Was this the real Luna? Or a fake?
“Text me updates about Penelope, okay?” she said. “I’ll worry about her until I can get back here later this week.”
My eyes searched her beautiful dark ones. The sincerity and compassion there seemed real.
“Sure,” I said.
“Try not to terrify too many elderly people while I’m gone, Mr. Mason.”
I watched Luna get in that car and be driven away.
Jem came up behind me, waving at the car with a look of total love.
“Can we keep her?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I grumbled.
18
Beck
Three days later, Elián yanked open the trailer door with a big grin on his face.
“Have you checked Luna’s donation page yet?” he asked. “The one for Lucky Dog?”
Before I could answer, he pulled up a website on my computer. $15,652 scrolled across the screen.
“That’s how much she’s raised for us so far and it’s only been up four days.”
“Holy shit,” I said, leaning forward. “And she’s only worked here one day.”
“She’s convincing,” he said. “She’d make a real good executive director, to tell you the truth.”
He hadn’t meant it as a slight toward me. But I still felt it. Luna had done in one day what I struggled to pull off these past four years.
“We could get a lot of money from this,” I admitted. Elián clapped my shoulder.
“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time. And the timing couldn’t be more urgent, with the deadline and all.”
I nodded, chastised. We had less than twenty days to fill the funding gap left by losing that multi-year foundation grant. Christina, the board president, had called me yesterday. She was pleased with all of the new cash.
But it needs to keep coming in, Beck, she’d warned me. This can’t be a one-time thing.
Meaning I needed to start doing my damn job.
A text came through on my phone. It was Luna.
Can you come by my office today? I have a surprise for you.
“Great news, I’m assuming?”
I shrugged. Typed back, Okay.
Luna sent me a string of animated hearts and fireworks. I showed it to Elián. “She’s… very excitable.”
“I can see that.” He gave me an unreadable look before checking his watch. “Also, shit, Jimmy is here for his adoption interview. Wes’s friend?”
“I’ll do it,” I said. Elián stared at the stack of grant applications on my desk. “I’ll do those after,” I said. “Bring him here. We’ll do it together, like old times.”
He sighed but left to get Jimmy. In the early days, when we didn’t even have enough money to pay ourselves, Elián and I did everything at Lucky Dog together—intake, training, interviews, administration, fundraising. It’d been stressful and overwhelming, but we were best friends and we loved the dogs. We kept each other motivated. And that was enough.
Elián got to stay in that role. And now that I was in charge, I missed those days.
I met Elián and Jimmy outside. We liked to interview candidates while visiting the dogs. It gave us a chance to see how people interacted with the animals—if a connection existed. People went into the adoption process with an idea of what kind of dog was right for them.
They were usually wrong.
“Jimmy?” I asked. He was a white man almost as tall as I was, which was saying a lot. Tattoos covered his neck and bald head. He wore all leather and smelled like bike grease.
And when I shook his hand, I saw a tattoo—the skull of a screaming devil.
“Yeah, nice to meet you man,” Jimmy said smoothly. He looked closer to Wes’s age, no more than twenty-five. There was nothing aggressive about his posture or body language.
But I was wary.
“I’m Beck. Beck Mason,” I said, and watched the recognition bloom on his face.
He was a Devil. Had to be.
“Thought that was you,” Jimmy said. “Wes told me his boss used to ride with the Devils a long time ago, right?
“Twenty years ago,” I clarified. “You?” If he was an active member of the club, there was no way I was letting a dog leave with him.
Jimmy looked around briefly, then stepped closer. My hands curled into fists at my side.
“I left two years ago,” he said. “Same reason as you did. Or at least what I heard.”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s bad. Rip and Georgie aren’t doing too well.”
“Spending four decades as criminals can run you down,” I said. I felt no sympathy for them.
Jimmy pointed at his tattoo. “I’m getting it removed. I don’t want you to think I’m… you know, still involved.
“Okay,” I said. “We do background checks for everyone, obviously, but as long as nothing comes back, I trust you.”
“I can handle that,” he said.
“How do you know Wes again?”
“Juvie,” he said. “Way back. You?”
“Same.”
Jimmy looked at Elián. “I’m actually the only law-abiding citizen that works at Lucky Dog,” Elián chuckled.
Jimmy grinned. “The straight man. I like it. So can we see the dogs or what?”
Elián and I walked Jimmy around the kennels, let him ask questions about our program and dog ownership in general. He’d grown up with dogs, loved them, and felt strongly that it was time for him to have one.
We stopped outside Beatrix’s cage—the giant, snarly bull mastiff. He liked her.
“She’s a big girl,” Jimmy said.
“She’d require a steady hand,” I said. “Firm training. But I think she’s a sweetheart beneath all that armor.”
“What excites you the most about owning a dog?” Elián asked him.
Jimmy tapped his fist on the gate. “I don’t know, man. I’m trying to find my way right now. Legally. I think it’d be real nice to work a nine-to-five and come home to a dog who didn’t think you were a piece of shit, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Beatrix was wary in her corner but Jimmy didn’t seem bothered. They looked to be a match, at first glance, but I wasn’t so sure. We kept walking, Jimmy talking with me about bikes.
We finally reached Betty and Veronica, two bonded Yorkies who’d been rescued from a dog hoarding situation. These lap dogs were going to have to be adopted together as a pair.
“Who are these ladies?” Jimmy asked. Betty and Veronica danced over to the cage, panting excitedly as he pet them.
“They come as a set,” I said. Elián was hiding a smile behind his hand—we’d done this job enough to know a true match. And as much as we wanted to see Beatrix in a loving home, Jimmy might not be the one.
“Can I go in?” he asked.
I nodded, opened the kennel door. “They didn’t need much in terms of rehabilitation, just love. Their owner had kept them with forty-seven other dogs on a farm near the Redlands. Barely any food, barely enough water, lots of fights every day. I think these two protected each other.”
Wes had wandered over from the office, smiling at the sight in front of him.
“Jimmy, you found yourself two, huh?” Wes said, hands in his pockets.
“These two?” Jimmy asked. Betty was licking his face and he was laughing. “Nah. I’m going for that giant dog over there.”
“Sure,” Wes said. “I mean, whatever makes you happy, bro.”
If Luna was here, would she be capturing this on video? Could we share this story and be real about it? Because this was the center of my work: the love and companionship that existed between humans and animals. Its power to change them both.
And even more than that—it was also the friendship between Wes and Jimmy. The trust there. The trust between them and the dogs. It was the beating heart of Lucky Dog and I guessed, if I had money, I’d give it… here.
Ideas like this would pop up from time to time, and I�
��d feel the urge to tell someone. Like a room full of donors or a foundation. But fear never let me go. Never let me shake off being a Mason and the nasty reputation that came with that.
Jimmy was holding Veronica by one hand and staring into her eyes. She was panting, wagging her tail.
I knew a match when I saw one.
My phone vibrated—Luna again.
In an hour I’ll have a random fifteen-minute pocket of free time. Come then?
Okay, I typed back.
I expected another round of videos or maybe for an actual glitter rocket to explode from my phone. But instead, Luna sent me a picture of herself holding an envelope with my name on it. It looked suspiciously like a check.
And Luna looked beautiful in the picture: wild dark hair with tiny white flowers braided through the strands.
Hint hint, she texted back.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said. “Luna needs me.”
Wes and Elián shot me dual bemused looks.
“I mean, she has something for me,” I corrected, backing away. “I’ll be back soon. Probably. I’ve got grants or whatever.”
“Cool, boss,” Wes said. “We’ll be here with the Yorkies, holding down the fort.”
I strode toward the parking lot, swung a leg over my bike and pulled my helmet on.
I was going to see the Wild Heart office.
19
Luna
The comment read: Who knew an Instagram model was smart enough to pull off such a successful fraud? I mean she had us all fooled.
My stomach lurched like I’d been punched there. I clicked on the profile of the person who’d left the comment. A local Miami businessman: a cheesy, smarmy-looking asshole. I knew his company—knew he paid terribly, treated his employees like shit, and didn’t care about the horrible working conditions of the factories he used to produce his office supplies.
The most infuriating part of this entire Ferris Mark debacle was that my own personal mistakes were affecting the change I thought Wild Heart was bringing to the business community. Fair wages. Diverse hiring. Valuing the impact our production had on the earth.
Instead, I worried I was only making things worse. My TED Talk was now filled with vile comments. Half from avid animal-rights activists who hated me. Half from “leaders” in our industry who had been waiting for me to fail.
Outside the wall-to-wall windows, the beach sparkled in the afternoon sunshine and a pulsing energy emanated from the beachgoers streaming past us towards the water. I could hear the low, rhythmic pulse of Latin music, watched the light glancing off yellow beach umbrellas. It was a perfectly gorgeous, humidly sticky Miami day.
And I was too pissed off to enjoy it.
I sipped my green smoothie and yanked my diffuser closer to my face, inhaling a mango-citrus-ginger blend that I used to create a tranquil, calming atmosphere in my offices. It wasn’t working.
Until recently, I’d very rarely felt this kind of fury. But I was furious: at myself, at Ferris Mark, at the people formerly known as my fans. It was a strange, needling sensation that made me want to cry and throw my diffuser all at the same time.
My watch beeped, reminding me about an emergency board meeting in two minutes. I yanked open my lower file cabinet drawer, searching for my contracts folder. My fingers roamed over the pages quickly, aware of the time, when a splash of red caught my eye.
There, shoved at the very bottom of the drawer, was an old photo I’d once had framed on my desk. I was twelve years old, squished on either side by my grinning parents—supportive, even then, of all of my dreams. For the first time ever, I was actually happy my parents were currently back-packing, traveling out of the country with limited cell service. I yearned for their presence as a comfort—but was relieved they didn’t have to see their only daughter smeared through the press.
I passed my thumb over the worn picture, the faded smiling faces. In it, we were at a stand I’d set up to raise money for endangered animals by selling friendship bracelets I’d made. My face was dark brown and beach-sandy, my hair a snarled mess, a toothy grin on my face. It wasn’t Instagram-worthy; I wasn’t looking for the best light or coolest pose.
I’d raised $817 that day—no small feat for a twelve-year-old.
Money can also make things much more complicated. This will be part of your struggle as a future leader.
I bit my lip, caressed the photo.
And stuck it next to my monitor.
Sylvia and the board members barged into my office not a second later. I stood, forgetting about the photo—the memory—immediately. We were going to finalize plans to go back to our old supplier and examine the media reaction to my apology. Derek was letting us borrow his crisis-management team as we worked to fix my reputation. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting.
But at least we were moving forward.
Plus, in an hour I got to see Beck.
To give him a check.
That was the only reason I wanted to see him, of course.
So hot, bearded men are your type?
They hadn’t been. The problem was that I was starting to see past Beck’s grumpy walls—his handsome face and charming half-grin were slowly revealing themselves beneath all that facial hair. And I still had that sneaking suspicion that Beck was a wild man, sexually-speaking—he was no longer an outlaw, but I bet he fucked like one.
And rode a motorcycle like one too.
I’d never told anyone this—never acted on it, too ambitious—but I was the shiny, happy good girl with an illicit interest in Bad Biker Boys. Beck was pressing on those secret buttons.
“Luna?” Sylvia prodded.
I sipped my smoothie, tried to calm down. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Sylvia exchanged a glance with my CTO. “We’ve got bad news, I’m afraid.”
“I figured,” I said, steeling myself. “Sock it to me. Can’t be worse than last week, right?”
She tapped a stack of papers in front of her. “We’ve just heard from Fischer Home Goods. They’re considering terminating our store contract, which would cost us more than half of our revenue for the fiscal year.”
The information slammed into me like a sudden storm front. I looked out the window, immediately seeking refuge in the cloudless teal sky. Except the sky was actually falling now. And it wasn’t dramatics.
No.
Everything I had worked so hard to build was tumbling down around me.
20
Beck
Luna’s offices looked like a jungle. Ocean views, green plants. Everyone working there seemed trendy and young and smarter than I’d ever be. I looked down at my black tee-shirt and dirt-covered jeans, touched my beard. Did my entire look scream outsider? Or criminal?
Once, when I was sixteen, a counselor gave me a pamphlet from the local community college. I’d left it around the clubhouse. Hoped my parents might see it.
My mother did. The last thing you need is more school, she’d said, stubbing her cigarette out on the bar top. Besides, you really think they’d let you in?
Wild Heart felt like what I’d imagined that school would be like—the colors, the sense of purpose, the chatty conversations. It made me want to turn to the first person who passed me and ask Are you sure you want to let me in?
One long wall had glass containers of that drink Luna had given me the other day—kombucha. Sections of the office were covered with floor pillows and yoga mats.
“Smoothie? Latte? Green tea?” The receptionist asked me as she took me to the very back.
“Uh, no,” I said. I made a mental note to ask Wes if we needed to start serving beverages to our visitors. Wasn’t that the kind of thing real executive directors did?
We passed a poster of Luna wearing a crown of roses, applying lipstick with a cheeky grin. Beauty on the inside. Beauty on the outside, read the tagline. At Wild Heart, we’re committed to one thing: our values. That means our dedication to makeup that’s smart for the planet and never cruel to animals.
And even though I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t their target audience, there was something I liked about it all. I finally understood the public’s anger. Wild Heart—from its marketing to this very office—touted all about honesty.
Luna’s office door was open. I looked in. She stood at the foot of a long glass table, slightly bent over as she marked pieces of paper with a red pencil.
“This one with the orange. Teal for this one. No lavender. Does that work?” She was backlit by the ocean view, hands propped on her hips. When she looked up at me, her expression brightened even further.
“You’re here,” she said.
“Take your time,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
Luna bit her bottom lip, made a few more notes for her staff. I studied body language—an old habit, constantly needing to read the room at the MC, the tension in the group, the threat-level in a jail cell. Luna’s body was open and accepting. Her staff as well. No wonder the suggestion that her life was a series of Instagram posts was hurtful.
She was a leader.
“Come on in,” she finally said. Staff members slid by me and I was aware again of their age, of mine, that I smelled like leather and asphalt while this entire building smelled like the ocean. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years older than Luna, but I felt our age difference in that moment.
“Welcome to the Wild Heart headquarters. I know you’re familiar with the outside, but this is where all the magic happens,” she said.
I sat in a green chair I worried would break beneath my weight. “I like it.”
“You do?” Luna came around the desk and sat on the edge, right in front of me. When she crossed her legs, the cotton of her long white dress brushed my jean-clad knees. “I designed it myself with one of my best friends, Daisy. She’s in real estate, has all the best design connections. For the first five years, we operated out of a one-room office. This was a major upgrade.”
“Looks expensive,” I added, nodding toward the view.
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