“Listen. You’ve gotta get over that whole scar thing.” I scoff, but she gives my arm a shake and goes on. “Real people don’t judge each other by shit like that. You don’t do that to others, so you need to stop doing it to yourself.”
It’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation and, like all the other times we have, I reply, “You’re right.”
But this time Pat seems determined not to let it go. “Get over it, Vincent.” She’s not smiling anymore. “Unless you do, you’re going to be alone the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”
Is it?
No.
Is it what I’ve resigned myself to?
Yes.
But I don’t share that with her, knowing she’d just go off on another long winded, if well–meaning lecture. Instead, I distract her, pretty skillfully if I might say so myself.
“Janine is going to start wondering where you are, if you don’t get going soon.” There’s the unmistakable sound of a Hemi engine coming along the county road, and my heart does that stupid double–tap again, while heat radiates through my chest and into my face. Thank God I’m too dark–skinned for anyone to realize I’m blushing. Keeping my voice calm and even takes a little effort, but I think I manage it. “And I think that’s probably Sergeant Pictou arriving.”
She looks past me and nods. “Yep, it is.” Then she gives me a glare. “But we’re not finished this conversation. Remember what I said.” Pat nods toward the approaching vehicle. “He may look like the epitome of a macho cop, but he’s setting off my gay–dar, so don’t blow it if he makes a move.” Then she snickers. “Or do blow it, if that’s the way things go.”
“Christ Almighty.” I can’t stop the laughter that overtakes me, even as another wave of heat–a mixture of lust, shock and something like horror–washes through me. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone from black to purple or something, as my face blazes like a furnace. “Get the hell out of here, woman, before you get me shot or beaten to a pulp.”
Pat just grins and smacks my ass. With a wave toward the truck she strides off, leaving me to deal with Sergeant Pictou.
And how I want to do just that, however he wants to be dealt with…
I hear his door slam shut and take a deep breath, hoping I don’t look as maniacal as I feel as I turn to face him.
A plaid shirt today, which stretches over those shoulders and then hangs loose past his chest, emphasizing the trimness of his stomach and hips. But it doesn’t disguise the solidity of his thighs and I know, from watching him walk away yesterday, that his ass is just as firm. High, muscular and gorgeous.
Bumboclaat. I’m getting hard.
Swallowing convulsively, glad that my polo shirt is long enough to hopefully disguise the fact that I’m sporting wood, I try to get myself under control. I’d hate to think what would happen if he realized I was hot for him–Pat’s gay–dar notwithstanding.
Just show him the puppies, find out if he might want one, and that will be that.
Right.
Kyle
As I turn off the county road on to the drive leading to the sanctuary I immediately see Vincent, his back to me, leaning on the front quarter panel of a dark–blue Toyota RAV4 and talking to the owner Pat. My gaze just zooms in on him and I can’t seem to pull it away; tracing his wiry build, wondering if he’s as strong and muscular as I think. The way he stands, an arm up on the roof of the vehicle, pelvis cocked to one side, emphasizes strong shoulders and yet also displays the leanness of his hips. Having never seen him in anything but relatively baggy clothes, I have the distinct urge to know exactly what lies under them. Peel away the layers to get to what looks like ultra–smooth dark skin, run my fingers over it, test the power of the muscles beneath. Find out how he’s hung; whether he’s cut or intact.
Swallowing, trying to get my suddenly ragged breathing under control, I force myself to stop staring and take stock of my surroundings, which would normally be the first thing I’d do.
Straight ahead is a sturdy barn, painted red and modified with windows along the length, fronted by a paved parking area. There are fields of close cropped grass on either side of the structure, the one on the left surrounded by a six–foot–high chain link fence. Beyond the unfenced stretch of grass there’s an old, yellow brick farmhouse, maybe Pat’s home, since there’s a sign for the sanctuary over the barn and it would make sense for her to live on site.
A totally innocuous setting, which makes the extra–hard thumping of my pulse ridiculous.
Pulling up behind the RAV4, I’m just in time to see Vincent double over laughing and, as I switch off the ignition, Pat reaches around and swats him on the butt. My palms tingle and my cock stiffens further, and I’m left wondering if I’m losing my mind, wishing it were me with my hands on him.
These impulses–these thoughts–can’t be allowed to grow. It isn’t the first time I’ve been attracted to a man I couldn’t have, and in the past I’ve been able to control my reactions with ease.
I’m strong enough to ignore this. Forget about the fantasies I’d had the night before–the fact that I’d had to jerk myself off before I could go to sleep.
Not wanting to give Vincent even an inkling of any problem, I exit the truck and walk toward him, seeing him turn to face me. We’re alone, Pat already almost halfway to the farmhouse, and Vincent isn’t laughing anymore as he leans a hip against the SUV again. He isn’t even smiling. Instead there’s a stiff set to his face and I wish he didn’t have on dark glasses, so I could see the expression in his eyes.
“Hey Sergeant.”
Nothing strange about his voice or words, but the hair on the back of my neck stirs and a shiver rushes down my spine.
“Vincent.” I almost wince, my tone sounds so harsh. I take a breath and search for calm, grabbing a modicum of it and hanging on for all I’m worth. “Let’s take a look at those pups, eh?”
For what feels like forever he doesn’t move and I hold myself still as well, wondering what’s going through his head. Why do I feel as though he’s sizing me up in some way?
Finally he pushes away from the vehicle and pivots toward the barn. “No problem.” He throws the words over his shoulder at me as he walks away. “This way.”
He’s a good six feet ahead of me before I move to follow, and I’m on automatic pilot. Vincent walks the way he talks, with a rolling rhythm and bop between steps, just as there is between his words. It’s as though his accent has somehow translated itself into movement, or his tropical roots come with an inborn beat the rest of the world can’t hear.
Would that smooth, flowing motion, with its sensuous extra beat, carry over into the bedroom?
I almost stumble, as the thought sends another shot of lust ricocheting through my entire system. As he reaches the barn door and starts to open it, I take another deep breath and hold it, cursing my suddenly rampaging libido–and him for stirring it to life. But by the time he steps inside I’m relatively sure none of what I’m feeling shows on my face.
“The whelping kennel is just that way,” he says, pointing to the right. “Go on down. I’m just going to get Bongo.”
He walks away before I can say anything and I turn in the direction he indicated. Taking off my dark glasses, since the barn isn’t as bright as outside, I find myself wishing I could keep them on to hide behind. And why is he going to get that mutt? If he tries to pawn it off on me again, the shit’s going to hit the fan.
My instincts toward self–preservation are on full alert. At the slightest excuse I’ll walk away and not look back.
The whelping kennel is large and sunny, with a window at the back beside a stable–style door. On the floor is one of the biggest whelping boxes I’ve ever seen, seemingly full of puppies. There’s no way to figure out how many there are in there as they jump up, trying to see over the high sides of the box. It’s just one mass of wriggling, yipping golden fuzz, with random black noses and eyes appearing and disappearing. There’s no sign of the mother an
d I wonder if she’s been suffocated in the melee before I notice the tip of a tail and realize she’s climbed out and is lying between the wall and the box.
Over the cacophony of puppy whines and barking I can’t hear Vincent’s footsteps but I know he’s coming and turn to face him. He’s looking down at Bongo, speaking softly, and the loose–limbed rhythm of his walk causes another crazy jolt of need to tighten my abdominal muscles. I switch my attention to the dog, hoping that will give me a chance to regulate my pulse rate.
It works. I’ve never seen a jauntier walk on a dog. No purebred could compete, and just looking at him makes me give a snort of suppressed laughter. He ain’t pretty but he’s damn near irresistible. Stooping down I beckon to him with a crook of the fingers.
“Come here fella.” Bongo looks up at Vincent, who makes a ’go ahead’ gesture with his hand. Only then does the dog speed up to run to me. As I rub behind Bongo’s ears and have my forearms thoroughly washed in return, Vincent steps past me to the kennel and I glance up to say, “You should take this dog. He already thinks of you as his master.”
“Can’t.” I’m hoping he’ll elaborate but all he says is, “Come Bongo.”
By the time I get up, both Vincent and Bongo are inside the kennel, the gate latched behind them. Vincent opens the door at the back to reveal a grassy run behind the building and Bongo goes to where the bitch is lying. As I watch, man and dog gently coax Missy out of her hideaway and eventually she slinks out the door ahead of Bongo, giving me fearful looks the entire way. Vincent closes the bottom half of the door and stands for a moment looking out through the still–open top half.
“Missy’s had hardly any interactions with people or other dogs.” He sounds angry and sad and worried, all at the same time. “Not sure we’ll ever be able to get her to a point where we can re–home her. She doesn’t know how to play or even what to do when she’s not in a tiny kennel.”
I grunt, not knowing what to say. Times like this I wish I were the type of person who could mouth platitudes, but I’m not. People have accused me of being tight–lipped, even heartless, but when the truth will cause needless pain and there’s nothing I can do to alleviate it, I’d rather just shut the fuck up.
Vincent sighs and turns abruptly. “Anyway, come in and take a look at the pups.” Bending, he unlatches one end of the box, as I enter the kennel and close the gate behind me. “There are eleven of them, so you have lots of choice.”
The puppies are going nuts, jumping up, trying to get out of the box to Vincent, so I stoop down, balancing on the balls of my feet, to unlatch the other end of the flap keeping them at bay.
“Wait. Don’t…”
By the time I realize what he’s trying to tell me, it’s too late. The flap drops and, before I can move, a tsunami of golden fur comes over the top and heads straight for me.
“Crap–” is all I have time to say, as I’m knocked flat on my ass.
Chapter Three
Vincent
Sergeant Pictou pretty much disappears under a flood of puppy–love, and I’d feel guilty if I wasn’t so busy laughing like a loon. It’s not once or twice the pups attacked me in the same way, but at least I was prepared. Pictou had no clue what was coming, so when they swamp him he goes over like a felled tree, flat onto his back. And all I can think is that if he didn’t shower this morning, he won’t need to after they’ve finished licking every inch of flesh they can reach.
“Fuck you, Vincent.” He’s somehow gotten enough of them off his torso to go up onto an elbow, but the pups aren’t making it easy for him. “Stop laughing and come help–ergh!”
One of the puppies had climbed up on his chest and Frenched him as he spoke. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve seen in the longest time, and his pissed expression just makes me laugh all the harder. He levers himself up a little higher, trying to peel them off, but for each one or two he gets off another three or four jump him.
“If you don’t come get them off me, so help me God, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
That makes me double over. Big, bad Babylon, Sergeant Pictou, brought down by a pack of Golden Retriever puppies. Then, suddenly, I hear something I’ve never heard before, and it freezes me where I stand.
Laughter.
Deep, rolling laughter.
From Kyle Pictou.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never even seen him smile. Now I know I’m staring, and I can’t help it. He’s a good–looking man to begin with but when laughing…
His head is thrown back, as he tries to avoid the puppies determined to lick his face, and I have the perfect position to see how amusement softens and transforms him from handsome to something that makes my chest seize and the breath get trapped there. A hot, wild sensation overtakes me, jolting through my veins and making me want things I can’t have.
Those lips.
That laughter.
The glint of amusement in his eyes, but aimed at me.
Him. All of him.
The air stuck in my throat erupts out, and I’m laughing again, but not at the antics of the puppies or even Pictou’s predicament. I’m laughing almost hysterically at myself. At the knowledge I’m on the brink of making a jackass of myself over a man who’d never be interested in me. No matter what.
It’s hard to know what to do with the emotions ping–ponging in my chest. I’m in trouble and can only hope that if I can get the puppies, and myself, under control these crazy feelings will fade.
The need tearing at my gut will go away.
Taking deep breaths helps a little, but I’m still laughing as I put the side of the box in place and begin grabbing pups to get them back in.
“Goddamn,” he says, sitting up and wrestling with the last four puppies. “You could’ve warned me.”
Amusement makes his voice somehow richer, and goose bumps climb my spine and wrap around to my chest. I grab two of the four and put them out of harm’s way. “I tried, man, but you caught me by surprise.”
Another gust of laughter overtakes me, and Pictou joins in with a riff of chuckles. “Bullshit,” he retorts. “I think you planned it. Payback maybe?”
I snort, watching as he reaches to place the last of the miscreants with their siblings. “Hell, if that was my goal I’m sure I could come up with something better.”
Still sitting on the ground, Pictou slides closer to the box then crosses his legs. “No doubt. I was warned a long time ago about how wily Jamaicans are.” Leaning on the side of the box, he reaches in to start playing with the pups from a safer distance.
“Really?” I hunker down too, but near the other end of the box, just so I won’t be tempted to touch him accidentally–on–purpose. “Now who would go spreading disgusting rumors like that?”
It’s as though something has cracked wide open in him, letting out the smiles he’d been so stingy with before. He’s grinning, his attention thankfully on the puppies, since I can’t stop staring at the way his lips curl, the slashing dimple in his cheek. I can’t remember ever being as fascinated by a man before, not just interested in or wanting to sleep with him, but almost desperately yearning to get close. It feels like standing on the cliff at Negril, legs trembling at the thought of jumping into the swirling sea so far below, yet knowing it was too late to go back.
“I went to Police College with a Jamaican, and we all used to laugh whenever he said something we didn’t understand. Until one of our instructors pointed out that if we were smart we would take the opportunity to learn as much as we could about his culture, since many of us would wind up working areas where Jamaicans lived.”
“Yeah.” He turns to look at me and I tear my gaze away from his face, afraid he’ll realize I’ve been staring at him like an idiot. “We’re pretty much everywhere.”
“Calvin, the Jamaican guy, explained about the curse words…” There’s a little pause, then he goes on. “What’s with you guys’ obsession with butts? Rass. Bumbo. He said those both mean ass.”
Christ.
He wouldn’t like to know the obsession I have right now with his ass. I don’t even know what to say, or where to look, so I reach for one of the pups and hold it against my chest. Exhausted from all the excitement, it curls up with its face in my neck. “Dunno. Back in pirate days bumbo used to be a kind of punch made from rum, water and nutmeg, but I don’t think that’s the origin of the curses. And Trinidadians use rass the way you just used ’butt’.”
He snorts, as though he realizes I’m rambling, and I watch his hands as they pet and tickle the pups. Lord have mercy. His long, thick fingers make me hot with lust. I can only too easily imagine what he could do with them if he put his mind to it.
Before he can take the conversation any further, I quickly ask, “Any of the pups strike your fancy?”
Pictou shrugs. “They’re all nice, and it’s not really up to me which one gets picked, you know? I’ll definitely bring Damon and my brother to look at them though. I’m sure one of them would be perfect.”
“Good–good.” That’s it then. Job done. I should feel relieved but I don’t. “Just give Pat a call and set it up. She’s even good about evening visits, if you give her notice.”
Ruffling the fur on one pup’s head a final time, Pictou then puts his hands on the edge of the box and levers himself upright. The move takes me by surprise and I’m left looking up at him, feeling at a disadvantage. After putting the puppy I’m holding back into the box, I get up too and am surprised to realize how close he’s standing.
And I can’t move, although I know I should.
“Okay then.” I’m trying not to stammer, holding myself still so as not to take the one step necessary to bring our bodies together. Pat’s words–her assertion that he might be gay–come back to me and, rassclaat, I want to test it, take the chance that it might be true. But I don’t dare. Even though I’m now a solid citizen, I can’t afford to have a cop with a vendetta after me. “I’ll get Bongo and Missy back in, and we can go.”
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 18