Rescue My Heart (4 page)

The few love stories she’d submitted
to a magazine had been snapped up right away. While she had been
thrilled and dancing a jig, she had rejected the idea of a romance
book. Pressure from her mother and brothers had convinced her to
move into a different genre.

“
If you can write that
garbage, you can write something good,” her mother had
said.

But Rory wasn’t so sure. Her latest
efforts echoed her own doubts about writing mystery. She didn’t
have the courage to tackle writing a romance book when her family
discouraged her so strongly. She struggled along, working
feverishly to make her mysteries fit, like the ugly stepsisters in
Cinderella trying to shove the glass slipper on their big
feet.

“
Smell any squirrels,
Case, buddy?” she asked as they rounded the corner and made tracks
for the Great Lawn. Of course, he never answered, simply turned
halfway, shot her a soulful look, and then went back to sniffing.
She walked for half an hour, talking to Casey all the time, before
they headed home.

She put down fresh water for him
before she left. No one paid her to do that, and the owners
probably had no idea. She did it for the dogs. They always took a
drink as if to show their appreciation.

Next, she picked up a Staffordshire
terrier named Sweetie. Each dog had a different personality. She
talked about her problems in life, her challenges. The sympathetic
looks on the dogs’ faces warmed her heart. She figured talking to
them was cheaper than therapy, though probably not as
effective.

At thirty, Rory was the youngest in a
family of three kids. Her dad had died suddenly when she was
twenty-one, not making it to her college graduation. She had been
close to him and was devastated by the loss. Her mom was proud of
her two brothers, one a doctor and one a university professor.
Then, there was Rory. She’d always been different. Different was
the only comfortable place for her.

Over the years, her brothers had
warmed up some to their pesky little sister. Her brother, Bob,
lived in Seattle, and John had his medical practice in Los Angeles.
Year after year passed by with only an occasional phone call from
them, and small gifts at Christmas had dwindled down to
nothing.

As a child, Rory had idolized them,
even though they played pranks on her and ganged up against her
from time to time. But when they grew up, and it became clear they
also thought she was wasting her life, she distanced
herself.

Her mother, Charlene Sampson, had
moved to Florida after her husband’s death. Charlene traveled to
see her sons on holidays, but begged off visiting Rory on account
of the weather, either too cold in the winter or too hot in the
summer, and too expensive. Her brothers paid for her mom’s airfare.
Rory wasn’t able to do the same.

At first, she was hurt by her mother’s
indifference. Eventually, she realized no visits meant she didn’t
have to listen to endless bragging about her brothers and subtle
disapproval of her life choices. She made her peace with the
coolness of her family.

Feeling different also made
friendships harder for Rory. She assumed no one wanted to be around
an “oddball,” as her brother Bob had called her. She had a few
artist friends she had made at gallery openings. She met them for
drinks or dinner from time to time. They lived in Brooklyn, a long
subway ride away. Baxter had soon become her best friend. The older
couple next door, Shirley and Hal, reached out to Rory. They seemed
to enjoy her company. Since they had no children, Rory was like one
of their own.

As a little girl, Rory had dreamed of
marrying a prince. But as she had approached thirty, she gave up
that dream. Once determined to get married, now she wasn’t so sure.
Although she was lonely and hoped to find a life partner, her
chances seemed to grow dimmer with each year. In a city full to the
brim with “type A” personalities, where would a snappy-tongued,
softhearted dog walker/writer find a man? She had no
clue.

She had met Bruce at a club. Her arty
friends dragged her out on occasion to drink and dance, though she
could rarely afford it. His broad shoulders and All-American, blond
hair and blue-eyed good looks attracted her immediately. He was all
the things she wasn’t. He responded to her beauty. They were in bed
together before the week was out.

That was three months ago. She didn’t
fool herself that Bruce was husband material, but she couldn’t
resist him. They were together two or three nights a week, keeping
loneliness at bay. They spent more time in bed than talking. Though
he wasn’t the cure for a future with a bleak outlook, she figured
he’d be okay for now.

After Sweetie, Rory headed over to
Central Park West to walk Lucky, an Irish Setter. He was a
beautiful, sweet dog, if not very bright. They did a half hour in
the park then she was done for the morning. In the afternoon, she
had the same three plus three more, a boxer and two Scotties she
walked together.

If she hurried, she could still have
four hours or so to write before it was time to pick up her
second-shift dogs. Rory earned a hundred and thirty-five bucks a
day walking dogs, barely enough for rent and food.

She was careful with money, learning
early how to stretch a dollar, traveling on foot instead of taking
a bus or subway. She was fit from walking dogs and avoiding mass
transit. She shopped sales for food, and with the sewing machine
she had inherited from her grandmother, made her own skirts and
dresses. Rory enjoyed sewing. She saw it as another way to express
her creativity.

As she
pulled out the ingredients for dinner, she hummed along with the
music playing on her computer. She danced to Jennifer Lopez’s “On
the Floor”
as she browned meat and chopped
onions. Soon the smell of simmering chili filled the apartment. She
sat at her computer, struggling to concentrate, but the aroma was
making her hungry. Even playing her favorite pieces by Mozart and
Vivaldi didn’t inspire her as they usually did.

At five,
she gave up and took a shower. After applying some lilac body
lotion, she combed her long locks and applied eyeliner to her blue
eyes. Her body began to hum as the time of Bruce’s arrival neared.
Skipping underwear, she slipped on a simple, stretchy shift in
green that clung to her curves.
Saves
time. Less to take off.
She chuckled to
herself.

At six o’clock, her buzzer sounded.
She smiled as she admitted him.

When Rory handed him a vodka tonic, he
put down his briefcase and toed off his shoes. He smiled at her and
sipped. “Anything come from those want ads?” he asked.

Rory began to pull down his tie and
unbutton his shirt. “Nope. How was your day?”

“
You smell good. So does
the chili.” His gaze zeroed in on the stove.

“
Chili’s
ready.”

“
Good day, today. Several
clients liked my recommendations. I’m hoping for a bonus at the end
of this year.”

“
That’d be great.” She
opened his shirt then began working on his belt.

He took a big slug of his drink as he
stared at her body. “You’re naked under there, aren’t you?” She
nodded. “You know that drives me crazy.”

“
That’s why I do it.” Rory
grinned up at him.

“
You’re a vixen,” he said,
burying his nose in her neck. His free hand settled on her waist,
moving her flush up against him. He was already getting hard. That
stoked Rory’s fire. Bruce inched her short dress up until he could
slip his palm underneath the flimsy material and cup her rear end.
“You have the firmest butt of any girl I’ve known.”

“
All that dog-walking you
hate has benefits.”

“
Damn,” he muttered as he
slid his hands to her inner thigh and up. “Wet already.” She moaned
slightly and closed her eyes when his fingers slipped along her
sex, probing, rubbing, and enticing her.

Rory unzipped his pants, which fell to
the floor. Bruce stepped out of them then chugged the rest of his
drink. After putting the glass down, he ripped her dress over her
head and led her to the sofa. He threw the pillows on the floor,
but didn’t bother to pull out the bed.

“
Can’t wait,” he mumbled,
his mouth seeking hers, his hands cupping her breasts. “Great
rack,” he whispered into her hair.

Rory pushed down his boxers. Her hand
closed around his erection. “No, you can’t wait,” she chuckled,
staring into his eyes. She dropped to her knees and took him into
her mouth.

“
Christ, Rory! Damn,
girl.” His eyes closed, and his head eased back. After a minute or
two, he pulled her up by the shoulders. She lay down, and he
stretched out on top of her. After steadying her leg on his
shoulder, he touched her, slipping two fingers inside, revving up
her heat.

“
Please, Bruce. Hurry.”
His triumphant grin told her he’d be relieving her tension
soon.

“
You want me,
baby?”

“
God, yes,” she
panted.

He plunged into her, groaning as he
filled her completely. “Shit, Rory. You’re tight as hell.” She
moaned as he thrust into her again and again, creating a rhythm
that stoked her fire quickly. Rory gave in to her senses, her mind
shut off, and her nerve-endings, alive with his stimulation,
crackled.

“
Oh, damn, Bruce!” she
called out as an orgasm overtook her, stiffening her muscles before
pouring release through her veins. His eyes glistened with lust as
he watched her.

“
Shit!” he muttered, as
his eyes closed, and he thrust into her one more time. A slight
shudder shook his body as he came inside her. Rory gripped his
shoulders and tilted her chin up to kiss him. She always kissed him
after sex.

Bruce pushed up to his knees and sat
back on his calves. Since the bed wasn’t opened, there was nowhere
for him to go. Rory wanted to cuddle, but it was impossible in this
position. He sniffed and smiled. “You made chili for
me?”

“
Said I would. Didn’t you
believe me?”

“
I never know how you
spend your day.” He stood up and put on his boxers and T-shirt
before heading for the kitchen. When he opened the pot, the
fragrant aroma filled the apartment. Rory slipped her chemise back
on and padded barefoot to the stove. “Hungry?” she asked, picking
up a wooden spoon to stir the concoction.

“
Now, I am.
Starved.”

“
Sit down.” Rory made him
a plate with chili, rice, and a little salad. She plucked a small
loaf of garlic bread out of the oven and put half next to his dish.
She spooned out some for herself and joined him at the tiny table
she used as her dining room.

Bruce
tucked into the food with enthusiasm. Rory smiled as she watched
him eat.
I like feeding him. Is that love?
Maybe.

When he finished eating, he dressed
and kissed her. “Great meal, as always,” he said, stuffing his tie
in his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry I have to work.”

“
Me, too. I’m going to try
to finish up some writing.”

“
And
don’t forget those want ads.” He pointed a finger at her as he
moved through the doorway and into the hall. Rory sighed, leaning
against the doorjamb.
What do I see in
Bruce?
Rather than answer the question,
she put on Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” and sat down at the computer.
Baxter curled up on his small bed at her feet. Stymied by a plot
that wouldn’t work, she gave up and ran a
Google
search for pug rescues,
instead. She found two in New York. Opening her cell, she
dialed.

“
Big Apple Pug Rescue? I’d
like to volunteer.”

* * * *

Propped
up in bed, wearing a short nightshirt, Rory munched popcorn while
watching the movie
Serendipity
for the fourth time. Baxter was curled up,
snoring, with his head on her leg.
Bruce
hates when I eat popcorn in bed. I’m careful. Besides, he’s not
here.
A sudden pang of guilt when she
thought about him working made her pick up the phone. His cell went
straight to voicemail.
Working hard, I
guess.

Baxter shifted position, allowing her
to move her legs a bit. They had settled back together comfortably
when the buzzer sounded. Baxter jumped up, barking. Rory’s brows
knitted as she wondered who could be at the door. She slipped out
of bed and hit the intercom.

“
It’s me. Let me
up.”

She
buzzed Bruce in, and held the door open as he staggered up the
stairs.
Working? Working at drinking, I
think.
He was winded after three flights
of stairs and leaned against the wall outside her apartment while
he caught his breath. He reeked of alcohol and cheap
perfume.

Rory fanned the air with her hand.
“Who have you been with? Some Tenth Avenue hooker?”

“
No hooker. A
club.”

“
I thought you were
working,” she said, taking his arm and guiding him into her place.
He followed along docilely, like a lamb being led by his
mother.