Chapter Three Remi #2
With a groan, I sank into the empty chair tucked into the corner of her office. On the end table set between it and a second, identical chair was a little vase of wildflowers and a business card holder with the rescue’s contact information. I plucked one out of the case and fiddled with the edges.
“Can’t we just ask the judge for a check and make him go away?”
“No,” she said around an amused smirk.
“Ugh. We need the money more than we need him lurking around.”
“Will he lurk?”
“Yes,” I answered emphatically. “Someone of his size can’t help it. Wait until you see him. It’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve never known you to be so judgmental right off the bat.”
“I’m not usually, but come on—it’s completely fair to judge him off what I know, and nothing I know speaks well of him. And that was before the DUI. And before he opened his asshole mouth.”
Muriel crossed her legs and let out a slow breath. “People make lots of mistakes. I have. You have,” she said gently. “But hopefully, we’re not always viewed with those mistakes as the standard for who we are.”
“Well, if you’re going to be rational about it . . .” I grumbled. For a moment, I closed my eyes and let my head rest against the wall. “What would you do? If you were in charge of him?”
Probably not get into a situation where he finger-banged her in a club, but that was not a point I felt moved to make.
“Hold him to the same level of accountability you expect from employees or volunteers. You’re the boss, and you need to act like it.
” When I opened my eyes, she was watching me carefully.
“This is a big test for you, Remi. I expect you to set aside whatever distrust you might have and be a professional.”
I nodded slowly. “So no more hormone-induced temper tantrums? Even when he’s awful?”
It wasn’t like I could tell her what had happened out in the parking lot.
That would trigger way too many questions, and I’d prefer to take that entire experience to my grave, where it belonged.
Even Ness didn’t know what had happened at the club.
I’d told her I danced with someone hot, we flirted, and I went home while she was busy sucking face with Christian.
“How do you know he’s going to be awful?” Muriel asked with a smile.
“Believe me. I know.”
She laughed at my ominous tone.
“As long as you do it in your office where no one can see, have at it.” She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk. “Why do you think I stashed chocolate in here?”
“I think I need some. Maybe the whole bag.”
She pulled something out of a crinkly plastic bag. I reached forward, and she set two foil-covered pieces of chocolate in my outstretched palm. I arched a wry brow but didn’t argue. As I unwrapped one, she selected another for herself, and for a moment we both ate our chocolate in peace.
The burst of rich, sugary sweetness had me sighing. I eyed the second one and unwrapped that too.
Muriel finished first, balling up the foil and tossing it into the garbage underneath the desk.
“I want to remove the interim off your title as much as you do, Remi. And if you can manage this situation well—use it as a tool to generate something positive out of an unfortunate situation—I think we’ll do exactly that. ”
I wanted the interim gone too. Removing it came with more stable hours and even better pay, which I desperately needed.
“Has the shelter ever had court-mandated community service volunteers before?”
“Nope. But we’ll treat it exactly as we do any of our other nonpaid employees. Work with him on his schedule. If he’s willing to come in for three to four hours at a time, it won’t take terribly long to get through his community service.”
“So I need the patience of a saint and can’t step a toe out of line with Mr. Football.”
She grinned. “Easy enough, right?” I gave her a look, and as she laughed, I stood to leave the office. Muriel held up her hand and then tossed me another piece of chocolate. “Just in case.”
Chocolate had the powerful ability to grant delusions.
With chocolate, I was calm and centered again. I didn’t need a nap and a double-shampoo shower. With chocolate, I wasn’t on the edge of snapping whenever I saw the chiseled jaw and inked biceps.
Unfortunately for Archer, every time I looked at him, I’d be reminded of my very worst impulses, swinging wildly between both ends of the spectrum.
The Remi who still craved wild affection and unbridled lust—who wanted to be wanted, even if it didn’t make sense . . . She needed to take several fucking seats.
And the Remi who occasionally had violent outbursts at the slightest sign of disrespect to either me or my loved ones . . . She needed anger management.
Unfortunately, my chocolate was gone by the time I turned the corner into the lobby, and the object of my ire was standing by the front desk, studying the pictures on the walls—a record of successful adoptions over the last year.
We were closer to the side of the building with the kennels now, and the sharp barks of our current guests punctuated the thick silence as I stared at Archer.
He was totally going to lurk. It wasn’t like he could help it.
Even standing there like he was, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers—muscles flexing every which way—Archer filled the space like no one I’d ever seen before.
Maybe it was always like that for guys like him.
Larger than life and intimidating just by existing.
But even with all that, he was just a guy who’d fucked up and was now paying the price. I thought about my son’s face when I’d tossed that jersey into the garbage. Mistakes always came with consequences, didn’t they? We might not see the dominoes topple right away, but they always did.
“You were supposed to wait outside.”
“I’m not great at being told what to do,” he said easily, eyes still on the wall. “What’s the easiest job you can give me for you to sign off on these hours? Take some pictures with some dogs? Cuddle a puppy or something?”
“Easy,” I mused. “That’s what you want out of this?”
He squared his shoulders in my direction. “Yes. And after this, I’m guessing you want me out of your hair just as badly.”
“I’m quite used to not getting what I want.”
Archer gave me a speaking glance at that unfortunate admission, because between the two of us, that could mean a whole lot of things.
“Come on,” I told him. “I’ll show you around.”
We walked through the kennels first, and I pulled bits of hot dog out of the bag in my pocket to feed some of the pups.
The room was big, and loud, so we didn’t do much talking.
When I stopped to feed some treats to Scout—a sweet, sad-eyed hound dog missing his back right leg—Archer paused to read the sign affixed to his kennel’s fencing.
He kept moving without asking a single question.
The sign outside each kennel described the dog’s temperament and what we knew of their story.
How long they’d been with us. Scout was our longest resident: He’d been with us for more than a year.
The missing leg and the shy personality didn’t do him any favors when there were almost always friendlier, more energetic options.
There were twelve kennels on each side of the long room, twenty-four in total, and all but one was filled.
Each dog had a bed elevated off the concrete floor, food and water bowls attached to the cinder block walls, a soft blanket, and a stuffed animal or toy for them to play with.
“The door at the end leads out to the first of two yards,” I told him, keeping my focus on Scout, who leaned into my hand as I reached through the fence to scratch the back of his head.
“We rotate the dogs as best we can through the day. Scout and a couple of the others can be left out for longer periods of time together because they get along really well, but they still need supervision when they’re in the yard together.
Most of the dogs go outside by themselves. ”
No response from the walking Neanderthal. Probably because he didn’t care.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and when I checked the screen, it was the school. “This is Remi.”
“Mom?”
“What’s up, buddy? Are you okay?”
“My stomach hurts. Can I come home?”
I glanced briefly at Archer, who was watching me with unreadable eyes underneath the brim of his hat. “When did it start hurting? You were fine this morning.”
“Uhhh . . .”
He paused just long enough that I rolled my eyes. “Is this because of your math test? Be honest, dude.”
Gavin let out a dramatic sigh. “What if I fail?”
“You won’t fail the test. But just because you’re nervous about it doesn’t mean you can skip school. If you puke in class, I promise I’ll come get you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Always here to help,” I said magnanimously. “Take a deep breath and do your best. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you—you know that, right?”
“And if my best is a C?”
“If your best is a C, then I’ll be the proudest mom in the world.”
“Fine.”
I smiled, tucking my chin down to my chest when he sighed. “Love you, bud.”
“Love you more.”
“Impossible.”
Archer was still watching me when I tucked my phone into my pocket. “My son,” I said briskly. “He’s ten and hates math tests. Not that I needed to tell you that or anything.”
God, it would have been so much better if he’d nodded or made some inane comment to put me out of my rambling misery, but instead he simply watched, those blue eyes taking in every inch of my face, which was currently holding all the blood in my entire body as it rushed to my cheeks.
Curse my fair skin.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway.”
I gave Scout one final pat and moved on to Daisy, across the aisle. She was a six-year-old shepherd mix with fluffy golden hair and droopy ears. When my hand went back into my pocket, she started dancing in circles, front paws immediately going up on the fence as she waited for her treat.
“Hey, Daisy girl,” I said. “You’re going out next, don’t worry. I know you need some exercise.”
The back of my neck tingled, the weight of Archer’s gaze heavy as he stood behind me and watched. We walked down the rest of the aisle, and he never reached through to pet any of the dogs.
I swear, I didn’t want to judge him, but if someone didn’t like dogs, I totally judged.
Wordlessly, Archer followed behind while I showed him the cat room, where we had about six kennels filled with cats needing new homes.
“Not very many in here.”
The sound of his voice after so much silence was jarring, and I blinked up at him in surprise.
“We’re mainly a dog rescue,” I explained.
“Older ones, actually. We have a handful of foster homes that take in mamas and puppies when we do get them. Right now I think we have eight others split between three foster homes. It’s not that we don’t get cats or puppies or younger dogs—sometimes the need is so great that we have to take on what we can.
But it’s so much harder for older dogs to find families.
Muriel, the woman who founded the shelter, adopted an eight-year-old Lab when she and her husband first got married, and he’d been sitting in a shelter for two years when they took him home.
” I gestured to the logo on the wall. “That’s his paw print. ”
Next were the adoption rooms, where prospective families met with dogs.
“We also do temperament-testing in here—check for resource guarding and see how they might handle kids, other dogs, that sort of thing. And when our local vet partners come in for routine exams, they can handle all of that on-site.”
I gestured to the door that led to the side yard.
“You know what’s out there—or used to be,” I added icily.
“It was an outdoor space we’d just added for families to play with dogs they’re considering adopting.
It was less than a week old. My grandfather gave me two benches that he bought for my grandma thirty years ago.
Took him months to refinish them.” I cleared my throat. “They’re destroyed too.”
Archer’s profile was stony as he stared at that door. A muscle in his jaw flexed. He took another deep breath, and without turning to face me, he spoke again.
“It was raining.”
“What?”
“It was raining,” he repeated. “The roads were wet, and I thought I saw an animal. Maybe it was that dog—”
I let out a shocked huff. “Are you trying to make excuses for getting behind the wheel and driving when you were drunk?”
“I’m just saying you don’t need to try and make me feel like shit. I already do.”
I thought about what Muriel had said. Professional. Kind. Don’t step a toe out of line with Mr. Football.
So instead of telling him that he needed his head dislodged from his ass, I was glad my son tossed his jersey, and I wanted to slap the perfect teeth out of his face, I took a deep breath and let the bad juju out on the exhale.
“You want an easy job while you’re here?” I asked.
“Preferably.”
“Good. Then let me introduce you to the poop shovel. Easy enough to shovel dog shit for fifty hours, isn’t it?”