Mai Tai'd Up (23 page)

The day went on like so many do, unremarkable. I focused
on things like making sure there was a bottle of wine in the fridge, that there were tiny umbrellas stocked behind the tiki bar in case we wanted to try our hand at a new cocktail, that his favorite kind of tortilla chips were in the pantry. That any unruly hair south of the Mason-Dixon line had been dealt with.

Then late in the day, after dinner, I got a strange call from a frantic woman on the Our Gang line. Her thick accent coupled with her crying made it difficult to understand what she was saying at first, but it soon became clear what she was reporting. She’d seen one of the Our Gang flyers in town. She needed help, but had been too afraid to reach out before. She knew a guy who was involved in dog fighting, but until she’d visited the site herself, and actually saw the condition of the dogs and where they were being kept, she hadn’t felt moved to action. Until now. She gave me an address, several times, of a compound on the outskirts of town where she said they were keeping fight dogs, pit bulls. The guy who was in charge of the dogs was headed out of town for a few days, and the dogs would be alone. Unprotected.

I instantly hung up the phone, got in the car, and headed out.

I
should have known better than to go pick up a dog alone on an anonymous tip, but the woman sounded so desperate on the phone that I didn’t want to waste any time.

Call Lucas. Don’t be a fool; call Lucas.

But I didn’t. And when I walked into that shed and saw those dogs, I knew I was in way over my head.

I counted eleven dogs, all mixed breeds and pit bulls. Chained to boxes or posts, with no food and barely any water. And the smell. I had to cover my nose against the filth they were living in. And
not
living in—because although I tried my best not to see it, there were two that hadn’t made it.

The fighting ring was built into the wall in the back. Built high, with—oh my God—seats all around. People would watch as these dogs fought, sometimes to the death.

First thing I did? I called the police. The next thing I did? I called Lou, who told me to wait in the car and he’d call animal control. I was on my way back outside to wait until the authorities arrived . . . but then I heard it. The dogs were so riled up, barking so loud, that I almost didn’t . . . but there it was again. A whimper.

I moved toward the ring, closer and closer, my feet moving without my brain because I knew I shouldn’t be there, knew I should wait for help, knew that I wasn’t ready for something like this . . . and there it was.

Lying on his side, torn, shredded, was a blue-gray pit. Breathing shallow, blood . . . so much blood. Eyes mostly rolled back, but still aware.

Without knowing what I was doing or a thought to the consequences, I climbed over the plywood railing, landing next to the dog. He was in such bad shape that he didn’t even flinch, which meant he needed help fast.

Tearing my sweatshirt off, I wrapped him as best I could, and struggled to lift him. As he whimpered once more I began to talk to him, and to myself. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you some help, okay? Come on, sweet boy, let’s get you out of here.”

He weighed at least fifty pounds, and as carefully as I tried to balance him in my arms, he slipped a few times, making me readjust my carry. He whimpered each time, and it was taking everything I had not to lose it.

I kept talking to him as I moved through the warehouse, not seeing the blood trickle down onto my legs or seep into my tank top, not seeing the other dogs that were still barking and pulling at their chains. I kept my eyes on the eyes staring back at me.
I was undoubtedly hurting him—didn’t they always say when someone is really hurt, don’t move him? But I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t leave him there. I needed to do something, anything.

I could hear the sirens approaching as I made it out to my car. I knew the other dogs would be okay, and I’d be at animal control the very next morning lobbying for every single one of them—the ones that were still alive—and I’d bring all of them back to my ranch.

But right now I had this guy in my arms, and I was going to take care of him myself. Not even bothering with the cage, I managed to get the SUV’s front passenger door open and pull a blanket from the backseat. Setting him down carefully, still wrapped in my sweatshirt, I made him as comfortable as I could, and then I drove like a bat out of hell for the Campbell Veterinary Hospital.

Five minutes before we got there, he stopped whimpering. One minute before I pulled in, he stopped breathing. Screeching into the parking lot, I pounded on my horn, taking up the two emergency spots by the entrance. Miguel saw me through the glass door and immediately ran out to help.

“Get Lucas! Right now!” I yelled, running around to the passenger side.

“Do you need some help with—”

“Just get him!” I leaned across the dog, who still wasn’t breathing. I tried shaking his collar, to get a reaction—nothing. Just limp. “Come on, come on, sweet boy, we’re
here
.”

I picked him up like he weighed nothing and ran into the waiting room, searching, looking for . . . there he was, coming out of the back room with Miguel hot on his heels. His face went white when he saw me, wild, covered in blood and shit and now tears, because he wasn’t fucking
breathing
anymore!

“Chloe, what happened to you—”

“Lucas, you need to do something, you need to do something! I can’t, he can’t, you need to do something, he’s not—” I rambled, tripping over my words as I held the dog close.

“Miguel, tell them to set up in the OR and clear exam one. And tell my father to meet us in there,” Lucas directed, guiding me toward the exam room. He slipped his hands under the dog’s head, cradling him as he took him from me and laid him on the table.

“He was . . . there was this compound . . . outside of town . . . and I got this call and . . . so many dogs . . . and then I heard . . . in a ring . . . and he was crying, and I got him . . . I got him out . . . but then he . . . he stopped—”

“Honey, I need you to breathe, okay? You did so well, but I need to listen to this guy now, okay? Shhh, Chlo, shhh. You did great,” Lucas said, his voice soothing, moving swiftly around the table, talking fast now to Miguel. My sticky hands clenched open and closed as I watched Lucas begin to do CPR, listening to his chest, trying to clean off some of the blood. Bite marks, gash marks, all along his flank, the side of his mouth was torn, and . . .

Marge was pushing me down into a chair, handing me a Dixie cup as I watched them wheeling the dog down the hall, Lucas and Miguel and his father. They disappeared behind a swinging door into a room where there was a stainless steel table and some bright lights and instruments and . . .

I threw up all over my shoes.

“Oh, sugar,” Marge murmured, and handed me a towel. I wiped off my mouth, and she held me against her. And we waited.

B
lunt-force trauma to the head. Heavy blood loss and internal hemorrhaging. Multisystem failure. Dead.

I stayed until they finished working him over. I stayed while Lucas and his father filled out a report to file with animal control. I stayed while Lucas finished up the last little bit of his shift—and then I stayed the hell away from my SUV. Even walking by it with Lucas guiding me through the parking lot, I saw the crazy parking job, the bloodstained blanket on the passenger side, and I let his hand in the small of my back tell me where to go. His truck. My house.

He kept up a steady stream of words for a while, words like
you did all you could,
and
you did so much more than most
,
blah blah blah
. About halfway up the hill, he stopped talking and let the silence soothe.

I’d cried myself out; now I just felt numb. I plodded up the walkway, Lucas behind me, then beside me as he unlocked the door and held it open. I went straight to the bar, poured myself a long shot of something brown, and knocked it straight back. It burned, it
really
burned, but after the second shot my fingers and toes started to tingle, then warm. Lucas stood on the other side of the bar, just watching.

“You did great tonight, Chloe. You know that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled, looking down, noticing for the first time how disgusting I was. I was covered in . . . stuff. “Jesus, look at me. You too.” His scrubs were also covered in . . . stuff.

“Comes with the territory,” he said quietly, looking me in the eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like this territory.” Tears welled up again.

“You should get cleaned up,” he said. He was right.

“So should you.”

“I’ve got clean clothes in the truck. I’m fine.”

“Good, then you can put them on after you take a shower.
Guest bath, down the hall. Towels in the closet.” I pointed, and shuffled down the hall to my room.

Satisfied he was doing as I asked, I headed into my bathroom and closed the door. Stripping down, I wrapped everything in an old towel and set it outside the door. I was throwing everything away, including my shoes. Everything.

Turning the water as hot as it would go, I stepped under the spray and steeped for what seemed like hours. My muscles were bunched and tightened; I was tense and felt stretched out like a rubber band. I just let the heat pound down all around me, looking until the water was no longer stained pink. Then I scrubbed until I was squeaky clean.

I climbed out and wrapped myself in my soft robe, shoving my wet hair back. I felt better because I was cleaner, but I still felt ready to come out of my skin. I paced in a circle in my bathroom. I thought about Lucas’ face when I came into the clinic.

Before the clinician kicked in, he’d been terrified. Because he thought I was hurt? I thought about how I must have looked, half covered in blood, half out of my mind. He was worried about
me
, about what might have happened to
me
.

And then watching him, his tender care for the dog, the purpose of every action, the utter command he had of the situation. He was incredible. And, he was leaving. In a little over a day. For twelve weeks.

Hot tears came again, running down my cheeks. My nights and weekends were leaving. And who was I kidding? My days too.

I paced faster, wrapping my arms around myself, then swinging them wildly. I was antsy, I was angry, I was frustrated, I was empty, I was . . . aching. Literally aching. I needed. I wanted.

I left my room, went down the hall, heard the water still running in the guest bath, and opened the door without thought. I
could see his shape through the glass door, foggy and fuzzy but there, just on the other side of the glass and steam.

Had I taken even half a moment to stop and think about what I was about to do, I would have stopped. I would have backed away, put on my pajamas, made some coffee, and been waiting with toast when he came out.

I slipped out of my robe, opened the glass door, and moved in behind him.

“Chloe,” he said. It came out rough and low and heated. He was facing away from me, his head tilted down, arms stretching out to press against the wall.

I reached out with one hand, brushing lightly with my fingertips, and ran it along his spine. His back was strong and muscled, muscles that shifted under his skin as I touched him. Freckles on his shoulders, a tiny scar on his left side just above his narrow waist. I kissed it, and he groaned. “Chloe,” he repeated, his hands now curling into fists as his entire body thrummed with tension.

“Yes,” I replied. He turned slowly, water dripping down through his gorgeous hair, his eyes burning as they traveled over my naked body. I didn’t flinch under his gaze; his stare made me bold, and I arched my back and let him look.

“You don’t need to do this,” he said, looking for any sign of me backing away or changing my mind.

“You’re wrong,” I murmured, stepping into the spray, stepping into him, pressing my chest against his and burying my hands in the back of his head. “I absolutely need to do this.”

As my lips neared his, I met his eyes, his gaze heating me through and telling me that yes, this was absolutely the
best
idea ever. I knew I could sneak a kiss, pretend to be confused because of the emotions of the evening, and he’d let me get away with it. I knew this would complicate things; I knew this would
make it impossible to go back to what we had before. But I didn’t want what we had before. I wanted, hell, I
needed
more. I instinctively ran in the opposite direction, and brought his mouth to mine.

Soft, incredibly soft lips brushed against mine once, twice, and then again. I sighed into his mouth as his hands settled on my hips. I could kiss this man for a year. He stepped between my legs, pushing me toward the back of the shower, and I moaned against his lips, feeling the length of his body pressing into mine as I twisted to feel more of him, needing as many points of contact as I could get.

I delighted in the feel of lips on mine, his mouth teasing at my own as my hands roamed in his hair. “Do you have any idea,” I said as our kiss broke and he tilted my head back to press his mouth against my neck, “how much I love your hair? I never told you, but gingers make me crazy.” I groaned as he sucked at the skin below my ear. “The second I saw you, I thought, this is the sexiest man I have ever seen.” I pressed wet kisses against his collarbone.

He ran his hands up and down my back. “The first time I saw you, at that restaurant, I knew I wanted to see you naked. As soon as possible.”

“And here I am,” I murmured, stepping back so he could take a good look. “Naked.”

His eyes smoldered as his gaze swept across my body. “Chloe,” he whispered. “You’re perfection.”

I purred, I actually purred, dragging my hands down his torso, over the defined muscles in his chest, the tiny little hairs that gathered there. Letting my gaze follow my hands, I decided to sneak a peek as well. “Mmm, and you’re—holy sweet fuck, are you
kidding
me?”

Here’s the thing about an enormous penis. They don’t just
live in romance novels. They don’t just live on famous actors, although John Hamm and Michael Fassbender need to admit a certain ginger vet into their Big Cock Club. They’re real. And they’re out there. Right here, even, in my guest shower.