“More than people, it seems.”
“My mom walked out on us when we were kids. No, she didn’t walk out, she checked out. She was more worried about her happiness than taking care of the kids she created.” She pulls into the dump driveway and slows the truck, stopping to look at me. “Humans are selfish. They think about their own needs first and foremost. It’s just human nature—the desire for happiness. But animals? They don’t care if they’re happy. They bond with us. They want to please us. They greet us at the door. They wag their tails when we walk in the room. Dance a little to celebrate. We belong to one another.”
I know she’s talking to me now, about the dog flipping, about my selfishness. I stare out the window.
“I got into this because my grandparents knew I needed to rely on someone other than humans, because six-year-old Maverick couldn’t handle being abandoned again.”
She presses the gas and we go through the gate, stopping to pay the fee. I don’t say another word as she parks the truck and exits the cab, slamming the door behind her.
I take a deep breath and head out into the cool afternoon. The tailgate opens with a slam, and Maverick climbs in the back of the truck, dragging out old, rotted pieces of wood.
“Here,” I say, pulling out the work gloves I have in my pocket. “Use these.”
“I can handle it.”
I shake my head and toss them to her anyway. They land at her feet.
“So what? Now that you know I have a tragic background, you’re going to be nice to me?”
I chuckle darkly. “Nope. I just don’t want Paul on my case if you come back with tetanus or something.” I reach for a section of rusted wire. “And for the record, you’re not the only one with a crappy past.”
She glances up, an unreadable look in her eye.
“I know.”
“You know what?”
“About your parents and how they died.” She frowns. “That’s awful.”
“You looked me up?”
“You’re a convicted criminal, Griffin, working in my home. Yeah, I looked you up.”
Fair enough, but it still feels weird that she knows about my parents. I wonder what she knows about my Uncle James. Probably not much.
“It also stinks about the baseball stuff.”
That revelation hits like a punch to the gut.
Walking away from the sport had been the worst decision I’d ever made. Everything spiraled from that fateful moment.
“Yeah, I’m not known for my excellent decision-making.” I give her a tight grin. “Obviously.”
I reach for a big piece of wood and drag it from the truck, not wanting to talk about this anymore. I get the feeling Maverick is okay with that, because she busies herself and we finish unloading the trash in silence.
When we’re done, I re-latch the tailgate and walk around the car to the passenger side, feeling raw and awkward. This is why I don’t get close to people. There’s too much baggage, too much damage, it’s all too real.
I look through the window at Maverick, at the smudge of dirt across her forehead and the red tint of her cheeks. I’ve spent the last few years avoiding truths—realities. Judge Johnson toppled my denial like dominoes, one falling after the other.
But this girl, this woman, I’m not letting her get under my skin.
At least no more than she already is.
“What’s the plan?” I ask as she drives past the house for the third time. She’s been waiting for it to get dark before making a move. The neighborhood is small, just outside of Watkinsville, with newer homes on small lots. It makes all of this more challenging.
“My contact says the dog is in the backyard. Tied up to a tree. He got hurt pretty bad in a fight the other night.” She turns off the headlights and parks across the street from the house. It’s a corner lot, with chain-link fencing. I see the big tree in the back, but not the dog. It’s too dark. “He says he was too young to fight, too small.”
I give her a wary look. “Isn’t approaching an injured dog dangerous?”
She leans over, reaching for the glove compartment, giving me a whiff of her amazing-smelling shampoo, and grazing my knees in the process. She opens the small door and removes a package of dog treats.
“You think that’s going to work?”
“It has in the past.”
I stare at the house, at the beat-up car in the yard, then back at Maverick. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Now you have qualms about stealing a dog?”
“Yeah, actually.” I lift up my leg and reveal the monitor. “I’m on probation. I get caught taking a dog, Judge Johnson is going to throw me in prison.”
“Whatever,” she mutters, grabbing the work gloves. “I’m sure if this was a dog you could sell, you’d be all in.”
“That’s not true.” Although, it would go a long way in swaying me.
“Can you do one thing?”
“What?”
“Will you get in the driver’s seat. I’ll take care of the rest.”
I look up at the cab’s ceiling, clenching my jaw tight. This is dumb. So dumb, but it’s obvious that Maverick is going to do what she wants, despite my warnings.
“Fine.”
We quietly get out of the car, neither of us fully latching the door, in case it’s too loud. I circle around the front of the truck, passing her. I grab her arm.
“If something goes wrong, if the owner comes out or the dog is aggressive, promise me you’ll get out of there.”
She grimaces, but nods. “Okay.”
I release her and get into driver’s side, adjusting the seat for my long legs. I sink down in an attempt to make myself invisible. I feel sick to my stomach watching her walk across the street and into the dark yard. It feels wrong. Not just the dog-napping but letting her go alone.
I watch as she enters the gate, committing the first of multiple crimes. Trespassing. Theft. She vanishes in the dark and the nausea builds, until I can’t take it anymore.
“Dang it,” I mutter, slamming my fist on the steering wheel.
I get out of the cab and follow her trail, slinking through the dark. This is not how I steal dogs. I do it in broad daylight. Right in front of the world to see. I’m the good Samaritan. The nice guy looking out for your pet. This? I think, trying not to make a sound, this is a disaster.
Easing up to the chain-link fence I peer over, spotting her by the tree, struggling with the knotted rope hanging between the dog’s neck and the trunk. I take a final deep breath, knowing this is a bad idea, and then slip through the gate.
Quietly I cross the yard, skirting away from the back of the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen window. Leaves crunch under my feet. The dog growls and Maverick spins, her eyes wide and panicked.
“It’s just me,” I whisper, holding up my hands. “Give him a treat or something.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small square dog treat. The dog gobbles it up eagerly.
I’m able to get closer and then I see the wounds on the dog’s legs. I wince, feeling a different sort of sickness in my stomach.
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to keep you from going to jail.” It’s true. Partially. Maybe. Seeing her go back here alone brought out an unexpected reaction, a sense of protectiveness I hadn’t anticipated. The dog growls again and she tosses him another treat. “Can you hurry?”
“The knot is too tight.”
The dog shifts, whimpering a little. Distress flickers across Maverick’s face.
“Here,” I say, shoving my hand in my pocket and pulling out a flat utility knife I’d been using earlier in the day. I grab the rope. “Let me try.”
I flick the blade open right when the porch light turns on.
“Hurry!” she whispers, voice full of fear.
“I am,” I mutter, sawing through the rope with the knife. The blade isn’t big. My heart skips a beat when I see a shadow cross over the porch.
&
nbsp; “Griffin.” Maverick tugs on my arm.
The dog whines, sensing our anxiety. I move as fast as I can, my fingers aching.
Mave grabs one end of the rope, pulling, hoping to snap it free.
Thwick!
The rope snaps in two.
A man’s voice cuts through the night. “Hey! Someone out there?”
Maverick tugs at the dog. He stands but stumbles on his injured leg. She looks up at me, imploringly, desperately. There’s no way I can say no to that face.
I bend and gently slide my hands under his body. Again, he whimpers, but he’s not growling.
“Be careful.”
“Go open the gate.” I say, grunting as I pick up the dog. He’s not heavy, but I’m trying to be careful from his leg—and keep myself from being attacked.
“Who’s out there?!”
Maverick vanishes down the side of the house. I follow, moving as fast as I can. I’m just past the porch when I hear the undeniable, click-clack of a shot gun.
I get to the gate and turn back, getting a good view of the long-barreled gun. My eyes flick to his face.
“Griff,” Maverick says, tugging me out of the yard.
I follow the sound of her voice—running across the yard toward the truck. She opens the passenger side door and I put the dog inside. She follows, brushing past me on her way, and I race around to the driver’s side, barely getting the door closed before I slam my foot down on the gas, peeling down the road with squealing tires.
In the rearview mirror I see a figure run into the street, gun at his side.
I can’t see his face, not in the dark, not from this distance, but I saw it in the yard, and I recognized him.
14
Mave
My heart pounds in my chest as Griffin puts distance between us and the man with his rifle.
“I had no idea that was going to happen,” I confess, carefully lifting the dog into my lap and feeding him a few treats. His leg looks bad, but I can’t do anything in the truck. It’ll have to wait until we get back to the farm.
“I should hope not,” he says, jaw and shoulders tense.
“Thanks for the assist,” I say, “I would have been in trouble if you hadn’t shown up.”
He nods, both hands gripping the wheel. I hear a vibration, and he winces, glancing down at his leg. It’s an instant reminder of who he is and why I shouldn’t have had him help me. Shame tints my cheeks.
A palpable tension settles in the cab as he drives back to the farm. It’s not the anger and irritation from before. More like sadness.
“Listen,” I say, as he parks the car near the kennel. “I never should have asked you do to that. It was out of line. I just got so focused and—”
“No. It’s fine,” he says, looking over at the dog. I could be wrong but the emotion in his eye looks a lot like guilt. He pats the dog on his head. “I’m here to right wrongs. Even though this breaks a few other laws, it seems fitting.”
He exits the car and circles around, opening my door.
“I’ll carry him.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you need to go?”
“I can stay if you want to call Gabrielle and tell her I’m going to be late.”
“That would be helpful. I’m not sure I can handle him on my own. His injuries look pretty bad.”
“To the kennel?”
“Yeah, there’s a washroom in the back.”
He carries the pup off, and I make a quick call to Redemption House. Gabrielle answers and I let her know we’ve had an emergency. She seems pleased to know he wants to do extra work.
“Is he doing okay? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. He’s tough to read,” she asks.
I snort. Tell me about it.
“We still have our ups and downs,” I admit, walking into the kennel. I see him cradling the injured dog in his arms. A flutter tickles my belly, but I shake it off. “But he’s definitely making improvements with his attitude. He’s been taking initiative and showing a lot of compassion lately.”
“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.” There’s the sound of voices in the background. All male. I’m assuming other men in the program. “I know your farm runs twenty-four-seven. Keep him as long as you need.”
“Thanks.”
The washroom is connected to a small room off the back of the kennel. There’s a narrow single bed with a small table and lamp. A dog bed is on the floor. I walk through the room just as Griffin gently lays the dog on the worktable. I don’t miss the animal sniffing Griffin’s arm and giving him a small lick.
“What is this place?”
“Originally, I think a farmhand slept out here or something. I cleaned it up so that I had some place to stay when the bigger animals were sick and needed 'round the clock care.” I nod to the tub. “Run some warm water in there and we’ll get him cleaned up. I’ve got some medicine we can give him for the wounds.”
I grab the supplies out of the counter as he turns off the water.
“You want to help me get him in here?” he asks.
I squeeze past him, suddenly aware of being in such a tight space with Griffin. Not that the truck cab wasn’t small, but this is different. There we had an obstacle between us and a boat load of anger. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I’m thinking a bit more clearly about what we just did and how we’re in this together. Like, really in this together.
It takes both of us to gently get the dog in the water. He has a hard time standing on one leg and the hair is matted and red around the wound. Looks like the other dog took a chunk out of it and then he probably licked it raw.
I’m surprised that Griffin takes over with the bath. He pushes up his sleeves, revealing long, toned forearms that distract me for a second. I stare at the muscle that arcs down the skin.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I drag my eyes from his arms to the dog, keeping him focused on me and not the bath. Griffin grabs the retractable faucet head, pressing the lever until a spray of clean water showers over the dog’s body. He gets him good and wet, then squeezes a glob of shampoo on his back and starts to rub it in. The dog has brown and white fur, but the white is almost brown from the dirt. It’s obvious he’s not a huge fan of the bath, and any other time he would have bolted by now, but his mobility is limited.
“Give me some soap,” I say, holding out my palm. Griffin squeezes a glob of green shampoo in the center and I begin rubbing it in the dog’s coat. We diligently scrub the dog, and soon, both of our hands and arms are covered in suds.
The hose slips from Griffin’s slippery hand and hits the bottom of the sink, casting a wild spray of water across the washroom. It hits my face first, then my shirt, and I cry out, “Make it stop!”
“Sorry! I’ve got it!”
The dog takes a break in our attention to shake, sending another cascade of water over both of us.
“Ahhh!”
We move into action. Me to settle the dog and Griffin grappling with the hose. Once they’re both under control we look at one another, soapy and drenched, and burst into laughter.
“What a mess,” he mutters, pulling up his shirt and wiping his face. I get a view of his stomach, rock hard and laddered with muscle. He drops the shirt and looks at me, catching my eye.
“You, uh, missed a little.” There’s clump of soap sliding down his cheek. I reach out and catch it with my thumb.
“Thanks.”
Our eyes meet, and the air seems to suck out of the room. It’s just me and him and his attractive forearm and ridiculous abs and his very red, very soft-looking lips—
The dog nudges me with his wet nose.
I jump and blurt, “Towels! Get some. Let me.”
Griffin shifts his attention back on the dog, turning back on the hose and rinsing him off. I turn my back to them both, opening the cabinet and counting to ten as I pull down a stack of towels. What was that all about? Why was he looking at me like that? Why was I looking at him like that?
He’s cute. But a criminal, I remind myself. He uses those good looks to put people at ease.
A criminal that helped me steal an injured dog and save him from future fights.
I stop talking to myself and turn around. Griffin is rubbing the dog behind the ears.
My heart flips like a pancake.
“You’re good at this,” I say, trying to clear the air.
He shrugs. “It’s not my first time washing a dog. I did it before we put them online and sold them.”
There it is. The reminder of why I’m not attracted to him.
I’m not.
When the dog is squeaky clean, he unplugs the drain and the dirty water. I hand him a towel and get one of my own. Together we pat the dog down, getting him nice and dry. Griffin lifts him up again, putting him back on the table. He feeds him a few treats while I get out the bandages and ointment.
We work in silence, getting him wrapped up. Once I get him to swallow a pill, I say,
“I’ll call Dr. Tricia first thing in the morning.”
“Where do you want him to sleep tonight? I can go ahead and move him.”
I grimace, having not thought that far. “I’m not sure. I’ve got the puppies to take care of, but someone should probably be with this guy, too. Maybe take him in the house?”
“You think that’s a good idea? I know Lolly sleeps in the house and we don’t know how he behaves with other dogs. He could be aggressive.”
I blink, surprised he’s paid that much attention. It’s also a testimony of how tired I am after the last twenty-four-hours. “You’re right. That won’t work. I guess I can go get Paul.”
“What are you going to tell him? Something tells me he’s not fully aware of your afterhours escapades.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re not escapades, but no, he doesn’t know, although I think he has his suspicions. He’d be upset if he knew the risks I took.”
“I’d stay if I could, but obviously that’s not my choice.”
“You would?” I’m genuinely shocked that he offers. I almost press my hand to his forehead to see if he’s feverish. He’s definitely not acting normal.
Rescuing the Bad Boy: Bad Boy Sweet Romance (Last Chance at Love Book 1) Page 6