp-slurp.
Their tongues might be germy but they were effective.

We left the dogs in the car with the windows cracked and went inside. I made a quick stop at the ladies' room to wash my hands with hot water and soap, then joined Seth at a table near the window where we could keep an eye on the car and make sure Brigit and Blast weren't eating the seats.

We placed our orders and made small talk for a few minutes until the waitress returned with our food. She set our steaming plates down in front of us. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

Seth glanced down at the tortilla and turned his plate 180 degrees to face me. “Say hello to Willie Nelson.”

I took a look. Sure enough, the brown parts looked like a man with a bushy beard. “I think it's less Willie Nelson and more Karl Marx.”

“How do you know what Karl Marx looks like?”

“Randy Dunham,” I replied. Randy was the sociopath who'd strapped explosives to my chest. The guy hadn't even bought me dinner first.
Jerk.
“We found a copy of
The Communist Manifesto
in his bedroom when we searched it.”

The copy had been worn and dog-eared, several passages highlighted with yellow marker. Because I'd been the one to take Randy down, the higher-ups allowed me to go along with the detectives and crime scene techs when they gathered evidence at his home.

Seth picked up his quesadilla and took a big bite, essentially scalping Willie or Karl with his teeth.

“Pareidolia,” I said, with a shrug. “Weird how the brain works, isn't it?”

Seth swallowed, splayed his fingers on either side of his head, and emitted an explosive sound. “Kapow! You just blew my mind.”

I read a lot and tended to retain random information, most of it useless. But occasionally some of the information proved helpful.

“Pareidolia is the tendency for people to see faces in inanimate objects.”

He nodded and took a sip of his soda. “Is there a word for seeing sexual organs in inanimate objects?”

“Ew.” I cringed. “Do we
need
a word for that?”

Seth shrugged this time. “You always hear about people saying something looks like guy junk or girly parts. You know, like butternut squash or tacos.”

I shook my head and waved a hand as if to clear the air of this ludicrous conversation. “Moving on topic-wise.” I held up the newspaper, which remained folded to the rental section. “I'm going to see three p-places this afternoon. Can you come with me? You might notice things I don't.” After all, women tended to focus on things like wallpaper and closet space, while men tended to notice dripping faucets or dry rot. I'd already lived in one hellhole. I didn't want to move into another.

He cocked his head, his gaze heated and intent as he eyed me. “I'll come if you promise me a sleepover.”

My eyes flickered to his soft lips, his broad shoulders, and back again.
Yeah, I can definitely see myself waking up to him.
“Okay. I promise you a sleepover. I just don't promise
when
.”

A slow, sexy grin spread across his lips. “I'll take it.”

 

TWO

DOG DAY AFTERNOON

FWPD Sergeant Brigit

The dog days of summer were so called because the star Sirius, also known as the “Dog Star,” in the constellation Canis Major, was most visible in the summer months in the Northern Hemisphere. Of course, though Megan knew this, Brigit did not and wouldn't have given a cat's ass about it anyway. All that mattered to Brigit was that she'd been taken for some fun playtime at the dog park, fed a nice lunch, and was now dozing peacefully in the backseat of Seth's Nova, using Blast's butt as a pillow.

If life never got any better than this, she'd still die a happy dog.

 

THREE

MY TWO DADS

Dub

Sunday afternoon, Dub ran down the basketball court at the YMCA, faking left, then dribbling right. But his moves weren't quick enough. Trent, one of his foster dads, slapped the ball away and took off in the other direction. Dub turned and ran after him.

When Trent reached the basket, he performed a slam dunk followed by a celebration dance involving goofy knee lifts and arm rotations.
Show-off.

Dub jogged up to the basket. “I didn't think gay dudes were supposed to be good at sports.”

“And I didn't think black boys were supposed to suck at them,” Trent said, chuckling as he ruffled Dub's dark curly hair.

“I'm only half black.”

“Then you should only suck half as much as you do.”

Wesley, Dub's other foster dad, finally caught up with them. His face was red and sweaty. He bent over to put his hands on his knees. “You two are going to give me a heart attack.”

Trent scoffed. “You're going to give
yourself
a heart attack. I've tried to get you to work out with me and you always say no. You've got no one to blame for your big ass but yourself.”

“And Mrs. Butterworth,” Dub added.

Wes raised a hand from his knee and pointed a finger at Dub. “You leave her out of this. She's the only woman I'll ever love.”

“Her and Aunt Jemima,” Trent said. “I caught you having a three-way with them in the kitchen this morning.”

Trent and Wes might be a couple, but like all men they gave each other crap. Three months ago, Dub had been released from McFadden Ranch, a halfway house for juveniles. He'd thought going to live with a gay couple would be totally lame. But it turned out to be dope. Trent was an architect who drove a Hummer, worked out every day, and, like Dub, liked to watch sports on TV. Wesley taught biology at Tarrant County Community College. He had more fat than muscles, but he was really smart. He helped Dub with his homework. He didn't even mind when he had to explain things two or three times before Dub got it.