“That’s okay. We’ll get proper introductions later. For now, you rest and heal up, okay?” I say, squatting down beside him to run my thumb up the space between his eyes. The dark fur around his eyes is all German Shepard. He’s a beautiful specimen right down to the slightly shorter back legs and lean body with that Graham cracker brown and black body.
He relaxes, his lips puffing out as he exhales sharply. I take the dark blanket and unfold it a bit to make a reasonable sized bed for him. Lifting one side of the stretcher to slide it under him, I’m joined by Victoria, who kneels and works shoulder to shoulder with me.
She’s quiet as we settle Sentinel onto the bed and lean the empty stretcher against the wall of the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen. I watch as she strokes his neck. She talks quietly to him and his ears twitch, honing in on her voice even as his eyes drift closed.
“You’re such a good boy,” she says gently, her fingers around his ear. There’s love in her expression as she strokes the soft hair along the edge of his dark ear, and I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment between friends.
It’s touching.
And suddenly, I realize I’m glad that I did this, not just for Sentinel, but for her too. Whatever demons she’s running from, she needs him as much as he needs her.
It’s a strange sensation and one I don’t totally understand, so I shove it down deep. I’ll inspect it later, but right now, I want to focus on getting through this time while I have a new house mate. Well, a kind of house mate. I guess she’s more like a neighbor.
“I’ll need to do some shopping to stock up and mother in law,” I tell her, not feeling bad that I’m not prepared for guests.
She glances at me, as if only now aware I’m still in the room with her. But she says nothing, and I sense she’s struggling with her own issues as she continues loving on Sentinel with inquisitive fingers that explore his ear.
And I continue. “I can do that tomorrow. And I’ll make some dinner tonight. Do you have any allergies?” I ask, thinking about the things I’d picked up for dinner today. And as I think about it, I realize just how pale and sick Victoria looks.
She’d had that sandwich. I bet it’s tucked in her purse, looking more pathetic than it had in the store. She’d do better by some of my home made stir fry. The vitamin rich meal might just perk her up, bring some color to her flesh, and make her feel a bit better in these rough, upcoming days.
Because she’s going to have a lot to deal with. Sentinel isn’t going to go from zero to one hundred in a day. It’s going to take weeks at least for him to heal up to where I’ll be comfortable surrendering him to home care. Not because I have no faith in Victoria – I don’t – but because I have a standard I set for myself. A dog in this rough of shape with these injuries needs time, no stress, and a stable environment while his body repairs.
And I have a feeling that if Victoria’s life is anything, it’s not stable, stress free, or calm.
No, she seems like the type that either thrives on drama or is running form a life that was overwhelming with it. Either way, not good for the dog.
Or her, I guess.
Chapter 9
Victoria
Outside, I’m calm – I hope – inside, I’m fuming.
Why? Because he’s reminding me that he’s taking care of me. He’s rubbing it in my face that I’m an unwanted visitor who is disrupting his perfect, quiet life with all my problems. Now he has to go shopping to feed me. He has to make dinner for me.
Well, I’ve got a sandwich. I’ll be fine. And I can buy my own food.
But I focus on Sentinel. It was good to see him somewhat alert for a few minutes. And I’d been surprised at how Kyle talked to him. Like Sentinel was his own dog. He’d been reassuring; kind, even.
But then he turned around and talked to me like I’m some burden on his life. What a jerk.
Sentinel looks so relaxed and I feel that surge of emotions rising up in me. Between the stress of the day and Kyle’s reminder of what a disruption I am, I feel like I need to hide. But hiding without my rock is like trying to breathe in the vacuum of space.
Impossible.
Kyle leaves and I begin to stroke Sentinel’s neck as my breaths come quicker. My lungs feel like they’re on fire and there’s a faint feeling in my head like I’d stood up too fast. Lowering my head, I rest it on Sentinel’s neck, feeling like it’s the only safe place to touch him. His head.
Within minutes, I smell food cooking. There’s a sizzle of veggies on a hot pan and a sweet and savory scent in the air. In his sleep, Sentinel’s ears twitch and I lift my head. I stand up and make my way around the counter into the kitchen. Kyle cooks, his face intent on the wok before him.
He’s tossing veggies in the bowl-shaped pan and sets it down for a moment to chop more vegetables in a quick, smooth motion that looks like something a professional chef would do. Then he tosses the veggies in.
“Are those leeks?” I ask, not certain. He looks over at me, his expression unreadable.
“Yeah,” he says, the response curt as he again tosses the veggies in the wok, the motions impressive as he makes the food fly and catches it in scooping motions. I watch as he sets the wok down again and makes quick work of some mushrooms and slices some radishes paper thin.
While he cooks, I wander off, looking at the paintings on the walls in the hallway. They’re bold. My favorite of the three is one that’s red on textured white paint. The other two are variations of each other. They’re blue on white with varying shades of blue from aqua to sapphire.
They evoke emotion like whispers from the past, and I feel tears welling up in me for reasons I can’t quite place. I wander a bit further and catch sight of the master bedroom from the slightly open door. It’s tidy, but the thing that catches my attention is the bed.
It’s huge. The top blanket is sterile white and looks plush, like down. The headboard is tight to the wall and is a cream white leather look alike. Beautiful.
I wander back into the kitchen, wondering about the lack of family things. There aren’t pictures or anything. I get that he’s a young guy living alone – I assume alone – but wouldn’t he at least have something around that hinted at family or a past or something?
“So are you married?” I ask, feeling like it’s a stupid question. I’m mostly worried I’ll have to deal with an angry female version of Kyle. Because he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be happy with anyone who wasn’t exactly like himself.
“No.”
The one word answer is frustrating. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because he’s so closed off. We’re kind of stuck tougher for a little while, why not get to know each other? If only to really prove to ourselves that we’re polar opposites. Though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’d felt something when we were standing in front of the thermostat.
He’d reached out to touch me, but instincts had seen the move as what I knew so well – someone quick to temper.
But in hindsight, I wonder what he’d been about to do. He looked like he wanted to kiss me. Which was as far away from what I knew of him as possible.
And my own feelings for him are just as conflicting. He’s handsome, and I’d thought about his lips on mine in that moment. Being close to him has an effect on my brain. It’s like being drunk, slightly out of control, yet still aware.
But when that sensation is gone, I hate him. Everything about him. He’s rude. I mean, sure he did something nice for me, but it wasn’t for me. It clicked when he talked to Sentinel. He loves animals. He hates people. It’s a fucked up mindset, but I get it.
Animals are fucking amazing. Sentinel doesn’t judge me for being broken of mind. He helps me, he loves me all the same, and he knows what to do to keep me safe. With him, there’s no stigma. Especially when I feel like I’m losing my mind. He doesn’t get impatient when a flashback makes me difficult to deal with. He doesn’t tell me to get over my panic attacks. No, he loves me unconditionally.
<
br /> The kind of love that people are incapable of.
Chapter 10
Kyle
Sitting down to dinner with company feels odd. It’s made more strange by the sensation that she doesn’t like me. The people I generally eat with are family or women I’m with. Both categories like me to some extent, or they wouldn’t be in my home.
But she’s not overtly rude; she doesn’t sit on her phone or anything like that. No, she sits across from me, using her fork to shove a bit of food around on her plate.
I take a bite, loving the hot cabbage and watercress combination. Still, I watch my companion as she takes a bit of mushroom on her fork. She lifts it to her nose and sniffs it as if trying to figure it out before placing it gingerly on her tongue like it’ll bite her.
We eat in silence for a while before I decide to offer something I’ve been mulling over. “I could help you train Sentinel,” I say, taking another bite of food.
Victoria’s head jerks up and she glares at me, her face showing her displeasure and anger. “What are you saying?” she asks, her tone deceptively calm.
Walking on egg shells isn’t my strong suit. “That if he’d been trained to halt,” I emphasize the command enough that Jax lifts his head to look at me. “Today would have gone totally different.”
But Victoria’s eyes narrow like she’s battling fury. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
Does she feel at fault? I study her, my food forgotten. She’s an enigma. One second, she’s grateful and thanking me for helping. The next, she’s at my throat. “I’m saying things could have gone differently.”
To my surprise, her eyes fill with tears and she blinks them back, looking mortified. “I’m training him,” she says, her voice barely more than a miserable whisper as she stares at her plate and pushes more food around with her fork.
She’d made it through more of the food than I expected her to. The plate is nearly clean with only a few scraps of cabbage and watercress left. She’d demolished the mushrooms first, and I can’t help but be glad about that. A girl that likes mushrooms can’t be all bad.
“He’s your service dog, why not have him professionally trained?” I ask, curious.
Her voice is a little stronger when she answers. “I don’t know. He was coming to me because…” she trails off as if deciding not to tell me whatever she was thinking. I decide not to push her. If she wants to talk about it, she will. I’m not really invested either way.
“Well, my offer stands,” I tell her. But I sense her anger returning.
“I can train my own damn dog, okay?” She drops her fork with a clatter and I look at her in surprise. There’s something else going on. I know it. “This wasn’t my fault.” As she says it, her shoulders shake.
“I didn’t say it was,” I tell her. But I know she feels responsible. That’s obvious in how adamantly she’s denying guilt. She feels guilty and she’s trying to convince herself that it’s not her fault, that she couldn’t have stopped it.
But I don’t buy it. A well trained service dog can sit and stay. Hell, a partially trained house dog can sit and stay. It’s an integral command because you never know when something could happen that requires a still, calm dog.
“So what service are you training him for?” I ask and she glares at me.
“None of your business,” she snaps and I shrug.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” I tell her, sensing that honesty is the best way to go with her. “I’m merely trying to make conversation. I apologize for making you angry.”
It’s like I hit a button. She slumps in her chair and there’s a resignation in her tone as she talks to me. “No, I’m sorry. Most people are so quick to judge or call me a liar about him even being a service dog.”
“Some people take advantage of the system,” I say, knowing all too well that some people suck and buy fake service dog vests and fucking try their best to ruin it for people who actually need service animals.
“He warns me of panic attacks,” She says, her voice small. “He warns me it’s time to sit so I don’t pass out. I have PTSD and anxiety.”
“Invisible illnesses,” I say, knowing all too well what she means. “People can’t see them and you look healthy, so they assume you are and that you’re lying.”
Her head snaps up and she looks me in the eyes. “How do you know that?” she asks, her eyes slashing back and forth between mine. And for the first time, I feel a real, non-physical link to this woman.
“I train service dogs for vets. There’s an organization I work with right here in the city.” I place my elbows on the table and link my fingers before resting my chin on them. And I just watch her as her face goes dreamy.
“That’s what I want to do,” She says in a shiny voice that’s more full of life and hope than I’ve heard from her so far.
“Train service dogs for vets?” I ask, more than a little bit startled. I have to say, I’ve never heard anyone say it with such reverence in their voice.
She nods, her eyes glossing over like she’s off in her own world. And I feel a flash of respect for her. It takes someone who has suffered to recognize others who have suffered. I get a rare glimpse into that world through the people I’ve worked with.
But she’s there, on the front lines, battling her demons and looking to give back.
It’s a hell of a peek into her psyche.
“But I suck at it,” She says, her expression crashing and burning as her whole dream goes down in flames behind her eyes.
It’s soul crushing to watch.
Chapter 11
Victoria
I’m feeling worked up and exhausted; a dangerous combination. And I bet that Kyle is hating me right now. Hating that I’m the kind of woman who’s clearly out of control, emotional, and the type of annoying that most guys hate.
But I’m just too emotionally drained to actually care.
As he watches me, that intent blue stare seems to be boring right into my very soul. But it’s not as intrusive as I’d expect such a look. No, he seems… curious. Intrigued. Not judgmental. There’s something so… freeing about his attitude.
I don’t feel like a freak before him.
And it occurs to me that I’ve told him way more than I ever intended. He’s got so much information on me I begin to squirm in my seat. Why did I tell him all that private stuff? Why did I share medical information? Why did I think he needed details?
My pulse begins to thump in my ears and I stand up suddenly. He watches me, no reaction in his gaze. “I’m going to go,” I say, feeling like I’m going to vibrate apart as the trembling begins.
Behind me, I hear a half-sigh, half whine as Sentinel wakes and tries to alert me.
I glance over my shoulder at him, noticing how his ears are alert even though he’s too weak to lift his head. “I’m okay,” I tell him gently, but he whines in response. He’s going to hurt himself trying to help me. I’m hurting him.
With tears blurring my vision, I rush toward the back door. The cold outside wraps me up in tingling, white-hot pain as I step onto the concrete porch. Down the steps, I wrap my arms around myself as if I can hold in the emotions and heat and keep out the world.
Only when I’m in the safety of the mother in law suite do I plop down on the bed, beside the glass door. Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my knees and lower my forehead onto them.
Scalding hot tears flow and drip onto my pants.
Where did I leave my purse?
I vaguely recall dropping it on the bed in the other room, but that distance suddenly seems like an unsurmountable trek across a desert of death. Normally, I’d have Sentinel bring it to me so I could take my meds to slow my heart beat and ease the strain of the attack on my body.
But he’s only inches from death in another house with another person keeping him safe from me.
How the hell did my life go to pieces in the space of a few hours?
A sudden knock at the door startles me
. I glance over as it slides open and Kyle’s kneeling at my side. “Do I need to call someone?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes studying me.
“I’m okay,” I gasp out, realizing how tight my chest is, how much pain is lapping at every nerve ending in my body, how my lungs feel like I’m sipping breaths of liquid fire. “I need my purse,” I whisper, mortified that he’s here, witnessing this breakdown. Nobody watches me have panic attacks. Well, not knowingly. They’re shameful, I hide out of sight for them. I refuse to let people know this is a thing I deal with.
But Kyle is on his feet and gone before my cheeks light on fire with shame. He’s back as quickly, my purse in hand. Without hesitation, he digs in while placing it beside me on the floor.
“Which one?” he asks, then before I can answer, he pulls out the blue bottle and reads the label. “This one?” he asks, and I nod, realizing that he’s a vet and has a passing knowledge of medications.
He pops it open and offer me two – as the label says – and is gone again, this time getting me a glass of water from the kitchen. I swallow the pills dry and he offers me the glass of water to chase them with.
I drink the entire glass, then tilt my head back to rest on the wall as I watch him. “How did you know?” I ask, hoping to divert my attention from the breakneck speed of my heartbeat, the faintness turning my every limb to jelly, or the trembling of my hands and legs.
“Symptoms,” he says simply, jerking his chin toward my hands.
“Do your dogs and cats act like this when they’re having panic attacks?” I ask dryly. It’s meant to be a joke, but I just sound like a bitch.
To my surprise, his lips curve slightly upward. “Training service dogs, remember?”
I nod. It makes sense. He’s around people who have PTSD and panic attacks, flashbacks, and likely a whole spectrum of reactions. Maybe I don’t look like a total freak to him. Maybe I’m just like the other broken-minded people he helps.
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