by Andrews, Amy
“The hows don’t matter now,” Doyle said, smiling kindly at the old woman, reaching his hand out and covering her old crinkled one with his big tanned one.
Sal’s heart just about melted out of her chest.
“What matters is that we’ve got it and we can give Boxer the antivenom. His diabetes will complicate things—we’ll need to monitor that as well—but I’m confident we’ve caught it in time.”
Mrs. Carney gave a weak smile and patted Doyle’s hand. “I hope so. He’s all I’ve got,” she said, her voice distinctly wobbly. “I don’t know how I could go on without him.”
She turned beseeching eyes to Sal. “You will do everything, won’t you, Sally? It doesn’t matter what it costs, I’ll pay anything.”
Sal nodded. “Everything. Absolutely,” she assured. “I promise.” Boxer was a lovely old boy and Sal knew she’d donate her own blood to save his life if she had to.
Mrs. Carney smiled. “You’re a good girl, Sally. A credit to your father, both you and Mack. And I know you of all people know how hard it is to lose someone you love.”
Sal was momentarily taken aback by the unexpected comment. There were few people around the clinic who knew of the things she didn’t talk about. But this was Mrs. Carney’s fourth dog in as many decades, and she’d been a Kennedy Vet Practice client from the very early days.
Sal gave her arm an awkward squeeze. “We’ll look after Boxer for you, I promise,” she said, keeping up the reassuring smile despite the way Doyle’s head had lifted and the heavy fan of his interested gaze. “Why don’t you go on home and I’ll keep you up to date, I promise.”
Sal left Doyle inserting an IV to escort Mrs. Carney out, leaving her in Gemma’s capable hands. When she came back, she was all brisk and businesslike, determined not to be drawn into a conversation over what Mrs. Carney had let slip. But she needn’t have worried—Doyle was also concentrating on the welfare of Boxer, and she soon forgot about it as they worked to save the much-loved pet’s life, getting the antivenom going and some fluids running.
Doyle took him out the back to the longer-care facility when the antivenom was through to monitor him for the next few hours. It was early Friday evening by this time, and the clinic was closing up.
“Go home,” Doyle said. “He’s my patient. I’ll sit with him until I’m sure he’s turned the corner.”
Sal shook her head. Boxer may officially be Doyle’s patient, but she’d known him since he was a puppy and Mrs. Carney since forever. It didn’t feel right taking off when he was fighting for his life.
“I’ll help them close and do the clean and setup for tomorrow first.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
A few hours ago she might have had a loaded response, but in the face of Boxer’s condition, she didn’t feel like making any kind of crack. She just got on with the job, and it was good to have that to occupy her for the next hour as she fretted over Boxer and what Mrs. Carney would do without him. In her late eighties, losing a faithful companion like that could be detrimental to Mrs. Carney’s health.
When Sal was done, she called into the staff room and made two mugs of coffee and headed out back. Doyle was listening to Boxer’s chest when she appeared with them.
“How is he?” she asked, handing the coffee to Doyle.
Boxer looked up at her from his side-lying position with his solemn eyes. She patted his head right down to the soft tips of his ears. Ordinarily he would have wagged his tail, but there was no such spark tonight.
“Thanks,” Doyle said, taking it. “I had to give him something for the excess salvation but I think he’s stabilized.”
Sal nodded. The first hours were always the most critical in a paralysis tick case. “I’ll ring Mrs. Carney and update her if you like?”
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “That’d be great.”
Sal went into her office and spent fifteen minutes on the phone assuring Mrs. Carney they were doing everything they could for Boxer. Before she rang off, Sal promised she’d call again later with another update. Next she dialed the local pizza place and ordered a super-supreme with the works. It was going to be a long night for Doyle. The least she could do was feed him.
Reluctant to go out and face him without a distraction, she hung around in her office doing some online research until the pizza arrived twenty minutes later. He may be concentrating on Boxer right now, but she hadn’t imagined his reaction to Mrs. Carney’s cryptic comment, and she was pretty damn sure he’d ask her about it.
She just wasn’t sure she wanted him to know. And that in itself was confusing. She was usually very definitive about the matter—she never wanted people to know. She kept that part of her life so close, very few people knew at all. It was intensely personal and private, something she clutched to herself, the wound never far from the surface. But here she was—unsure. And even more unsure as to why.
After she’d relieved the delivery guy of his delicious cargo, she dashed up the stairs and pulled two beers out of the fridge, then ran back down again, heading out back.
Sal took a deep breath before she entered, then pushed open the swing doors and announced, “Dinner is served.”
Doyle looked up from a sleeping Boxer and smiled. “I thought I smelled pizza.”
“The meal of kings,” she quipped as she made room at the large desk in the corner and opened the box.
Doyle eased himself off the high stool he was sitting on next to Boxer’s open basket and sauntered over. Sal braced herself as he loomed larger. Even the way the man walked was sinful.
“Thanks,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down as he helped himself to a slice. “I’m starving.” As if to prove it, the pizza went down in half a dozen bites.
“So I see,” Sal laughed as she passed him a beer.
He took it, twisted off the top, then held it out to her. “To Boxer,” he said.
Sal clinked her bottle to his. “To Boxer.” She took a deep swallow, conscious of him watching her. “Has he turned the corner yet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. He’s stable and his blood sugars are behaving and he’s less stressed than when he first got here, but he hasn’t improved any, either. How’s Mrs. Carney?”
Sal’s neck muscles tightened. She hoped this wasn’t some kind of segue for him. “Worried. Still fretting about fault. Wishes she’d never taken him walking.”
“Poor old thing,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder at Boxer. “Bit of a catch twenty-two isn’t it?” He looked back at her. “Boxer needs the exercise but the exercise was what exposed him to danger.”
“I tried to assure her that Boxer could have easily gotten a tick in the backyard, given the rate at which the bandicoot population is expanding into suburbia.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said. “I saw a half a dozen cases in my last job.”
They talked a bit about the worst tick envenomations they’d seen as they polished off the pizza, and Sal started to relax as they moved on to other poisonous animal bites they’d treated both successfully and unsuccessfully.
They’d just finished laughing about a brown snake that had taken on a goose and come off second best when Doyle suddenly sobered and asked, “What did Mrs. Carney mean earlier? About you more than anyone knowing how hard it is to lose someone?”
His eyes were boring into hers, and Sal couldn’t stand their intensity. She looked down at her beer bottle, then drained the last few mouthfuls to hide the sudden spike of nervousness that washed over her. Her pulse tripped as the notion to actually tell him presented itself again.
But she didn’t know how to do that. After years of keeping it inside, she didn’t know how to talk about Ben and the baby. About her profound loss.
She didn’t know where to start.
“I don’t know,” she said evasively, her gaze firmly fixed on the bottle. “She’s probably just referring to all the pets the Kennedys have looked after over the years.”
She glanced up
to see if she had convinced him, but his expression told her he didn’t believe her for a moment. His gaze was heavy on her face for long moments.
“Maybe it’d help to talk about it?”
Sal shook her head. She didn’t know what to say. The only people she’d ever talked to had been Mack and the psychologist Mack had forced her to see. She hadn’t even opened up much to Josie.
None of it had made her feel better. “I…can’t…”
The words surprised her. Even acknowledging that it was too big and powerful was acknowledging the existence of an it. To someone else. For the first time.
“Okay,” he murmured, his dark gaze drowning her in understanding.
Sal looked away; she had to. His eyes were like big vats of molasses—drawing her closer, inviting her in. She stood and gathered the empty box and picked up the two empty beer bottles.
She glanced over at Boxer, who had lifted his head at the clink of the bottles, his gray muzzle obvious even from the other side of the room. “How much sooner do you think till you’ll be up?”
Boxer whined and Sal was pleased for the excuse to head over to him as Doyle stood, his height and his breadth a solid beacon of calm.
“A few hours, I guess,” he said, following her over, bringing the beacon to her.
Sal placed the rubbish on the examination bench and gently patted Boxer’s head. “It’s okay, boy,” she murmured. “We’ve got you.”
There was still no tail thump but Doyle was right, he wasn’t any worse. She petted down his big head to his ears again and repeated the process a few times. Boxer shut his eyes and rested his head back down. She leaned into his basket and gave his head a kiss as she fondled the soft tip of his ear between her thumb and forefinger.
“Doyle will look after you,” she murmured near his ear, rubbing her cheek against his soft fur, lingering for a bit, conscious of Doyle just behind her, conscious of liking it.
Sal tore herself away a few moments later with one last pat to Boxer’s head, taking care to step to the side and not straight back. “Give me a holler if you need anything.”
“Yep,” he nodded. “I’ll stay until he’s recovered enough to have something to drink and keep it down and his breathing is fine.”
“Okay. Will you give Mrs. Carney a ring in a bit? I told her we’d keep her posted.”
“Sure,” he said, absently patting Boxer’s head, his big hand gentle.
Sal dragged her eyes off him and his hand, making a production of picking up the rubbish off the table. “See you later,” she said.
His low, growly “Good night” followed her all the way up the stairs.
…
Sal showered and got into her tartan shorts and tank top pajamas, then sat up till late in the lounge room reading some journals she’d been stockpiling, Matilda and music from one of Mack’s iPod playlists kept her company, along with a couple cups of coffee. When the clock hit eleven, she almost went down to check on Doyle. Just to see that there hadn’t been any complications with Boxer or he hadn’t fallen asleep on the job.
Maybe he’d appreciate a fresh coffee or some of that leftover apple pie old Mrs. Armitage had brought over a few days ago as a thank-you for waiving a bill she could ill afford.
But she didn’t. He said he’d call if he needed anything, and if she wanted to convince him she wasn’t interested in dating him, then seeking him out for no real reason was sure as hell not going to do it.
Sal wasn’t sure what time it was when she fell asleep on the couch, but the digital display on the sleek black devices sitting atop the television told her it was two thirty when she woke with a start. A page from a journal article ripped off her face with all the viciousness of a wax job as she sat bolt upright.
Michael Jackson sang “Thriller” as she cursed at the pain, rubbing her cheek, blinking against the light overhead as she desperately tried to orient herself.
“Shit, sorry,” Doyle whispered from somewhere behind her. “I didn’t realize you were there.”
Sal turned in the chair, blinking some more at Doyle standing there holding Boxer in his basket. Boxer whined and thumped his tail at Sal.
“Oh, hey there, big guy,” Sal said, springing off the couch, rounding it in her excitement. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” she crooned, patting his head. There was an IV still in Boxer’s paw that had been capped off.
“He’s taking fluid now and keeping it down and he can stand again. His back legs are a little wobbly but he’s definitely on the mend.”
Sal grinned at Boxer. “Did you hear that? Your mummy will be so pleased, won’t she?”
She glanced up at Doyle and smiled at him, and he smiled back, looming there with an obese dog in his arms like he weighed no more than a can of soup. The satisfaction of a job well done, of a life saved, oozed from every pore. He was obviously tired. He had little lines around his eyes and the cleft in his chin was more pronounced, but he was clearly thrilled at the outcome.
And damn if it wasn’t about the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.
“I hope you don’t mind…I didn’t want to leave him downstairs. Thought I’d plonk his basket down beside the couch and crash on it for a few hours?”
Mind? Her entire life there’d always been some animal or other camped out in the lounge room; it was second nature. Then she realized she was standing there blocking his way and she fell back, allowing him access.
“There you go, mate,” Doyle said as he placed the basket near the coffee table and stroked the old black head several times. “You’re being spoiled tonight,” he crooned as Matilda sniffed at the newcomer curiously before returning to her position on the couch.
Then he stood and headed for the kitchen, striding straight to the sink to wash his hands. He was still in his scrub top, and Sal had an overwhelming urge to walk up to him, slide her arms around his waist, and press her cheek to his back.
Like a couple.
Like she used to do with Ben.
She blinked at the errant thought, dismissing it immediately. “Do you want a coffee or something?” she asked instead, following him into the kitchen.
He turned and lounged against the sink, drying his hands on a cloth. His presence seemed to take up the entire kitchen. “I’m fine. Go to bed.”
“I don’t mind, really,” she said, moving to the ever-ready percolator. She grabbed a mug and filled it up. “You saved Boxer’s and probably Mrs. Carney’s life.”
She walked the three paces it took to be standing in front of him and offered it to him.
“Damn it, Sal…” he said, placing his hands on the edge of the sink behind him, ignoring the mug, his voice tight, his gaze dropping to her breasts. “You really need to go to bed.”
The plea in his voice scratched along Sal’s nerve endings like sandpaper, her nipples responding to his blatant cue. Heat and lust slammed into her belly wave after wave, like a meteor strike.
Her pulse spiked. Her breath hitched.
She wanted to feel his mouth on hers so bad she could barely see him for the pheromone cloud fogging her vision.
Sal took a couple of steps closer, then slid the coffee on the counter, her legs weaker than wet noodles. “Doyle?”
His sigh was heavy, resigned in the quiet of the night. “Sal…”
And it was all she needed, reaching for him, grabbing his shoulders, going up on tippy-toe to pull on his neck as he clamped his hands on her arse and dragged her in close, holding her tight, hitching her up so the long hard length of him sat perfectly against the moaning, bitching, roaring ache between her thighs demanding to be serviced.
Their mouths met and their bodies flamed.
“Doyle…fuck…” she moaned against his mouth, trying to unlock his arms to drag him somewhere more conducive to getting naked, even though they’d proven twice already that the kitchen was as good a place as any.
“Bedroom,” she gasped.
She wanted to be horizontal with him. She wanted to sit atop him
, his dick buried inside her, and watch his face as he came.
But it was so the wrong thing to say.
If she’d thrown cold water over him at that point she couldn’t have hoped for a more immediate cessation of action.
“No,” he said, snatching his hands back and placing them, elbows bent, on the sink behind him. “Just stop.”
Sal took a step back at his gravelly command. But his chest was heaving and she knew he was finding it as difficult to pull back from it as she was, despite his get-away-from-me-Jezebel body language.
“Goddamn it, Sal,” he said, rubbing a hand over his buzz cut. “Don’t do this to me at three in the morning when I’m tired and want nothing more than to get lost in you.”
Sal’s internal muscles twisted into a hard knot at the imagery. If he thought that was going to put her off, he was wrong.
All it did was make her crave.
“So get lost in me,” she said, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.
He shook his head. “You don’t play fair.”
“You want too much.”
“What?” he demanded, his voice raised. “A date, taking a woman I like out socially is too much? God…” He shook his head, obviously frustrated at her recalcitrance. “You really are fucked up.”
“Well, give the man a freaking cigar,” she snapped.
“I want to take you to dinner, Sal, not have you psychoanalyzed. What the fuck are you so afraid of?” he yelled.
Sal supposed she should be annoyed at Doyle for pushing, and part of her was, but man, he looked mighty fine all riled up, glowering down at her in that big, dark, broad way of his.
It was probably an entirely inappropriate thought to be having in the middle of a tense discussion, but man she wanted to do him.
Gemma was right. Their frustration was at breaking point. They needed to get it on or they were going to kill each other.
“Fine,” she snapped, not caring any longer about blinking first or saving face. They’d play it his way. They could go on a date and she didn’t have to tell him a damn thing she didn’t want to—it was the payoff she was interested in.
He blinked. “Fine?”