by Kate Angell
Joe’s chest tightened at the thought of Turbo being reprimanded. Inside the Time-Out area, there was a big bowl for water and a rectangular plaid-covered dog bed. However comfortable, though, he would hate to see the rottie boxed in.
He brought up the fact, slowly saying, “Turbo doesn’t take to tight spaces. Time-out won’t benefit him.”
“It’s helped with other dogs.”
“You need to understand Turbo’s history,” he admitted. Pain hit him whenever he discussed the dog’s past. “Abused. I adopted him from the local no-kill shelter before the Annual Barefoot William Dog Jog last year. The charity event promotes forever homes. Players showcased adoptable dogs during the race. I chose Turbo.”
He swallowed hard. “According to his file, he’d been living outside, chained to a tree. There are deep scars beneath his collar. His owner moved, left him behind. The neighbors reported his barking for food. He’d been starved.”
Stevie’s face turned pale, her expression sad. She placed a hand over her heart. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve spoiled him rotten ever since.” Truth. “Turbo has no restrictions. He often gets the better of me. I’m fine with that. No regrets. It is what it is.”
Stevie nodded. “I understand. But freedom is one thing; free-for-all, quite another. My aunt refers to our dog day care as ‘controlled chaos.’ She’s never had a dogfight. Never an escapee. We want to keep it that way.”
“Be kind to my boy.”
“Should Turbo be accepted, he will be handled with great care. We don’t want to break his spirit. I prefer a spray bottle. A light mist to the face stops misbehavior pretty quickly.”
His dog’s face would be wet the entire day. Still, it was a gentler method of discipline than many others he’d heard of. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
He was still being screened.
She cracked the back door so he could peer out. He was impressed by the porch and the slanting ramp that led to the yard. There was plenty of playground equipment, a cement wading pool, and even a patch of woods, within the six-foot chain-link fence.
She closed the door, turned to him. “Any questions?”
Tour over. He had a couple. “Cost per day versus by the week? ”
She quoted him prices, including overnights and weekends. Kibble and snacks were included during longer stays. Grooming was also available.
“Affordable,” he agreed. “Turbo’s introduction to the other dogs?”
“Slowly. He’ll be temporarily separated from the main group. We’ll assign him two or three initial friends. Let them hang out for a day or two. Then bring in another dog, and another, until he’s met each one.”
“Add a friend a day. I like that.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m good. Are you good with me?”
“I’ll need to talk to Twyla first.”
“Discuss or diss us?”
She dipped her head. Diss.
He was disappointed, but didn’t know how to change her mind. Maybe Twyla would come to his defense.
Noise broke from the balcony. Running paws. The sound moved back and forth, room to room. There were no other dogs in the house. Joe needed to locate his rottie. “My boy,” he said.
“I’m right behind you.”
They climbed the staircase together. Stopped at the top—and stared. A tornado named Turbo had hit. Clothes and bedding were strewn across the landing. Pillows, sheets, a comforter. A black one-piece swimsuit, jeans, socks, shoes. An overturned dresser drawer.
Stevie’s jaw dropped. “The bedroom doors were closed earlier.” All four stood open now.
“Turbo might have”—no doubt had—“butted his head against the door, like a bull.”
She checked out the doorknobs. Breathed easier. “Jarred, but not broken. Locks intact. Thank goodness.”
Joe looked around, asked, “Who lives up here?”
“Lori and me. My aunt did, too, before she broke her leg. She’s since moved to the guesthouse. Easier to get around.” She bent and began to sort through the items. Dividing them into three piles.
“Where’s Lori now?”
“Out.”
Heavy silence, until he heard Turbo grunt. Not a good sound.
Stevie listened, frowned. “Coming from my room, two doors down.”
He found his dog belly-flopped on the far side of a brass bed, tugging on the rounded corner of a brown, gold, and blue braided rug. Shit. A chunk was already missing by the time Joe reached him. Turbo spit it out. The rottie pushed himself up, darted around Joe, only to skid to a halt by a wicker laundry basket. He snagged something, took off again, leaving Joe staring at the torn rug. The wool appeared old, somewhat worn, the colors faded. Irreplaceable.
He nudged the loose piece with his booted toe, tried to fit it together. No go. Turbo had damaged the edges. Not a good impression. Maybe Stevie wouldn’t notice. More likely she would. He blew out a breath. Silently swore. A vintage rug would be difficult to repair. Harder still to replace.
He should’ve chased down Turbo, but instead he took a moment to look around Stevie’s bedroom. To satisfy his curiosity. Out-and-out simplicity. An armoire, an antique lamp, a cane rocker. His gaze narrowed and his grin spread when he caught sight of her blue garter on the bedside table. He circled the foot of her bed, picked it up, and twirled it on his finger. She hadn’t thrown it away, as she had threatened. He could still picture it on her thigh, above her freckled knee. Frilly satin against soft skin. Nice.
“Drop my panties!” Stevie’s voice was shrill, grabbing his attention. He placed the garter where he’d found it, and returned to the landing. The sight was not pretty. A tug-of-war was going on, as Stevie and Turbo pulled on a pair of red panties. The dog shook his head, and the bikini ripped. He immediately lost interest. Game over. He dropped the remains and bounded down the staircase.
Joe picked up the panties. The tear left them crotchless. To his liking—but not to Stevie’s, he imagined. She snatched them from him. Stuffed them in the pocket of her shorts. Fire shot from her eyes. Her color was high. Her jaw worked. He waited for her to rant and rave, to rip him a new one. But whatever she might have said was interrupted by the thump, thump of Twyla’s crutches.
The older woman now stood at the bottom of the stairs with Turbo by her side, all furry innocence. She called up to them, “I heard a commotion. Everything okay?”
Stevie expelled a breath. “Turbo invaded the bedrooms.”
“Destructive?” Twyla inquired.
Joe descended the stairs, two at a time. Stevie was close behind. “Depends on your definition of ‘destructive’,” he defended his dog.
“That bad, huh?” from Twyla.
Joe played down the damage. “He discovered bedding and clothing. Dragged items onto the landing.”
Twyla looked to Stevie. “Anything ruined?”
“A pair of my underwear.”
Twyla shrugged it off. “Replaceable.”
Joe spoke up. “I’ll buy you—”
Stevie shook her head. “I don’t want you getting into my panties.”
Her words hung in the air. The connotation was overtly sexual. Stevie’s whole body blushed, as red as the panties she’d just pocketed.
Joe fought back a grin. Inappropriate.
“My niece will make her own purchases,” Twyla informed him. “Anything further?”
He came clean. “There’s a small problem with the braided rug in Stevie’s bedroom.”
Stevie glared. “How small of a problem?”
“Turbo took a bite.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” Twyla quietly said. “Dates back a hundred years.”
Crap. Joe stood knee-deep in his dog’s damages. He felt terrible. “I’ll have it fixed,” he assured Twyla. “I’ll locate someone who restores rugs. Or I’ll find a replacement through an antique dealer.” Cost was irrelevant at this point. He needed to right Turbo’s wrong.
&nb
sp; “Incidents happen,” Twyla said forgivingly. “We’ll deal with it later.” She changed the subject, spoke to Stevie. “You had a phone call moments ago. I took a message. A rather long one.” She handed her niece a sheet of paper.
Stevie read the note. Her eyes rounded. Her voice held surprise, excitement. “The bridal event. I won a prize.”
“Which one?” Joe asked. He’d stepped back on the boardwalk, watching her from a safe distance as she signed up for different drawings. Weddings gave him the willies.
Stevie answered, “A photo shoot with I Do magazine. The centerfold. I suggested several locales, and the editor chose Unleashed. She found it unique.”
“Definitely different,” Twyla agreed.
Stevie pursed her lips. “I was thinking it would promote the dog day care.”
Her aunt smiled. “A lovely thought.”
“The photographer will hold an open call for canines, and pick eight for the shoot,” relayed Stevie. “Dogs that will add color, originality, and flow to the pictures.”
Interesting, thought Joe. Turbo wouldn’t stand a chance of being selected. He was too rough-and-tumble. Too chewy.
Stevie shifted uneasily. “There were hundreds of potential brides . . . at the event,” she stammered. “I never imagined . . . I’d actually win.”
“But you did, dear,” Twyla said.
“There’s a problem . . .” Stevie’s voice trailed off. Her expression looked pained. Her face now pale.
“Something I can fix?” her aunt offered.
“Not unless you have a groom.”
“Oh,” from Twyla.
“Whoa,” came from Joe.
A groom? It took two to marry. Something Stevie had dismissed. She’d gotten caught up in the festive wedding atmosphere, and she’d entered the drawings without even a significant other in mind. She’d accused him of being an opportunist, checking out babes on the boardwalk, while she filled up the contest boxes without even having a man in her life. Karma. A total payback. Bit her in the ass.
He grinned over her predicament. So broadly, so impolitely, that Twyla hit his boot with the rubber tip on her crutch. She was protective of her niece. He pulled it together. Put on a momentarily respectful face.
Stevie held her own. “I’ll deal with it.”
“I’m sure you will,” Twyla assured her. “Moving on, where do we stand with Turbo?”
Joe stiffened. “My boy hasn’t put his best paw forward.”
Twyla rounded her shoulders, leaned heavily on her crutches. She eyed her niece. “Knee-jerk reactions aren’t always fair. We all need second chances.”
Joe breathed easier. “Seconds are good.”
“What do you think, Stevie?” Twyla sought her decision.
“I’m not sure I can handle—”
The words hung in the air. Joe mentally filled in the blank. Him or Turbo, which did she fear the most?
Twyla’s gaze shifted between them. Her expression was thoughtful. “A compromise, perhaps,” she said. “Turbo needs doggy day care, and, to save face, Stevie requires a groom.”
“A groom for an afternoon,” said Stevie.
An alarm sounded in his head. Red flags unfurled. “What are you suggesting?” he asked Twyla.
“We’ll accept Turbo’s application—if you’ll pose as Stevie’s intended.”
“No way,” Stevie choked.
Joe felt the same, until Turbo nudged him with his nose. The rottie whimpered. Joe scratched the dog’s ear. He’d arrived here with a purpose. One he would fulfill. He stepped up to the plate now. “Our posing together wouldn’t be new, Stewie. We played a couple on the boardwalk. Our picture was taken together at Kuts for Kids. You take care of my boy, and I’ll do you a solid—with one final stipulation.”
“What more do you want?” she asked, wary.
He threw a curveball. “I need a place to stay. Rent me a room.”
“That would be up to my aunt.”
Twyla approved. “I’d planned to rent the extra bedroom. Eventually. I have no problem with you living upstairs.” Pause. “One minor inconvenience. You’d have to share a bathroom with Stevie.”
Joe nodded. “I’m fine with that, as long as Stevie doesn’t hang her underwear over the shower curtain, and she knocks before she enters.”
“You two can work it out,” Twyla finalized. “I’m headed for a nap.” She hobbled off. Left them.
Joe waited for Twyla to clear the back door, for the air to settle between them, before he asked, “Equal opportunity, sweetheart. Neighbors or not?”
Alone now, standing close, she met his gaze. They were two very different people. She was sarcastic, didn’t like him. Much. He was drawn to her, for no logical reason. Lame.
Dissimilar, yet with matching desire, they breathed each other in. Woman. Man. He saw her uncertainty. Noticed her goose bumps. The clutching of her hands. She was a bundle of nerves. She touched the hickey on her neck. Bit down on her bottom lip. She warmed. He heated. Tension pulsed. Her sigh escaped. Low and throaty.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Four
Joe’s teammates called him Zoo. He was aggressive, antagonistic, an animal at the stadium. Opinionated, too. No way were the Triple-A players taking over Rogue real estate in the locker room. Joe pulled the welcome mat, glaring at two Rebels until they retreated behind an imaginary line that separated the major and minor leaguers.
The Rogues’ starting lineup filled the row against the south wall. As a veteran player with seniority, he was given two lockers so he could spread out and be more comfortable. No elbow-crowding from his teammates. The coveted lockers put him adjacent to the lounge and food cart, with additional easy access to the showers. He could settle on a La-Z-Boy, put up his feet after nine innings, and enjoy a snack or an entirely catered meal. Rogues’ food. Not Rebels’.
He kept one eye on the side door. Dean Jensen had yet to arrive. The captain of the Rebels was late.
“Death stare, Zoo?” Jake Packer asked, amused. Pax claimed the neighboring locker. “Locker room is neutral ground, we’re not on the field.”
Joe cut his gaze to the back of the room. Watched as the minor league players talked, dressed, readied for practice. “I hate having them here.”
Pax understood. “So do I. I’ve heard the players are high-caliber this year. Any one of them could squeeze us right off the roster.”
“So you keep telling me,” Joe ground out.
Irritatingly rational, Pax added, “Rogues are a team unto themselves. The majority of minor league teams aren’t owned by major league clubs; they merely have affiliation contracts with them. But the Rebels are owned by the Rogues. A huge investment. Our team owner and the front office track their progress as closely as they do our own.”
His teammate’s reminder and intentions were good. Joe just didn’t take it well. Today the two teams would square off. Competition would be fierce from the onset. He would push himself, play as hard in spring training as he did during the regular season. He was fit, with strong arms, stronger legs. His focus honed. He ranked third of all left fielders in major league baseball.
Joe’s competition, Dean Jensen, was an up-and-comer on the Rebels squad. He had potential. Was damn good, actually. As a prospect player, he was on-site to gain experience and face tougher competition. He had a lot going for him.
Joe locked his jaw. Fisted his hands. No one had ever given him anything. What he had was his and nobody else’s. Left field belonged to him. The end.
Deep breath, and he cleared his head. Moved on, for the moment. He pitched his wallet and keys onto the top shelf of the empty locker that separated him and shortstop Brody Jones. Brody was a nice guy. A quiet, conscientious player. He got the job done. He’d injured his shoulder the previous season. Had undergone an operation. Extensive rotator-cuff surgery repaired the damage, but he’d yet to achieve full range of motion. He might start the season, but Joe doubted he’d finish. Retirement, sooner than later. H
e’d return to West Virginia with his wife and two kids.
Joe hiked his gray T-shirt over his head. Tossed it on the floor of his locker. He heel-toed his athletic shoes. No socks. Then unsnapped, unzipped his jeans. Shucked them. He stood in black boxer-briefs. Scratched his stomach, his hellhound tattoo.
Pax scanned the room. “Have you seen Will?” The starting pitcher. “I owe him fifty bucks. Bar game. We bet on the Blue Coconut jukebox, guessing what would be the next song played. Ten guesses. I lost, eight out of ten. The dude is fuckin’ psychic.”
Not psychic, but tall. Six-six and sharp-eyed. If they’d been standing anywhere near the Wurlitzer, Will could’ve seen the record drop. With little effort. Joe didn’t blow his cover. It was Will’s game.
“Will’s probably in the bullpen,” Joe returned. Pitchers and catchers began their workouts two weeks before the position players. Will was dedicated, perfection his goal.
Pax dropped onto the gray-enamel bench. Removed his socks and boat shoes. He’d recently purchased a sailboat. A forty-one-foot Morgan Classic decked out with two cabins astern. A third, larger cabin aft had a head and separate shower. Pax presently lived on the boat, which he kept anchored at Land’s End, a cul-de-sac off Houseboat Row. “Where were you last night?” he asked Joe.
“At Unleashed.”
Pax pulled off a worn and torn Rogues T-shirt. Frowned. “Not familiar with that bar.”
“Not a bar. A dog day care.”
“What the hell?”
Joe gave him the condensed version, from Turbo’s destruction of the hotel room to his decision to move into the Victorian.
“Good move for your dog.”
Good move for him, too, Joe thought, recalling the previous evening. He’d packed up his clothes and belongings at the Driftwood, and taken up residence in the second-floor bedroom next to Stevie. She’d been cool, but cordial, closing herself off in her own room. She’d skipped Twyla’s lasagna supper. He’d eaten half the pan. Twyla had graciously allowed Turbo a few bites, too.
Afterward, the rottie went crazy in the backyard. Hiding in the doggy crawl tunnel. Climbing the wide, tiered deck platforms. Playing his heart out. Free.
Stevie’s friend Lori had arrived just as he was helping Twyla clear the table, load the dishwasher. She stood in the doorway in a skimpy turquoise bikini top and cutoff shorts. Sunburned, smiling, and surprised to see him. Greetings all around, before she made a pot of coffee and requested the particulars. He was happy to oblige.