THAT MAN 8

by Nelle L’Amour

  Whoot for the fricking dog. I was the last thing from fine.

  “Jen, leave him there and close the bathroom door. I need you!” Desperation filled my every word.

  Sensing my urgency, Jen dashed into our bedroom. “Blake, what’s wrong?”

  Rising to my feet, I loped over to the bed and held up the box. “This!”

  “It’s just an old chewed up box.”

  “No, Jen. It’s not just any old box. Your birthday present was inside it and now it’s gone! I can’t find it anywhere!”

  “Scout must have hidden it. It’s got to be somewhere.”

  “Well, trust me, it’s not in this room! I’ve searched everywhere.”

  “Let me help.” She brushed some feathers off her shoulders. “What should I be looking for?”

  “A small platinum and diamond broach. A unicorn.”

  “Oh, Blake it sounds beautiful!”

  “It is.” Was.

  Ten minutes later, Jen was covered from head to toe with feathers. Her search as futile as mine.

  “Blake, Scout could have hidden it anywhere. I have an idea. Let’s systematically check the entire apartment.”

  Our two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo was almost two thousand square feet. That was a lot of territory to scour. With feathers scattered everywhere, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but Jen’s plan made sense. I’d get down on my hands and knees, looking under all the furniture and rugs while she’d run the vacuum, hoping to suck it up.

  One painstaking hour and ten feather-filled vacuum bags later, still nothing. Zippo. We’d scoured every square inch of the apartment and I’d even emptied out the stinky trash and dug through it piece by piece with my bare hands.

  “Blake, it’s got to be here,” insisted my wife, optimism in her voice.

  “Where!?” I barked, then apologized for sounding so gruff. I was so pissed off I could punch a wall. Or strangle that dog.

  My compassionate tiger forgave my wrath and gave me an encouraging kiss on my cheek. “Why don’t we ask him?”

  Was she serious? Before I could utter a word, all sixty pounds of him came bounding into the kitchen, creating a maelstrom of feathers. He made a beeline for the emptied trash.

  “Sit, Scout,” Jen commanded.

  Amazingly, he did as she asked and then Jen squatted down in front of him and pet his head affectionately.

  “Good boy. Now, show Mommy where you hid Daddy’s present.”

  The beast cocked his head. He stared at her with wonderment, his big brown eyes as round as marbles. He belched. Then, farted. The stinkiest, most repulsive fart I’d ever encountered. I’m talking gas mask worthy. A ten on the Richter Scale of Farts. Silent but deadly.

  “Oh my God! What’s that smell?” gasped Jen. Contorting her face, she looked at me and the second her gaze met mine, it hit me. Hard like a brick to my head.

  “Holy shit! He ate it!” My hand flew to my forehead with a thunderous palm slap. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream, cry, or bang my head against a wall. Or kill the goddamn dog!

  Before I had the chance to do the latter, Scout scampered off, his tail between his legs. Panic set in.

  “Blake, are you sure?” asked Jen.

  “Positive!”

  “What are we going to do?”

  I paced the room. Scout’s flatulence lingered. “I don’t know.”

  Darkness fell over my tiger like a storm cloud. She curled her fingers against her mouth as if she was going to bite off her nails. “Blake, he’s going to die! We need to get him to a vet!”

  My wife seemed way more upset about the loss of the stupid dog than the loss of the beautiful bauble. Her eyes began to water.

  “Call your mother! Please! She must know someone!”

  Sixty seconds later, my mother was on my cell.

  “Well, hello darling! How nice of you to call your dear old mother!”

  I had no time for niceties.

  She continued. “Mother told me she saw you last night.”

  And I had no time—or desire—to get into the regrettable Grandma incident. What happened yesterday seemed like a century ago.

  “Mom, I have a medical emergency.”

  “Blake, darling! You should be calling 911, not me!”

  “It’s not me. It’s our dog.”

  The alarm in her voice morphed into curiosity. “Oh, you and Jennifer got a dog? How wonderful! What’s its name?”

  “Scout.” It was time to cut to the chase. “Mom, I need the name and phone number of the vet you used to go to.”

  “You mean, Dr. Rowland?

  How the hell should I know? “Yeah.”

  “Do you know he was the vet to the stars?”

  I raked my free hand through my hair. Who gives a shit? “Mom, I just need his number.”

  “I could give it to you, darling, but it’s worthless.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s retired! Marty lives in Palm Springs now.”

  Standing next to me, her face taut as a stretched rubber band, Jen mouthed for me to ask her to recommend someone else. I did as she asked.

  “Darling, even if I could, no regular veterinarian would be open at this hour on a Saturday, no less. You need to take your new dog to an emergency animal hospital.”

  I inwardly blew out a breath of frustration. Why was extracting information from my mother always so difficult?

  “Can you tell me one to go to?”

  “Your father and I adore the West Los Angeles VCA. We took Mitzi there one time after she ate the entire box of Valentine’s Day chocolates he bought me. They treated her like a princess! Complete with a paper crown. And then another time, we took Monique in after she stepped on a shard of glass. The poor darling! Yelping like—”

  I cut her off. My mother could go on for hours with stories about her beloved, pampered poodles. I think she spent more time talking about them than about my sister and me combined.

  Five minutes later, still dressed in what we’d worn out to dinner, my anxious tiger and I were back in my car. Scout in the front seat, squeezed in beside her. On our way to the animal hospital.

  “Blake, can’t you go any faster?”

  “Baby, I’m going as fast as I can.” Though the hospital was just a few miles away, the Saturday night traffic on Wilshire Boulevard—in fact anywhere in LA—was impossible. With cops waiting to issue DUIs littered everywhere.

  “Please hurry!” Tears in her voice, she wrapped her arm around the beast. “Hang in there, baby boy!”

  What about me? My cock, Mr. Burns, was as deflated as our once fluffy pillows.

  Getting laid tonight was no longer part of the plan.

  Then, another silent but deadly fart saturated the air.

  Chapter 12

  Blake

  The VCA Animal Hospital was a large, non-descript three-story building on Sepulveda, just south of Santa Monica Boulevard. We parked the car in the underground garage and took the elevator up to the third floor reception area, me holding a rambunctious, sniffing-everything Scout tightly by his leash. I was surprised by how many people and their pets—dogs, cats, rabbits, and more—were sitting anxiously on the scattered seating. I even heard a bird chirping. Pulling me, Scout led us to the check-in desk.

  A big-boned redheaded woman sat behind the console facing her massive computer. She reminded me a lot of the obnoxious woman who’d admitted me to Cedars when I’d had my scary bout of priapism a few months back. Maybe they were sisters or separated at birth. Same frizzy red hair. Except this one wore glasses.

  “Please sign in with your name and your pet’s as well as your time of arrival.” She barely looked at me and as I did as I was told, she asked, “What is your dog’s problem?”

  Jen responded, her voice frantic. “He ate a piece of jewelry and may die!”

  The woman looked up at us, then over the frames of her half-moon glasses, gazed down at our unfazed Scout. Her thin lips twisted in sync with an eyeroll
. “It happens often.”

  Jen paled, her face awash with terror. Even my stomach twitched. What did Frizzbitch mean by that? That jewelry consumption among canines was common and lead to consequential death?

  My thoughts were cut short by another silent but deadly Scout fart. Whoa! The odor that wafted in the air was so foul that the person standing behind me moved ten feet away. If farts could kill, this would be it.

  Scrunching her nose, Frizzbitch shot me a disgusted look. “Please take a seat and we’ll call you when it’s your turn. Except for dire emergencies, it’s first come, first serve.”

  Well, at least we had a little reassurance that Scout wasn’t on his deathbed. My eyes circled the waiting room. There were at least a dozen people ahead of us. The wait would be long. We could be here all night. And into the morning.

  We took a seat, and Scout lay down in front of us. He seemed unusually lethargic. Jen squeezed my free hand, hers cold and clammy. Her other hand brushed across Scout’s coat.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby boy.” She caressed him again. “Mommy’s here.”

  Despite her continuous strokes, the dog didn’t move. Not even the twitch of an ear. His muzzle rested on his outstretched front legs, his tail curled behind him. I’d be lying if I said he looked happy. His big brown eyes seemed a bit glazed. Maybe he was just bored. My tiger, however, filled with alarm.

  “Blake, he’s fading!” Tears sprung to her eyes, then she burst into sobs.

  Several people in the reception area turned around to look at her. She was a blubbering mess. Nothing I could say or do could console her. Reaching into my back pocket, I handed her one of my monogrammed hankies. She blew her nose, dabbed her tears, and then sniffled a few words.

  “Blake, please call your mother again. Maybe she knows someone here.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was call my mother again. But my tiger’s sobs were gutting me, so I did as she asked. It turned out my parents had made a substantial donation to the animal hospital several years ago and my mother was still very friendly with the Chief of Staff. Yup, money had its benefits. And so did connections.

  We were the next to be called.

  The examination room was small and sterile. Just an exam table, a few cabinets, a sink with nearby disinfectants, a counter filled with sundry medical supplies. And one solitary chair, which I insisted Jen take, while I stood holding Scout by his leash. He seemed to have rebounded. Once again inquisitive and happy. Wagging his tail and longing to explore everything.

  My tiger had stopped crying, but her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. She was still fraught with worry. Nervously, she fiddled with her diamond snowflake engagement ring, her hands wringing in her lap. “Blake, do you think Scout’s going to be okay?”

  Though he seemed fine, who knew? I was not a medical doctor. My instinct was to say yes to make my wife feel better and so I selfishly didn’t have to deal with more gut-wrenching bawling. Before I could respond, the door to the room swung open, and a raspy voice sounded.

  “Hey, there. I’m Dr. Sexton, but most call me by my first name Chase. Dr. Chase.”

  Both Jen and I looked up. Heading our way was an extremely good-looking guy, tall and athletically built and about my age. Under his white lab coat, he was wearing well-cut jeans and a Snoopy T-shirt that hinted of his pronounced pecs and washboard abs. A stethoscope was wrapped around his neck and a pair of expensive Nikes adorned his feet. With his build, perfectly tousled light brown hair, bedroom-blue eyes, chiseled face with its designer scruff, I swear he looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ, lab attire and all. Or could be the star of a TV series. Somehow, he looked familiar to me. And his name was too. Where did I know him from? Before I could search my mind, he offered me his hand, and I shook it with my free one, introducing myself and Jen. His grip was firm and confident, his fingers long and tapered. Then, he shook Jen’s, and a blast of jealousy whipped through me when she gave him a warm smile.

  “Dr. Chase, thank you for seeing us!”

  He returned her smile. It was one of those dazzling Hollywood ones. Slightly lopsided with a row of sparkling white straight teeth. I was ready to blow this pop stand. Or punch out those pearly whites.

  Letting go of Jen’s hand, he squatted and stroked Scout with his large hands.

  “So you must be Scout.” The dog held his gaze and wagged his tail. “I heard you got into some mischief tonight.”

  Jen explained how Scout had torn through our apartment. She still had a few feathers stuck to the fabric of her dress, which she picked off like lint. “And then, Doctor, he chewed up a little box and ate a broach!” Terror inched back into Jen’s voice. “My birthday present.”

  Still squatting, the vet checked the beast’s heartbeat with his stethoscope and then stood to fetch a thermometer. He squatted again, this time behind Scout.

  “You’re not going to like this, buddy, but trust me, it’ll only last a few seconds.” I cringed as he lifted Scout’s butt up a little and inserted the thermometer into his poop hole. Poor Scout whimpered, alarming Jen further.

  “Doctor, is he going to die?”

  Wordlessly, he removed the thermometer and studied it. Then, he chuckled. “No, he’s way too young and healthy. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Seriously?” I said, my brows lifting.

  “Seriously.” His voice was confident and reassuring. “You know what they say: what goes in, must come out. I am going to give him an all-natural laxative which will help him poop out the broach, hopefully later tonight.” He headed toward the door. “Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”

  Letting go of the leash, I let Scout prowl about the small room. He seemed back to his sniffing, rambunctious, tail-wagging self. And for the first time since the start of this ordeal, Jen seemed back to herself. Relaxed and happy.

  “Blake, I really like Dr. Chase!”

  I made a face. “You do?”

  She smiled. “Yes. He seems super-smart and exudes confidence.”

  And sex appeal? I silently added, knitting my brows.

  “And he’s really cute.”

  I felt my blood bubbling. I did not like where this conversation was going. Not one bit.

  “I wonder if he’s married.”

  “What does it matter?” I snapped, not having noticed if he was wearing a wedding band. Or not.

  “Well, I was just thinking . . .”

  Before she could finish her sentence, Dr. Pretty Face came jogging back into the room. Happy to see him, Scout wagged his tail and my tiger gave him the kind of smile she wore after we had epic, toe-curling sex. I felt my blood pressure spike. What the hell was she thinking?

  “Sorry to keep you guys, waiting,” my new nemesis said, dipping his hand into one of his lab coat pockets. He slipped it out and in his palm were two tablets that resembled dog treats.

  “What are those?” asked Jen.

  “A laxative. Poopies.”

  “P-O-O-P-I-E-S?”

  Chase laughed. A goddamn sexy laugh! “No, Poop-Ease. E-A-S-E.”

  “Oh!” Jen blushed.

  “They’ll soften Scout’s stool and make it easier for him to poop out the broach. They contain all natural ingredients, including sugar beet and flaxseed. Dogs love them!” He turned to Scout, who had his face buried in the corner. “Come here, Scout.” Chase bent down and held his hand out. “Look what I have for you!”

  In a flash, Scout was sitting before the vet, voraciously eating the tablets out of his hand. As if they were candy.

  With the hand that fed him, Chase pat the dog’s head. “Good boy!” He then stood up and faced me.

  “That should do the trick! You’ll likely have your broach within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “What if he doesn’t poop it out?” My voice was dripping with distrust.

  “I’m going to give you a jar of Poop-Ease to take home. Give Scout two chews every three hours until he does. Just be sure to keep the jar away from him. If he ingests too
many of them, you’ll have a real life-threatening emergency on your hands.”

  Death by Diarrhea, I silently snickered. This pain-in-the-ass dog could have a nice abbreviated life. And be out of mine. Jen cut my evil thoughts short.

  “Isn’t it going to hurt him?” she asked, worry back in her voice. “I mean the pooping part. The broach is a platinum unicorn with a diamond cone.”

  “Hmm, sounds like your husband has good taste.”

  I smiled smugly, but that didn’t make me like him any better as he elaborated.

  “Worst case scenario, the cone may tear his rectum a little and he’ll shed a little blood. Swallowing chicken and steak bones, which happens all the time, can have the same effect. I’ll also give you an antibiotic in case that happens, and I’ll want you to bring him back or go to your local vet for a check up.”

  “We don’t have a vet yet,” I said.

  “Dr. Chase, can you be our vet?” The plea in my tiger’s voice sounded something between smitten and wishful like all those pimply middle school girls who asked me to be their boyfriend on Valentine’s Day. Jealousy again reared its ugly green-eyed head.

  A huge megawatt smile beamed on his pretty face. Kill me now! Reword: Kill him now! “I’d be honored to and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. I’m opening my own practice next week in Culver City and you’ll be among my first patients.”

  Culver City? That’s where Conquest Broadcasting was located. That meant his new office was likely not far from ours. Probably just a few minutes away by car . . . which meant that my tiger could easily step out of the office for a little doggie-style tryst in one of his examining rooms or his private office. I felt my blood boil. The sooner we got out of here the better. Because I might wring this guy’s neck or do some other bodily harm. My mind raced as my blood pressure rose. I might have to eliminate him! Just the way I’d eliminated Jen’s douchebag dentist fiancé, Bradley Wick, with Operation Dickwick. Now, I had to put a new plan into effect. What should I call it? Operation Chaseman? Chaseaway? Chaseface? I stared at his smug chiseled face and—boom!—it came to me like a hailstorm in the summer. Operation Chasehole! Perfection! But it wasn’t going to be easy because this asswipe wasn’t the clueless moron Dickwick was. He had charm. He had looks. And from the looks of it, he had balls.