by Kate Kinsley
“So perfect,” I mumble against her apple bottom. “So hot.” Bringing a questing finger down to the crease between her legs, I can feel wetness dripping from her core. She loves it when I’m demanding. The fact that we’re outside, where anyone could come up on us—even though our closest neighbors are a kilometer away—only helps me get her off that much quicker. “You’re so ready for me,” I growl before finding my way back to my feet and taking myself in hand.
With no fanfare whatsoever, I line myself up and drive home.
“Oh, fuck!” I can feel Hope quivering around me with her pending orgasm.
“Please, Carson,” she pants, standing on the tips of her toes from the force I used. “I-I need—”
With one hand on her hip, I train the other toward her front to find her clit and give it a flick, smiling as I feel the tremors around my girth. “This?”
“Uh-huh!” She gulps. “More, please. More!”
Leaning against her back, I nuzzle the sensitive spot behind her ear, nibbling on its lobe and whisper, “Hold on, baby.”
“What about a dog?” Hope suggests, as she finishes with the lotion on her face in the bathroom mirror.
“Babe, it’s bad enough you have to look after me.” I shove my arms in my shirt, then pull it over my head. “I don’t need a damn dog as a fucking babysitter,” I growl, feeling anger taking over no matter how much I try to hold it back. I hate that it’s beyond my control, but there’s nothing I can do about it, just like how my mouth chooses to run away on me. “And where do you expect we find one that’s trained in what I need, anyway? You forget I worked with a K9 handler. You know about Charger. It takes a minimum of two years to scent train a mutt, and even then, it’s not guaranteed the mangy thing will pass the necessary testing or be of much use.”
Her head rears back from peering in the mirror and turns to face me at my anger-filled words. “Carson…” She steps toward me. “I love you. Can’t you see I’m worried about you?”
I can feel that uncontrollable rage bubble up further. It makes my gut churn, my head pound, and my insides vibrate. I hate myself for feeling this way, but that’s what generalized anxiety disorder is all about—at least it is for me—and the worst part is my loved ones are always the recipients of my highs and lows.
I can tell she knows what’s coming next and she braces: arms crossed defensively over her chest, her stance wide.
“I don’t need you to worry about me, Hope. I don’t want it. I’m sick of this shit, but you know what? I’m the one living with it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Hale.” This is how I know she’s as equally pissed at me. It’s the only time she uses my last name alone. And this also fuels my explosive mood.
“Then get the fuck out if you’re so sick of this. I can’t fucking change anything.”
“Bullshit!” Hope’s face has gone red with anger, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “You know it’s your damn GAD talking. Put your fucking pride to the side for once and treat something you can. Or else…”
“Or else what,” I barely manage through clenched teeth, “you’ll leave? It’s what I’ve been telling you all of this time. I’m no good to you anymore. Hope, I’m so fucked up, I can’t fix what I am.”
That’s because you won’t try, I hear my own reasoning tell me.
My girlfriend shakes her head. “Forget it.” Her small bit of makeup routine all but forgotten, she heads for the bedroom door. “We’re not going to get anywhere with you like this.” Pausing in the doorway to look at me, and of course, because I know I’m in the wrong here, I avoid her gaze like the plague, but I can feel hers burning into the side of my head. “I’ll see you tonight after my shift.”
Five minutes later, with a slam of the front door, I’m torn between going after her and making things right again by apologizing, but wary she’ll just rebuff my efforts, or worse, I’ll stick my foot in my mouth and make matters worse as I do more often than not.
Just let it be, man.
As it is Saturday, I pretty much spend the day lazing around and doing some shit around the house. I find that working with my hands is cathartic and therapeutic. It also allows me to ponder things in a more rational manner. I swear, ever since my injury, my temper is so quick to flare that I can’t seem to make heads or tails of anything, unless I’m on my own, able to take my time to analyze the pros and cons of things in order to make my mind up.
During a late lunch, while I wait for my latest project to dry before another sanding—I am working on a set of Adirondack chairs for our front porch at Hope’s suggestion—my ears perk up when I hear about an incident where an RCMP officer has been gunned down, but not before her K9 partner had caught the perpetrator.
Having worked closely with a K9 handler myself in my last few deployments, I’ve always been drawn to these types of stories, so it is natural that I head for the living room and find myself eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d managed to slap together while watching the segment.
CTV Ottawa is playing a prerecorded set of bystander interviews following the showdown held outside an embassy home off of Sussex Drive in Ottawa. The RCMP officer in question had been hospitalized and was on life support. Things weren’t looking good for her. The K9 faired a little better but had also been injured in the line of duty, suffering a bullet graze to the left shoulder as he lunged to subdue the shooter.
My hand froze as a photo of the heroic dog splashes across the television screen, past and present colliding.
Charger?
But it couldn’t be him. The only people from my unit who survived when I’d sustained my injuries were Morris, Forrester, and myself. Three out of a crew of twelve.
What should have been a routine armed raid of an illegal weapons cache on the outskirts of Kabul had turned into a bloodbath none of us—Charger and his handler included—had seen coming.
“…After nearly eight years of service to our country, then with the RCMP, Charger, the Belgian Malinois will be retiring,” the news anchorwoman announces.
I shoot to my feet. “The fuck?”
“The RCMP is currently investigating this latest shooting in a string of similar incidents across Ottawa. Are they linked? That remains unknown at this time. One thing is for certain, and I’m sure we can all agree, Charger, the heroic dog who may just have saved more than his handler’s life, deserves one heck of a retirement party.” The newswoman’s smile fades to images of Charger and his past, honoring the canine.
Footage of his deployments in the Middle East and in action during various training sessions played on the screen, one of which includes his latest RCMP handler. The moment a picture of my team, Derek—Charger’s former handler from the US contracting company we dealt with on the regular—popped up, a lead weight dropped into the pit of my stomach.
It really is him.
Chapter Three
“Babe.” I snuggle into Hope’s back.
When she’d gotten home, she’d hurried to warm the plate of dinner I’d kept for her, then left me for the bathroom. The cold shoulder thing was par for the course for us, but it never lasted until bedtime.
Until tonight.
It took me sneaking into our bedroom to discover that the cup of chamomile tea I had brought her earlier was left untouched on her bedside table, the lights are off, and she’s curled into a ball on her side of the bed.
“Babe,” I repeat, nuzzling the back of her neck. “We need to talk.”
“Not tonight, Carson.” I feel her shudder against me, her shoulders beginning to shake.
“Hope, please don’t cry.” Fuck, but I hate myself even more for what I’m putting her through. “I’m sorry. I know I sound like a broken record, but I am sorry, baby.” My arms surround her much smaller frame—hell, she weighs a hundred and twenty soaking wet compared to my two fifteen of muscle—and hold her tight as she breaks entirely. Turning her so she’s facing me, I cradle her head in my chest.
“I n
eed you. I love you. You need help, Carson, why can’t you see that?” Her head lifts, her blotchy face, one I’ve loved since our first year of college. It’s the single most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed.
I’m accustomed to being the savior, the one Hope can go to when she needs help. I fought to bring peace in areas all over the world that couldn’t enforce it themselves. And now, I’m a lump of dumb muscle, disabled by a traumatic brain injury that’s left me feeling helpless. Except I am also allowing that twist of fate dictate my life, and I know it. I’ve seen my fair share of shrinks to know it for what it is, but pride is a powerful thing to overcome. After today, however, I knew something had to change. Hell, something already had when I saw Charger on TV earlier. My resolve is solid in what I need to do.
Pulling Hope back into me, I kiss the crown of her head. “I’ll get some help.” A finger nudge under her chin brings her face up to mine. “I promise, babe. First thing tomorrow, I’ll make a few calls.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
Bringing my lips to hers, I tentatively caress her mouth and pull back to see her eyes. “I love you, Hope, you know that, right?”
Her eyes well up with more tears, but her lips tug upward. “Yeah.”
I give her a small smile of my own. “Yeah.”
“You said last night that you wanted to talk to me about something?” Hope comes to lean against the counter as I’m dealing with spattering bacon on the stovetop.
I nod. “Yeah. You remember Charger?”
Hope’s eyes go wide, and her tone comes out guarded. “Of course. I can’t forget the emails and letters you sent me with pics of you guys and that dog. It’s so sad—”
“Saw him yesterday,” I blurt, as I lift my cup of coffee to my mouth before setting it back down to tend to the spattering meat.
“Carson?” I turn to see the worry on her face. Christ, but I hate seeing that fucking look. Pity. “That’s impossible he—”
“No, that’s just it.” I scoop the remaining strips from the pan and drop the bacon onto some paper towel to soak up the extra grease. “He didn’t die, Hope. I thought he had too. Hell, we know for a fact that Derek’s body was sent back to the US, but I never asked for confirmation on Charger because I just assumed, since he always stayed next to Derek during our raids. Morris was the one to tell me Derek was gone.” And I’d been so high on meds and out of it for the next two weeks that I never thought to question things. When I was released, I had my own slew of issues to handle.
“What about Charger, then?”
“He’s here.”
“Here, where? Carson, you’re not making much sense.”
“I have no idea, but along with finding a GP or therapist to help me, I thought we’d go back to Ottawa,” I tell her. Grabbing the coffee cup from her hands, I put it on the counter beside her and then reach for her trembling fingers. “Babe, I don’t know what the story is, but he’s with the RCMP. He was injured in a shootout yesterday, and it looks like his luck is slowly running out. They’re discharging him, Hope. A dog like that,” I swallow the lump that manifests itself in my throat, “working dogs…they don’t know the meaning of not working. It’s what they’re trained for…what they live for.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh and run a hand over my short-cropped head of hair. I’d never been able to let it grow, despite having been medically discharged from the CAF six years ago. “It’s just…I saw him on the afternoon news yesterday, and I just felt it. Right here.” I pound at my chest where my heart is beating erratically. “I need to see him, Hope. I can’t explain it, but—”
Hope’s hands reach up to cup my cheeks, her lips turning up in a sweet reassuring smile. “You don’t have to explain, honey. Make the calls you need to. Let me know what I can do. When you know more about when you’d like to go, we’ll go. I’m sure I can swap shifts with someone if the appointments aren’t on my days off.”
Brushing the stray strand from the messy bun in her hair, I tuck it behind her ear. “Babe, thank you.” Before she can say anything, my mouth is on hers, and my arms are pulling her into me. I delight in the feel of her body against mine, the heat in her reciprocation. She is perfect for me, more than I could ever dream of.
Chapter Four
Driving up to RCMP’s National Headquarters on Leikin Drive was a surreal experience. I’d heard of the new complex opening back in 2011, but I’d never had the opportunity to visit the premises until now.
Parking in a visitor’s space, Hope and I make our way to the visitors’ center, separate from the main buildings and fortified by fencing.
“Good morning, bonjour. How can I help?”
“We’re here to meet with Corporal Matt Hawkins.” I take out my two pieces of identification as the Corporal had instructed me to do so on our last call. Hope does the same.
The guard looks over our IDs. “We aren’t allowing any cellphones or other electronic devices on the premises. Ma’am, are there any electronics in that purse?”
“We left everything locked in the car.” Hope’s nerves are showing as she turns to me and gives me a shaky smile, along with a wide-eyed look that has me smirking at her. I’m used to stringent directives, and they never bother me, but it is new to Hope. She’d never been on base whenever I’d been back from deployments. To be honest, I never wanted to spend more time on base than I needed, preferring to spend my limited hours and days with my woman.
“If you’ll head to my left, I’ll contact the Corporal and let him know you’ve arrived.”
Fifteen minutes later, Corporal Hawkins has a limping Charger on a leash as he walks up to greet us.
Seconds after that, I’m sitting on the ground with a whining Belgian Malinois lying across my lap. By the time I heard the singular warning bark I’d known so well during my deployments, everything fades to black.
“Carson?” Hope’s voice is the first thing I hear when I regain consciousness. However, the first thing I feel is a wet muzzle pressing against my hand, followed by a lick to my fingers.
“Paramedics are on the way,” the security guard who had served us earlier states off to my side. “Five minutes out, Corporal.”
“No need,” I mumble, allowing Hope to help me sit up with a whimpering Charger at my side.
Meeting Hawkins’ gaze, the man’s eyes fill with surprise at Charger’s behavior.
“It’s procedure,” the guard announces.
“Carson,” Hope pleads.
“Fine,” I grumble. I get that it’s a possible liability thing, so I humor them. Running my fingers through the furry head currently laid on my lap, I can feel the building anger and frustration that always overwhelms me post-seizure dissipate with each passing second.
“Captain Hale—”
“Just Hale or Carson will do, Corporal Hawkins,” I tell the man, as we find ourselves sitting in his office half an hour later.
Nodding, he grins and adds, “Hawkins or Matt for me.”
Once the paramedics showed, I let them do their thing, informing them of my condition. Hope had stated her certification as an ER nurse and told them she was more than capable of caring for me. This included driving me to the nearest emergency room if the situation called for it.
“Tell me about Charger.” I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “How the hell did the RCMP get their hands on an American contracting firm’s dog?”
“He’s a working dog who was discharged from the military. The RCMP was looking to beef up their K9 fleet, and we also work with this same company. Charger came highly recommended.” I nod in understanding. “We knew this guy was getting up in age.” Hawkins nodded his head toward Charger, who was lying by my feet. “Officer Stanton, his current handler, had mentioned to us last week that we needed to look into retiring him, but like all things, it takes time. After investigating, we discovered she’d been right. Charger’s reaction time was slower than it should be. We believe had he reacted to the perp
the way he should have, Stanton, would still be with us.”
On the morning of my call to the RCMP to schedule my visit, I learned Officer Stanton had lost her life due to her injuries. Despite Hawkins being the handler to another fellow K9, he was overseeing Charger’s healing.
“Any idea what’ll happen to him?” Hope asks, her head turning to meet my gaze with concern.
The man sitting across from us shakes his head. “Our handlers have their assignments on top of their personal dogs. No one is interested in taking Charger. In fact, everyone who tried just doesn’t seem to have the right chemistry with him. Having worked with a K9 yourself, they have a special set of needs that need to be met. Then there’s also the fact he still has PTSD himself. It takes a special breed of person to be able to handle him.”
Just like it would take a special breed of dog to handle me, I thought while looking at the canine. The fact Charger had me coming back to myself much quicker than Hope ever could wasn’t something I was able to overlook.
Lifting my gaze to the Corporal’s, I say, “I’d like to adopt him.”
“There’s a rigorous application process.”
“Then let’s start it,” I tell the man.
“Hale—”
My eyes pierce Hawkins’ tough exterior. “What’s left for him? What else can you do?”
“Carson—” Hope tries.
“No!” I get up to my feet, taking a wide stance and Charger, who was lying down, jumped to a sit with a single bark. “We’re all aware what happens to working dogs that don’t get adopted.” I turn to look at Hope with pleading in my eyes. I really could use her support at this point.
“He’s right, Corporal,” Hope starts. “If Charger doesn’t go to someone who knows and recognizes his needs, he’ll end up euthanized. We’re serious about this.”