Defensive Line (The Unlovabulls #1)

Chapter Four

Whoever said diamonds are a girl’s best friend never had a dog.

Lily

After arranging another session with CC in a couple of days, I headed home for a shower to finally get the dog pee off. Thankfully, CC gave me a lot to think about on the drive, other than Brody, and I was grateful.

I’d gotten the collar and leash on her with minimal fuss and a handful of treats, which led me to believe that her biggest issue was all about trust. She hadn’t trusted Brody until today. The sitter had only made things worse. Sigh. Stupid humans. Another handful of treats got her through the door and out to a walking path surrounded by grass that belonged to Brody’s building. That had aroused another suspicion.

I showed Brody a couple simple commands he could practice with her, but she already knew Sit and Down. She also peed twice and pooped. As an aside, Jesus H, I was glad Brody’s hands were bigger than mine, because he was going to need them in order to get that dog’s poop into a baggie in one shot. I would have needed both. But besides the massive piles that come with having a massive dog, I thought maybe CC wasn’t born in the mill. Someone had worked with her on the basics. I’d have to ask Brody if the emergency vet scanned her for a microchip.

My hooligans greeted me at the door to the garage. “Hey, puppers. Were you good dogs?” Mack, my Staffy, bounced around with a toy in his mouth grunting while circling my feet. Jet, my Australian Shepherd, pushed her head against my hand before circling to the back door.

I pulled it open and watched as they galloped into the backyard. They couldn’t be more different. Jet was all elegance and refined femininity until it was time to go to work —her command for it’s time to focus on her task. Be it obedience, rally, nose work, fly ball or agility, Jet was ready to kick ass and take names. And she loved to compete.

Mack, dork that he was, hit the step off the patio crooked and tumbled ass-over-head into the grass, where he proceeded to roll around snorting. Poor guy hadn’t always been so carefree. I wondered about his inauspicious start in life quite a lot.

The brand on his tummy read 12DA.

Mack had come to me through a rescue. He was a good-looking Staffordshire Bull Terrier—not a Pit Bull or Pocket Pit like people assumed. He sported cropped ears and a docked tail, too. That alone suggested he hadn’t been born in a mill either.

I preferred the floppy ears on bully breeds because I thought it made them appear softer, sillier, less intimidating. Some people liked that tough-dog look, and some breed standards required it as part of the dog’s history and/or original purpose.

Unlike CC, Mack had zero training. Which made me think the mill swindled him out of a decent, or maybe backyard, breeder.

He worked hard to become a good companion animal. His fear response was more than the rescue could handle. It paralyzed him. I’d taken him home to work with him and the goofball stole my heart so completely he never left.

He was my one and only foster fail. And I didn’t consider him a fail at all. I loved him too much to do that.

Mack Truck wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he more than made up for it in smiles, kisses and disposition. He did agility, too, but Mack didn’t have the body or uptake to be as good as Jet. His command in the ring was ready to play ? Because he wasn’t going to do what you asked him in the correct sequence, but he had a grand time trying. He was so much fun to watch. Both my dogs loved agility, but Jet was born to compete; Mack wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with that as long as they both had fun.

I gave my doofus the belly rub he was asking for then went back in. After fixing their dinner, I stripped off my clothes and turned on the hot water in the tub for a nice long shower.

What a day.

I wasn’t worried about Dick’s threats. I didn’t care if he cut me out of the will, or off, or whateverthefuck. I lived modestly, within my means. Originally, before my douchebag ex, Trey, cheated, we’d planned to buy a McMansion when he finished his residency. Then I caught him with his sidepiece and threw his shit out of our apartment. Using money I’d saved, I bought this place after I finished my master’s. Trey had harassed me for several years after the split, and he worked for the Bulldogs. Yet another reason to stay away from the Bulldogs altogether, as if Dick and my dad weren’t enough.

Billy Costello had indeed embraced the pro football lifestyle. I loved my daddy, dearly, but I remembered with absolute clarity the fights with my mom after he’d been on a road trip and she’d found the proverbial lipstick on the collar. How I’d lock myself in my room and listen as dad trashed the house, and then he wouldn’t come home for a few days. Or when he couldn’t get out of bed to come watch my soccer games.

Slicking my hair with shampoo, I lathered up. I wondered how long it would be before Brody flaked on the mill. I wanted to believe he’d come through like he’d promised, but the reality center of my brain told me he’d ghost.

Fickle.

The man was fickle. He had a short attention span. I think he’d had one relationship in his pro career. It was the only time period he’d been photographed with the same woman more than once.

My body’s reaction to Brody was also highly inconvenient. The few times where he and I chatted at some event or another were always...flirty. Eyes lingered too long on each other. Mouths would get dry while other parts of me ran slick from even the politest conversation. We focused too much on each other. Flowed too easy together. I’d even catch him eyeing me as I spoke with other guests. Yet, at the end of the evening, he always found someone else to leave with. Chemistry was a bitch when the man you wanted most was also the last one you’d sleep with.

Of course, in the past, we’d always been in public, and our flirts had stayed polite. On the up-and-up.

Until today.

Being alone with him in his apartment had set off all kinds of slippery slope warning bells in the back of my brain. Yet, when heat flooded his rich chocolate irises, I could have used a change of panties.

Turning, I let the hot cascade of water beat on my shoulders to loosen the knots in my neck. The fantasy suite scandal was still making headlines on the regular, too. I mean, the dude had been caught participating in a team orgy. I wasn’t judging. If that was his thing, more power to him, but it was something straight out of an episode of Ballers . I only knew what I’d seen in the news, but at least seven Bulldogs players had been identified in the pictures one of the women sneaked, and Brody was in the thick of things. On top of that, they’d trashed a $20,000-per-night presidential suite.

No matter how much I wanted to rub my naked self all over his naked self, Brody Shaw was look but don’t touch.

He was beyond pretty to look at, though.

I lathered my washcloth, letting the conditioner sit in my hair. God, that guy’s shoulders, and arms. His thighs and butt. The hair and jaw and scruff, the lips and... Gahhh!

Then there was the gaze when he fell in love with his dog—so soulful, with an unexpected softness and complexity from a guy who could snap a quarterback like a twig. His eyes were totally at odds with the easy-going facade. Brody Shaw had a lot more depth than he wanted people to see.

Then, there was the intensity on his face when I slipped through the doorway. I’d always wondered what he’d be like in bed. The whole football thing made me think he was likely all rough and raw. But those eyes...they spoke of slow and easy. Rocking back and forth while I straddled his hips, and Sunday mornings under the covers.

Of course, that was ridiculous. Sundays were for football.

That thought killed the fantasy fast. It was a good thing, too. Thinking about sleeping with Shaw would only make it harder for me to concentrate around him—coveting what I would never let myself have.

I considered my handheld showerhead snuggled into its spot below the regular one...sigh.

Flicking the water to cool, I rinsed my conditioner, and got out before I thought better of it. Mack had pushed the bathroom door open. He was curled up on my bath rug, little nub tail going in circles.

Mommy’s little monster, that was him.

I slipped on an old Donnas T-shirt and a clean pair of undies, Monster following me around tight on my heels. Jet was more independent than Mack. She was confident in her place in the world, and that place was on a stack of mattresses. With a pea hidden somewhere in the middle. Mack needed to be closer, to be reassured more often that he was safe and loved. Understandable, given his start. “Hey pally, who’s a good boy, huh?”

His tongue lolled to the side. That big old smile melted my heart every time. I put on my much deeper Mack voice and answered for him. “Me mama, Iza good boy. Iza the bestest.”

“Yes, you are.” I smooched the top of his head. “You’re the bestest boy ever.” After kissing his snout, I pulled a comb through my hair. “Guess what, pally. I met a pretty girl today who has a scar on her tummy like yours. Her dad said he’s going to help find the fuckers who did it to you.” I hoped.

Following me to the spare bedroom-turned-office, he watched as I pulled out the folder I’d stashed in my desk over a year ago. It was time to study it with fresh eyes. Seven dogs with that scar, two that had barely escaped with their lives. Five weren’t so lucky. One with a failed attempt at a slit throat, and my boy with scars from buckshot that had been stuck in his nose, neck, and shoulder.

Collapsing on the couch, I pulled my legs under me. It was never fun to go down this rabbit hole, but Mack had no voice. I would be the voice he didn’t have. With his head on my hip, and Jet’s fluffy butt brushing my other thigh, I cracked open the file. Nothing killed lady-wood quicker than puppy mill research.

Sometime later, I woke up on the couch to a text alert. My open laptop was sitting on top of Mack’s snoring body.

I picked up my phone. Eight thirty p.m. Jesus, I was tired.

Then, I saw who the text was from. Wide fucking awake.

Brody: Shit. I left a Hershey bar on the counter for five seconds, and when I turned around it was gone, wrapper and all. CC has foil hanging from her lip. Do I need to take her to the emergency vet?

Brody sent a picture of the offending counter surfer with Hershey wrapper stuck to her lip. I barked out a laugh.

Me: First, I didn’t think you guys were allowed to eat stuff like that. Second, don’t panic. Was it dark chocolate?

Brody: First, off-season. Second, it was milk chocolate.

Me: She probably doesn’t need to go to the vet but keep your eye on her. Dark chocolate is worse for dogs. Also, CC’s a big girl—it would take a lot of chocolate to poison a dog her size. If she starts acting agitated, has muscle contractions, excess vomiting—then you need to call the vet. Chances are she’ll be fine.

There was a long pause.

Brody: What about the wrapper? She swallowed it, too. Do I just wait for her to...you know?

Talking about dog poop was a way of life for me. I forgot now and then that it made other people uncomfortable.

Me: It’ll pass. Keep an eye on her poop to make sure she’s going normally. If she gets diarrhea or seems constipated, call your vet. CC is a big dog who produces big piles. Much less chance of her having an issue than a Yorkie.

When he didn’t answer right away, I plugged in my laptop and put the dogs out for the last time that night. After whistling them back in, I crawled into bed, huddling down in the covers. It was my favorite season in Dallas—that two days between winter and summer when it was cold at night, but the sun was warm during the day. Spring, that was it. I wished it lasted longer than two days.

After I patted the bed, both dogs jumped in. Mack bracketed my left side while Jet curled into my ribcage on the right. I was starting to doze when the phone pinged with another text. Sigh. I’d given Brody my number because I knew he’d worry constantly for the next few weeks. I was beginning to think it was a mistake—I couldn’t stop thinking about his handsome ass if he wouldn’t stop texting.

Brody: I took her out, seems fine. not the least bit bothered, but I feel horrible.

Me: If it makes you feel better, Mack once ate a sock. I didn’t know until he threw it up on the couch. It wasn’t blue anymore.

Brody: LMAO! I gotta meet this dude.

Brody: Our first manners class is in two weeks. Is there anything special I’ll need?

Me: We have private lessons at the center, if you’d rather? They’ll email you a list of stuff you’ll need for class.

Brody: Are you offering to give me...private lessons? Why, Ms. Costello, I’m scandalized. ;)

Me: Did you really just send me a winky emoji?

Brody: Hey, it wasn’t a dick pic.

Me: Classy, dude. Real classy.

Brody: Is anyone else sending you flirty winky emojis or dick pics?

I felt my eyebrows pull together, but a part of me really, really wanted to go down the flirty text road. Sigh. Time to nip it in the bud.

Me: First, none of your business, but no. Second, your attention span with women is like a spider monkey on meth. I don’t date my stepdad’s employees, Shaw. And I don’t hook up with guys I’m working with.

Yikes. That was blunt even for me. It was a solid minute before the dots popped up.

Brody: You know all the orgy stuff is a bunch of bullshit, right?

Honestly, I didn’t know if I believed him or not. The evidence was pretty damning.

Me: I know we have chemistry, okay? But the dogs come first. Always.

Brody: Yeah. TBH, getting involved with you would be a shit storm. If the media got ahold of it, they’d say I’m sleeping with you to get in good with Dick...and that’s not why I want you under me.

Brody: At. All.

Me: Brody!

Brody: Not gonna lie. I’ve been thinking about having you under me since we first met. You in that purple dress. The way it showed off your ass-sets... I wanted that particular ass-set filling my palms.

Me: brODY! You have to stop.

Brody: One condition.

Me: Thank God, anything.

Brody: Tell me you’ve never thought about me? How we’d...fit, Liliana? How we’d move?

The truth was I’d thought about what it would be like having Brody between my thighs a lot.

He was the kind of man that took up all the air in the room. Not only handsome and built, but engaging and smart. When I talked to Brody Shaw, I felt like he was invested in listening to what I had to say. Every word of every sentence. Even discussing football, he never tried to mansplain it to me like other players had.

His reaction when he’d found out my father was a Hall of Fame linebacker, was comical. We’d been talking about his lucky streak of playing his entire football career in Dallas, and I told him that even my dad had played for another team before I was born.

Brody leaned against a pillar, his legs crossed casually at the ankles as he sipped bourbon from a tumbler. “Oh? I didn’t know your dad played. Where at? What position?”

Damn, the man could wear a suit. Navy, with a crisp white shirt and a red pocket square. One corner of my lips lifted. “Yeah, my dad was a linebacker, too. Billy Costello.”

I watched as the wheels turned in his head and he put two and two together. The way his eyes widened to ridiculous proportions and all traces of cool Brody vanished.

Then he proceeded to fanboy all up in my face. “Holy shit. Your dad was Billy Costello?”

I nodded, sipped my champagne. “The one and only.”

I hadn’t been surprised he didn’t realize. It had been going on two decades since my mom married Dick. The media made plenty out of it, at the time, but as the talk and speculation about Costello’s widow marrying his former team’s GM slipped out of the media, people tended to forget those little nuggets.

“Seriously? Billy Costello revolutionized the position! Linebacking changed forever because of the way your dad played. I learned so much just watching his films and studying his form, his nose for the ball. I can’t believe I didn’t know he was your dad, Lily, I’m... This...”

Brody gestured wildly with both hands splashing the rest of his bourbon over the rim, on the floor. “Oh, shit. Did I get you?” His cheeks turned pink as he sputtered before trying to pull it together .

It was completely endearing. Honest. Guileless.

Dangerous.

There were plenty of men in the world I’d fantasized about—Jason Momoa, Dean Winchester, the UPS dude that always made fuck-me eyes when he delivered packages at the Unruly Dog—yet, Brody Shaw... He ticked all my boxes in a way no one else ever had.

Even Trey hadn’t done that.

Which meant the man was too damn good to be true.

Me: G’nite, Brody.

Brody: Night, Lily

I got up the following morning to another text.

Brody: Woke up at 2am with this new growth against my side. Don’t think the ex-pen is going to hold her. P.S. She snores. Loud. :P

Below, was a picture of CC curled into a ball against his torso. His very muscled, mostly naked torso. To his credit, it appeared he’d tried to cover up with the sheet, but CC had stolen a good portion of his covers. She’d also pushed him to the edge of the bed.

Sweet Jesus . Was there anything better to look at than a hot, half-naked man cuddling his dog?

I hadn’t expected the ex-pen to hold CC if she wanted to get out—it was only four feet high—but seeing her snuggled into Brody like that? They were going to be just fine.

Brody Shaw had finally found a woman he could commit to.