THAT MAN 8

by Nelle L’Amour

  My thoughts were cut short by Krystal. “Let’s begin.” She ignored the bottled water I’d set on the coffee table. “Please stand behind the lectern and let me hear the short speech you’ve written. Pretend you’re talking to an audience of five hundred. I’m going to stop you as you go along and make corrective suggestions, which I want you to implement.”

  I did as she asked and once behind the lectern, I cleared my throat.

  “Never,” Krystal snapped, “clear your throat when you may be miked or on camera. It’s a sign of weakness. It shows you’re nervous. And lack confidence.”

  I swallowed hard. She was right. I was nervous. And I was unnerved by her belligerence. Maybe all the sweetness she’d showed me on our first meeting was just a sugarcoated front. She was a force to be reckoned with.

  “I’m sorry,” I said meekly and feeling very uncomfortable in my new pantsuit. The suit didn’t suit me, bad pun intended. Ordered online from Nordstrom’s because of my hectic schedule, it was a little too big and frankly, I was much more comfortable in a simple A-line dress or anything my good friend Chaz Clearfield designed. I was also wearing my contact lenses rather than my glasses, which she insisted would allow me to make better eye contact with my audience and take better photographs by the press. Adding to my discomfort, they irritated my dry eyes.

  Fiddling with the thick gold chain of her necklace, which was mostly hidden under the collar of her blouse, her steel-gray eyes pierced me as if apologies didn’t matter. “Whatever.” She glanced down at her gold watch, which must have cost a mint. “Time’s awasting. Let’s move on.”

  Over the course of the next hour, we worked on the short speech, which she’d made me prepare and memorize. “Not every venue will be able to provide a teleprompter,” she’d told me, “so sometimes memory is your best and only tool.” I’d written a speech about the difference between pornography and steamy romance, and why women coveted the latter. Having taken several drama classes at USC and performing in a few plays, I was good at memorization. I think it stemmed from my father, a former literature professor, who’d made me memorize verses of famous poets when I was a child. I could still recite many of them by heart.

  Standing behind the lectern in my uncomfortable pantsuit and under her scrutiny, I felt stiff and nervous. The speech, which I’d rehearsed ad nauseam, began to fall apart as she criticized what seemed to be my every word and gesture.

  “So all women want a good story and a happily ever after?” she parroted as I at last came to the end of what felt like an eternity. “You don’t seem to believe a word you’ve written.”

  She was right. With all the interruptions and verbal jabs, I had no clue what I was talking about despite the fact I’d launched My Sex-TV on the premise of what women wanted.

  “You choked on almost every word,” she added, reaching into her leather briefcase, which she called her “bag of tricks.” She slapped a sheet of paper onto the side table. “Here are some breathing exercises that I want you to practice before we meet next time so you don’t sound like you’re suffocating.”

  I was honestly exhausted by the end of the session. Drained. Walking her to the entrance to our condo, I couldn’t wait to change into my sweats, take out my contacts, and relax. Read my Los Angeles Times and be rid of her. About to leave, she eyed the photos of Blake and me on our entryway console. There were at least a dozen, spanning from our courtship to our recent trip to Scotland. I hadn’t yet added a photo of Scout, ensconced in Jeffrey’s stunning silver frame.

  My eyes fixed on her as she lifted one of the framed photos—that of the two of us kissing, taken at our memorable Christmas in July wedding at my parents’ house this past summer—and studied it.

  A smirk that seemed vaguely familiar curled on her lips. “So, that’s your husband Blake.” It was definitely more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes. You’ve met him?”

  She set the photo back down, her eyes still lingering on it. Her smirk morphed into a sneer, a whiff of sarcasm in her tone. “Not yet. But I’m looking forward to it.”

  With that, she cranked the door handle and left, wheeling a small, efficient rollerbag that contained her practice equipment. As the heavy door closed behind her, I impulsively adjusted the photo to the exact position it had been. I was anal that way. Just like my mom. Everything in its special place.

  Wistfully, I stared at the photo. Every beautiful memory of that wedding flooded my head, eradicating the malaise I felt. Blake and Scout would be home soon.

  And soon, a photo of the three of us would join the many on the console.

  Chapter 16

  Blake

  “Mmm, Jen. That feels so fucking good.”

  Stretched out on the bed, halfway under the covers and my eyes still glued shut, I felt her tongue lap up and down my bare chest, then stroke up and down the column of my exposed neck.

  “I want you to wake me up every morning like this,” I moaned as my body happily succumbed to her warm, sensuous licks. With another blissful sigh, I blindly reached out to caress her. Beneath my hand, she felt soft as velvet and I surmised she must be wearing the old velour robe she loved. The sigh gave way to a rapturous smile.

  “Come here,” I murmured. “Put those very pretty and talented lips of yours on mine.” I felt her warm breath dust my cheeks and I inhaled through my nose. The scent of fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen was overtaken by something that smelled like oatmeal. Had my tiger made herself a bowl? It was not like her to make hot cereal on a workday morning. A toasted bagel or granola bar was more like it.

  My lips still curled in a smile, I felt her very wet tongue touch down as if she was teasing me. But, that’s not all that touched down. Something cold and wet did too. A sloppy slurp sounded in my ears and my eyes snapped open. Scout’s head filled my entire frame of vision, his snout in my face, his tongue hanging from his mouth as if he were a lovestruck teenager.

  Wiping the slobber off my face with the back of my hand, I bolted to an upright position. “Jesus, Scout. Get the fuck off!” I shouted, but the stupid dog just sat on the bed dumbfounded. “Off!” I repeated, my voice rising decibels. So much for obedience school. The fricking dog didn’t budge.

  My blood bubbling, I fought the urge to shove him off the bed but instead swung my legs over the side and stomped to the ensuite bathroom. Having made love to Jen in the middle of the night, I was butt naked, my cock in its normal morning wood position. Erect and at attention. To my chagrin, Scout jumped off the bed and followed me into the bathroom, getting there before I did so I was unable to close the door and keep him out. As I made my way to the toilet to do my morning business, he lowered himself onto the travertine floor beside me and just sat there, his eyes trained on me.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a grown man pee?” I gritted, aiming my big rigid cock at the basin and glancing his way. He cocked his head as if he were saying: “So, this is how you humans do it. You don’t have to lift your leg?” With his inquisitive gaze still on me, I whizzed and relieved myself. He sure as hell wasn’t taking a shower with me. Wrong. He was in the stall before I was. Loving every minute of the spraying overhead jets. “Get out, Scout!” I commanded, holding the shower door open. No luck. Ten minutes later, I was towel drying myself off. And my soaking wet canine companion.

  When I got to the kitchen, fully dressed in a smart dark business suit and a sharp tie, Scout annoyingly trailing behind me, I found Jen, also dressed for work, sitting at the breakfast bar, her laptop in front of her. She took a sip of her coffee from her My-Sin TV mug as I strode over to the coffee maker on the counter to pour myself a cup.

  “Blake, great news! I think I’ve solved a major problem.”

  “Oh. You figured out who to cast in the Nelle L’Amour series you’re developing?”

  “No, silly. What to do with Scout.”

  There was only one thing to do: get rid of him! After this morning’s bed and bathroom incidents, I’d had enough. Jen would get
over him. I’d buy her a diamond doggie pin—yup, that would do it. Easy peasy. Grinning at what a genius I was, I headed to the fridge to add some cream. My back was to my wife as she rambled on.

  “We can’t leave him here all day, baby, while we’re at work.”

  True.

  “And we can’t leave him on the terrace. It’s still not dog-proofed.”

  True.

  “We don’t really know our neighbors so we can’t ask them to look after him or walk him.”

  True.

  “And I spoke to both the concierge and doorman, and they’re unable to leave their posts.”

  So . . .

  “I’ve found a . . .”

  Balls! She found a dog walker! Some nearby, money-hungry UCLA student to check in on Scout and take him out.

  “ . . . doggy daycare center.”

  What!?? Holding my mug of piping hot coffee, I joined my tiger at the breakfast bar. Scout lying down contently on the floor beside her. Her bespectacled eyes were still glued to her computer screen. Though I felt a little slighted, I couldn’t help noticing how cute she looked in her tortoise-rimmed glasses. Somehow, her sexy librarian look made her sexier. More fuckable. Did we have time for a quickie before we went to work? I nuzzled her neck to get her aroused, but the only thing that seemed to excite her was the damn computer screen.

  “Blake, listen to this. ‘Four Paws Only. A twenty-four hour facility offering large indoor and outdoor spaces for your fur baby to play and socialize in while in our loving care. Large dogs and small dogs are separated under the watch of our carefully trained staff and enjoy a variety of activities, including exercise ramps, games, and supervised walks throughout the day. We know some fur babies suffer from separation anxiety, so we offer curbside service and meet you right at the drop off. There’s no need to even leave your car! Just be sure to bring their favorite food and snacks so they don’t get hungry. We guarantee that your dog will be wanting to come back for more or your money back guaranteed!’”

  Pausing, Jen clicked on the photos tab.

  While I looked on in silence, Jen jabbed the montage of photos, one after another of happy dogs, all different sizes and breeds, climbing up and down ramps, dashing around the spacious facility with chew toys, and playing with other dogs as well as with the staff. Jen’s voice grew more excited. “Blake, doesn’t this place look awesome—it’s like a playgroup for dogs—and it’s located in Culver City close to our offices! It’s perfect for Scout! For us! Don’t you think so too?”

  She had to be kidding. My mind raced. I had to talk her out of this and convince her the only place we should take Scout was back to the pound. He needed a home with a yard and someone who was readily available to feed and walk him. “Jen, I don’t think this is a good idea at all. We don’t know how socialized Scout is.”

  “But you told me he did so well in obedience school yesterday! And even made friends with that pit bull!”

  I had told Jen all about our obedience school experience, boasting that Scout had done great, not wanting to admit failure to myself. That dictator instructor implying I was weak and befuddled. Screw her! I’d also relayed the unexpected Katrina incident, which my tiger had found hysterically funny. And led her to give Scout a special treat for his extraordinary behavior. Damn! I needed to come up with a different tactic. Think, genius. Think. And being the true genius I was, it came to me fast.

  “Jen, this place is probably a scam. They’re not showing us the photos of dogs attacking each other. Or sharing testimonies of people who had terrible experiences—like their dogs getting bit or coming down with fatal diseases. They just want our money!”

  “Blake, they’re offering the first two days free! And I read all the Yelp reviews. There wasn’t one under four stars! Everyone raved about this place!” She cast her eyes down at the beast. “Scout, sweetie, don’t you want to go to doggy daycare?”

  The dog clambered to a sitting position, looking up to her with his loving eyes and eagerly thumping his tail against the floor.

  “Look, Blake! He understood! He wants to go!”

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  There wasn’t anything I could say or do to dissuade her. Fuck me. Armed with his choke chain, Scout was out the door before we were.

  My day at work couldn’t have been better. I closed two major deals that would infuse a shitload of money into Conquest Broadcasting. And I got our quarterly ratings report. They were at an all time high. All divisions. And much to my pleasure, Jen’s My Sin-TV was showing the most growth. Her visionary erotic women’s channel was proving to be a cash cow. My incredible wife deserved to be taken out for a surprise dinner at The Palm to celebrate over lobsters and champagne, but just as I was about to buzz my longtime secretary Mrs. Cho to make a reservation, my office phone rang. The phone flashed red, the special hotline I’d set up for my tiger, so her calls could bypass Mrs. Cho and come directly to me. My dick twitched beneath my desk. Maybe she was horny and had the time for a mid afternoon tryst. Banging her over my desk was one of my favorite pastimes.

  I picked up, putting the call on speaker. “Hi, babe. What’s up?” I could answer that question myself. My dick! It was fully erect, ready for action.

  “Blake, there’s been an incident with Scout.” Her voice sounded panicked. “We have to go to the doggy daycare center right away!”

  As fast as Mr. Burns rose to attention, he deflated.

  Fuck. This. Dog.

  Chapter 17

  Blake

  The doggy daycare center was a five-minute drive from Conquest Broadcasting, located on Main Street in Culver City. We took my car which we’d driven in together to the office, something we did often when neither of us had an outside meeting. After circling the block twice, we found a metered parking spot right outside the facility. Without acknowledging the half-dozen dogs lined up against the front window who eyed us with various degrees of curiosity, friendliness, and suspicion, we hurried inside, me holding Jen’s hand which was cold as ice. Waiting for an attendant, we surveyed the place, searching for Scout. The play area was spacious, with a plexiglass divider separating small dogs from large ones. Accompanied by staff members, the rambunctious dogs were engaged in various activities from climbing up and down assorted sized ramps to playing with various chew toys. Cacophonous barking and scampering filled the air, which smelled of disinfectant. Nausea rising to my chest, not to mention the beginnings of a splitting headache, I wanted to get out of this place as fast I could.

  Jen squeezed my hand. “I don’t see Scout anywhere!”

  “Maybe he’s in the play yard outside or they took him for a walk.”

  “Blake, maybe something terrible happened to him!”

  Before I could reassure her that he was fine—he probably just had an “accident”—a tall, skinny girl with a shock of spiky pink hair, nose piercings, and an armful of tattoos, moseyed up to us. She hadn’t been here in the morning when we dropped Scout off.

  “Can I help you?” she drawled, thrusting her bony hip. She looked and sounded like she was stoned. Hey, I’d be stoned, too, if I had to work in this joint.

  “We’re here for our dog Scout,” responded Jen, her voice anxious. “Someone called us and said there was some kind of ‘incident.’”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure what happened. I just started my shift. Let me call my supervisor.”

  Jen’s eyes stayed glued on her as she reached for a pager that was clipped to the waistband of her ripped jeans.

  “Glinda, I have a couple here who are looking for their dog Scout.”

  “I’ll be right there.” The voice was curt. And husky.

  A few moments later, Glinda joined us. She definitely bore no resemblance to the Good Witch of the North, whom I had a secret crush on as a kid. I swear every time I watched the Wizard of Oz, my eight-year-old self got a woody when the beautiful, princessy strawberry blond waved her magic wand and sang, “Come out, come out wher
ever you are.”

  This woman was no beauty. The shaved-head, buxom broad wore baggy khaki pants and an ill-fitting T-shirt. With her jowly face and stout physique, she reminded me of a bulldog.

  “Hi,” said Jen meekly. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Burns. Is our dog Scout all right?”

  Without as much as a hello, Glinda got straight to the point. “I’m sorry to say that Scout can no longer come here.”

  My tiger’s angst-filled expression grew confused. “So, he’s okay?”

  “He’s fine. However, he bit another dog, which is totally unacceptable. We have him confined in lockup.”

  “What! That’s not possible! Scout’s the sweetest dog ever!” My wife turned to me, her eyes pleading for support. “Blake, tell her! Tell her that Scout’s the best dog ever!”

  Seriously? The fricking dog had destroyed half our house, devoured fine jewelry, and almost flunked out of obedience school. And that was just in the last forty-eight hours.

  “Um, uh, can you possibly show us the dog he bit?”

  Glinda scowled. “Very well. Follow me.”

  We followed her to the “large dog” section. All the dogs looked twice the size of Scout I observed as she pointed to the dog Scout had allegedly attacked.

  Otto.

  A sleek, ninety-pound Doberman Pinscher, his ears cropped and his tail docked. Call me prejudiced, but I hated Dobermans. And so did my parents and Grandma. When my sister Marcy and I were kids, they’d ingrained in us they were Nazi dogs. Extremely vicious and out for Jews. Not believing them, I changed my mind when the Dobie of our Beverly Hills neighbor, a German industrialist, broke loose from his yard and attacked my Hebrew teacher.