Right Where I Want You

by Jessica Hawkins

  “Well, karma can thank her lucky stars these seven-hundred-dollar oxfords were a gift from Ferragamo.”

  I tried to get Bruno back onto the dog bed I’d dragged all the way from Brooklyn. It was never easy to see him get sick, especially because this meant I’d have to go through the process of giving him his pills again—a chore even on easy days. “Sorry about the smell,” I said, lowering my proverbial weapons since this was a shared office. “I’ll clean up the vomit in a minute.”

  “Did he eat something bad?” Sebastian asked.

  I wasn’t in the mood to get into details; he probably didn’t care, anyway. Dogs were just animals to him, and I was no more than a temporary nuisance. I stood and took my purse from the couch. “Must have.”

  “You don’t think he might be more comfortable . . . anywhere but here?”

  Of course he would. Coming to the office was clearly too much excitement for him. “My sitter had an emergency, and I needed to be here today.”

  “Ah, right. The sitter.”

  I fished out the orange, blue, and white labeled canisters with Bruno’s pills and set them on the desk. Bruno made his way over to his dog bed, where he dropped down with a sigh. Next, I pulled out a small jar of Trader Joe’s peanut butter and a plastic knife.

  “You carry that in your purse?” Sebastian asked.

  I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to give Bruno his meds at the office, but when he was with me, I never left home without them. I got to work covering each pill in peanut butter. “It’s his favorite,” I said. “And my last resort in getting him to take his pills.”

  Sebastian’s silence was so long and so rare that I glanced back at him.

  “What’re they for?” he asked.

  I wasn’t thrilled about letting Sebastian into what was a very significant and sometimes painful part of my life, but I was even less interested in wasting time fabricating a story. “He has an enlarged heart,” I said. “As much as I try to pretend it just means he has more love to give, it doesn’t. It means his heart works harder and less efficiently. And that he’s very sick.” So as not to invite any more questions, I added, “But we manage.”

  I squatted by Bruno, teasing the concoction in front of his nose until he licked his chops. When he started to drool, I gave him the pills and rested my elbows on my knees, praying he’d swallow them. He spent a full twenty seconds sucking all the peanut butter off before he spit out the diuretic. Then the supplement. Then the rest. I dropped my face in my hands. “Damn it.”

  Sebastian came over. “Did you try—”

  “I’ve tried everything,” I said, not bothering to hide the frustration in my voice. “I made him chicken and rice this morning and he took his pills then, but as you can see,” I gestured toward Sebastian’s desk, “he threw them up.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  I lifted my head to look up at Sebastian. From my angle, he seemed to hit the ceiling. “Some mornings are fine, others are impossible.”

  “Sounds like it could get expensive.”

  Of course, Sebastian’s first concern was money as Neal’s had been, but he wasn’t wrong. Bruno’s illness, in addition to supporting myself and my ex for years, had eaten up my savings. From consistent check-ups to daily medicine to alternative therapies, there was no cost too high to keep Bruno alive, but it did require a steady paycheck and personal sacrifices on my part such as turning one dinner into two when possible and regularly opening up my closet to eBay. “The meds keep his heart working and fluid out of his lungs, so I don’t really have a choice.”

  Sebastian removed his suit jacket. “I’ll clean up the mess.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said, but he picked up his shoe and left the room. I faced Bruno. “Okay, big guy. I tried to play nice, but here’s how it’s going to go—I’m going to stuff them in your mouth, and you’re going to swallow. It won’t be pleasant, but it’s the only alternative you’ve left me. And it’s for the best. Got it?”

  Bruno cocked his head.

  I picked the pills out of the carpet, stood, and pointed at a spot next to my feet. “Come. Sit.”

  Bruno groaned as he got to all fours, then dropped his haunches at my side. Slowly, so as not to spook him, I straddled him from behind. He wagged his tail then looked up and back at me, as if we were about to play. I scratched his chest until he thumped his back leg. “Good boy,” I said in my most soothing voice, then quickly pried his mouth open, tossed the pills back, and held it shut. My vet had shown me how to do this, assuring me it wouldn’t hurt him, but I usually left it as a last last resort anyway. He wrestled with me until I was forced to release him. Within two seconds his meds were scattered at my feet.

  “Come on,” I said, plucking them off the ground. Bruno sensed what was coming and backed away. “No,” I said, gesturing for him to come back. If Sebastian saw this and thought Bruno was a distraction, he’d go to Vance, and I’d be forced to take Bruno home. I lunged, chasing Bruno around the office. Luckily, Sebastian had shut the door, or I had no doubt Bruno would be bounding through cubicles right now, jumping desks and dodging my coworkers like he was on an obstacle course.

  I pushed two of my boxes, still partially unpacked, next to Sebastian’s mammoth desk, then went around to the other side. Now that Bruno was trapped, I rested my hands on my knees, partly to look him in the eye, and partly to catch my breath. The most exercise I’d had lately was sprinting from the subway after work to catch my favorite taco truck before it left for the night. “Finally, this overcompensating hunk of wood is serving a purpose,” I said to Bruno.

  “Hunk of wood?” Sebastian asked as he reentered the room. “Should I be flattered or insulted?”

  I looked back over my shoulder. Sebastian held a bowl of liquid with a spoon sticking out, along with a roll of paper towels under his arm.

  “I was talking about your ridiculous desk,” I said.

  “Ah.” He grinned. “The word you’re looking for is undercompensating.”

  “That’s not a thing.” I shrugged as best I could while bent over. “I see something like that, and I have to draw my own conclusions.”

  “Without all the evidence, your conclusions are simply hypotheses.”

  I nodded at the colossal piece of furniture that would probably qualify as a small boat. “This is all I have to work with.”

  “That’s all you choose to work with. If you’d like me to invalidate your assumptions, all you have to do is ask.”

  I frowned. Had he just offered to show me the goods to disprove my overcompensation theory? Sensing my distraction, one of his many humanlike abilities, Bruno made a break for it. I pounced, caught his collar just as he tried to escape through my legs, and straddled him from behind as I worked my fingers between his clamped teeth. “It’s for your own good,” I said, panting. “Swallow the pills. Swallow the pills!”

  “Keller—”

  “Stay out of this,” I said to Sebastian. Bruno wriggled underneath me. “You want a treat?”

  He opened his mouth, and I shoved the pills in just before he bucked me off. I toppled on my ass, flopped back on the ground, and covered my face with my forearms. “I can’t do this today.”

  Bruno nudged his snout under my arms to lick my face. “Leave me alone,” I said, but of course he didn’t. He was preternaturally good at knowing when I needed comforting, even if he was the cause of my distress.

  Sebastian sighed heavily. “That’s enough wallowing.”

  I didn’t move, reluctant to face the reality of everything he’d just witnessed. Dog puke, me getting winded after a minute of running around, and a breakdown that had brought me to the ground. All things which could, and surely would, be used as ammunition to embarrass me at a later date. I peeked at Sebastian from under my arms. He was on his knees soaking a towel in the bowl he’d brought, then pressing it against the stain. “What is that?”

  “Dawn dish soap, hydrogen peroxide, and baking soda.”

  “Ho
w do you know how to do that?”

  “You think he’s the first to puke in here?” he asked.

  I laughed without thinking, then stopped when he checked the stain. The towel in his hand crunched, because it wasn’t a towel, but something fluffier and stark white. “Is that . . . a diaper?”

  “Yep. Soaks up better than a towel.”

  “But how do you know that? And where did you get it?”

  “Dixon Media has a pregnancy magazine a few floors below us. I work with Justin—this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  I blinked at him. Did he have a secret life as a dogsitter? Was he a dad? It wasn’t that far-fetched considering his playboy history—surely, he was no stranger to pregnancy scares—and it would explain his intensity when he’d grilled me about whether I was a single parent. None of my research had turned up a family, but maybe he’d intentionally kept it hidden.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I started, “have you ever, you know, held a newborn? Or a baby bottle? Been required to keep a human alive overnight?”

  “Huh?” He checked the carpet, then continued pressing the diaper to it. “Just my niece and nephew.”

  Ah. Of course—his sister. That was why he knew about vomit stains and sanitary shortcuts. “How old are they?”

  “Five, and nineteen months.” He stood, dusting off his hands. “It also works with a pad.”

  “What?”

  “A menstrual pad. But I didn’t want to get busted raiding the women’s bathroom.”

  “Good to know.” I eased myself into a sitting position. “I’ll hit up the store later.”

  “Go through this a lot?” he asked.

  “Yes, but usually at home. If I can’t get Bruno to cooperate, then the sitter takes over. He’s a vet student and the only other person who can handle the tantrums.”

  “Bruno.” He chuckled. “Suits him perfectly. We can let this sit while we air out the smell. Where’s his leash?”

  “In my tote bag,” I said cautiously. “Why? We already went for a walk this morning.”

  “We could all use some fresh air.” He got hand sanitizer from his desk. “I’ll call janitorial to come get the trash while we’re out.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah.” He squirted enough goop in his palm to sanitize a small child, then rubbed his hands together. “Bruno’s not the only one who needs morning Zen.”

  “And you think we’ll find that downstairs, blocks from one of the world’s top tourist destinations?” I asked, cringing at just the idea of the crowds clogging Times Square.

  “I know we will.” He went through my “Dogs are Good, but Danes are Great” tote bag. Bruno jumped to his feet and ran over, whining and wagging his tail as Sebastian hooked the leash onto his collar. “Bruno and I are going to de-stress. You coming?”

  “De-stress? What happened to anthropomorphizing?”

  “Have it your way. We’ll see you when we get back.”

  Walking Bruno could be a dangerous endeavor. Nobody ever did it except me, Luciano, or Bruno’s sitters. He wasn’t some easily controlled lap dog—he’d been through several rounds of behavioral training but could pull me across a sidewalk in a flash. Especially when there was a female dog involved.

  Because sadly, Bruno played right in to Luciano’s theory—he loved bitches.

  I got off the floor. No way was I letting them go alone. Bruno needed me, almost as much as I needed him.

  And though neither of us needed Sebastian, in that moment, I had to admit—I was glad he was there.

  11

  GEORGINA

  With Bruno’s leash in hand, Sebastian opened the door to our office, stuck his head out, and looked left to right.

  “Maybe I should take his leash,” I said. “He can be a handful.”

  “I’ve got him, and you’re only allowed to come with us if you promise to relax.”

  “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms as I waited behind them. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking that the coast is clear.”

  “I already approved this with Vance.”

  “It’s not Vance you need to worry about,” Sebastian said. “It’s Scaredy-Cat Jones.”

  I took a wild guess. “Justin?”

  “He’s scared of dogs. And heights. And women’s shoes. And intimacy. The guy’s a real piece of work. We keep the floor pet-free so we don’t have to deal with more of his neuroses.”

  “He’ll change his tune when he meets Bruno.”

  Sebastian looked back at me. “Considering this dog would come up to Justin’s stomach, I don’t think so. Can Bruno army crawl?”

  “Uh . . . not on command.”

  “Never mind. Flank Bruno’s other side, and let’s go.” Sebastian strode out of the office. I scurried to keep up in four-inch heels, shielding Bruno from the left as we wound through the cubicles. “We’re good,” Sebastian said, easing up when we reached the elevators. “Justin must be on the shitter.”

  “Is everything about pooping with you two?”

  Sebastian punched the call button. “Everybody does it, Georgina. Don’t be a prude.”

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal Justin with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. “They were out of jelly,” he started, “so I got us extra glaze—”

  Bruno, most likely having caught a whiff of the pastries, bounded into the elevator and leapt for the box, ripping the leash from Sebastian’s hand.

  Justin stumbled back against a wall. “Monster!”

  I jolted forward, but my heel caught on the carpet, and I face-planted into Sebastian’s back. He didn’t budge an inch, but spun around and grabbed my arm. “Whoa—”

  “My heel, it’s stuck,” I rushed out as an apology. “I can’t get it—” Reflexively, I kicked my foot to free myself.

  Justin had abandoned the box of donuts and was trying to escape as my shoe, stiletto up, flew into the elevator. He threw his hands over his face and ducked into a corner as the heel narrowly missed his head. “What’s happening?” Justin asked as Bruno licked his face. “Is this hell?”

  My heart hammered, both from my near fall, and because Sebastian’s big, stupid hand felt so good around my bicep. “Are you okay?” I asked Justin.

  “He’s fine,” Sebastian said, releasing me to grab Bruno’s collar. He pulled him off Justin and passed me the leash. “The dog’s friendly.”

  Justin peeked out from behind his arms to glare at me. “What are you, some kind of high-class assassin?” he asked me. “You almost killed me with a Jimmy Choo.”

  “Justin, take your fucking donuts and get out of here,” Sebastian said, stooping to pick up my shoe.

  “How am I the one getting yelled at?” he asked, side-eyeing the dog as he scraped the fallen donuts back into the box.

  “You’re a drama queen,” Sebastian said. “It was about time you faced your fears.”

  Justin maneuvered by us, gripping the crumpled box as sweat dotted his temples. “You think I’m cured now?” he mumbled on his way to the office. “That only made things worse.”

  I hobbled onto the elevator with Bruno as Sebastian held out my Choo to keep the doors open. I traded the leash for it and angled to slip it back on. Without thinking, I steadied myself on Sebastian’s bicep. As if the muscle wasn’t hard enough to jar me into realizing what I’d done, an electric jolt spurred me to jerk my hand back and grab the elevator railing instead.

  “Need help, Cinderella?” Sebastian asked, looking amused as he hit the button for the lobby.

  “I’m fine.” I straightened my shoulders. “What’s Justin’s shoe thing about?”

  “He’s been nailed by one before.” Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Incidentally, it was also Jimmy Choo.”

  “That’s some bad luck.”

  Sebastian nodded gravely. “If you hear him tell the story, he almost lost an eye.”

  I started to laugh. Sebastian also gave in to a deep chuckle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I asked.

  “Because you brought your sick dog onto the battlefield,” he deadpanned, as if I should know what that meant.

  The elevator stopped at a floor, and I moved closer to Sebastian and Bruno as people boarded. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s like when you’re gaming at a friend’s house, and his mom comes in with snacks while you’re talking shit. I have no choice but to lower my weapons and be nice.”

  “So I wasn’t that far off base with the whole basement-dwelling nerd on a headset.”

  Sebastian ruffled the top of Bruno’s head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I smiled to myself as the elevator opened and we passed through the lobby. Sebastian nodded at one of the security guards. “I can’t believe you let this one in the building,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder at me.

  “Sorry, Mr. Quinn,” he said. “She said he was an emotional support dog.”

  “Emotional support,” Sebastian said under his breath as he glanced back at me.

  I shrugged and tried to look sheepish. “A white lie that doesn’t hurt anyone. Except Justin.”

  Sebastian shook his head and turned back to security. “I wasn’t talking about the dog. I mean the Yankees fan.”

  “Oh-ho-ho,” the guard said, slapping his forehead. “I had no idea, or I would’ve turned her away.”

  Since we’d just lost four games in a row against the Sox, I couldn’t even retort. “It’s not enough that we’re giving it up to you on a regular basis?” I asked. “What are you traitors even doing in New York?”

  “She’s got a point,” security said, shooting us a wave as we exited onto a busy sidewalk. I followed Sebastian as he turned right, leading us through the first wave of a weekday lunch rush. It wouldn’t be long until lines curved around food carts and strangers ate on shared benches. I balled my hands into fists to keep from taking Bruno’s leash back amidst all the activity. Aside from him taking off after a bitch, a squirrel, or a UPS truck—he detested anyone who delivered mail—I worried about him getting too excited. It wasn’t good for his heart, which was why I ensured he was rarely alone.