Chapter 15 Eau De Dog
Eau De Dog
Stiles
Idon’t usually try to out-weird McCormick. That’s a losing game. The man once used a bratwurst package as a bookmark and called it “meat literature.” But it’s his birthday, and I wanted to give him something special. Something him.
So I buy a cologne bottle off Etsy, a sleek little thing with a fake French label that looks expensive. Then I empty it, boil up three hot dogs in a saucepan, let it get nice and murky, and funnel the water right in. Hot dog eau de toilette. Filtered twice. Chilled.
Classy.
He opens the box on the couch beside me, still in his birthday crown, a crooked mess made from yellow construction paper, that says KING DOG. He lifts the bottle like it’s a diamond, or I’ve just given him the secret to eternal life.
“Smells fancy,” he says, already twisting off the cap.
“Mmhm,” I reply, sipping my Coke and watching the chaos unfold.
He sniffs the bottle—hard. Then again. And then he lights up like a kid at a concession stand. “Oh my God. Babe. This smells like… like a backyard barbecue hosted by angels.”
I blink. “Really?”
He dabs some behind each ear. Rolls his neck. Breathes it in deep.
“No, like, this is me. It’s savory. It’s nostalgic. And it smells like nitrates.”
I try not to laugh. “You haven’t even asked what it’s made of.”
He ignores me and douses himself. Like we’re under attack and the only defense is to smell aggressively like sodium and meat. The room reeks like the 4th of July.
“Mac,” I say, wiping my eyes because I can’t stop laughing. “It’s hot dog water. That’s what you’re wearing. Literal frank juice. From the pot.”
He pauses, then shrugs. “No wonder I love it.”
And that’s it. No horror. No disgust. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, lips a little oily now, like a walking ballpark fantasy. “You get me,” he says.
And I do. God help me, I really, really do.
We’re ten minutes into McCormick’s birthday dinner at the Tavern when the therapy dog locks in.
It’s a golden retriever in a blue vest that says DO NOT PET. A good boy named Captain who belongs to a regular at table three. The kind of dog that normally lies quietly under a booth. But now?
Now, Captain is staring at my boyfriend like he’s the last pork product on Earth.
McCormick is too busy double-fisting mozzarella sticks and birthday fries to notice. He’s glowing, (Not metaphorically.) The candle in his hot dog-shaped birthday cake is reflecting off his slightly greasy skin. He is radiant. And meat-scented.
Captain slinks under the table. His leash drags. The woman he’s with—a nice older lady with a crochet bag—gives a polite tug, but it’s too late. The dog is at our booth, nose in the air, tail wagging.
Then he starts licking.
First it’s McCormick’s ankle. Then his calf. Then his knee, at which point McCormick glances down and grins.
“Hey, buddy!” he says, delighted, as though this dog hasn’t just tried to lick through his soul.
“Mac,” I hiss, “you’re wearing meat water. You’re literally seasoned.”
“He loves me,” McCormick says proudly. “He knows what’s good.”
Captain licks the back of his hand like he’s taste-testing a vintage sausage. The lady starts apologizing. The waitress is trying not to laugh. Someone at the bar yells, “Yo, is that dog trying to marry him?”
McCormick leans down and gives the dog a fist bump. “It’s my birthday,” he tells him. “You can lick me all you want.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, hiding my face behind the dessert menu.
The dog’s handler finally comes over, tugging gently. “He’s never done this before,” she says, genuinely flustered. “He usually doesn’t care for men.”
“Well, I’m not just a man,” McCormick says, beaming. “I’m a meal.”
Captain whines when he leaves and tries to circle back three times. McCormick watches him go like he’s just parted ways with an old friend. Then he looks at me and dabs a little more cologne on his neck from the tiny sample bottle in his pocket.
“You can’t reapply at the table,” I say.
“I can if it’s for the dogs.”
And somehow, that’s the most McCormick thing I’ve ever heard.
We get home with a to-go box full of fries.
He’s still grinning from the dinner ordeal, unbothered that a dog tried to elope with him in public.
He’s still wearing his KING DOG birthday crown, now a little lopsided, and his shirt’s somehow more undone than it was before.
That’s the effect of chili cheese fries and nine people at the Tavern yelling “lick him again, Captain!” while McCormick basked in the attention.
I lock the door behind us, toss my keys, and turn to look at him, and he just beams.
“You still smell like hot dog water,” I say, stepping closer.
He lifts his chin proudly. “Because I am hot dog water. I embody the broth.”
“You know it’s literal meat juice, right? That’s not even a euphemism.”
He shrugs out of his hoodie. “It’s my natural musk now. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
I raise an eyebrow, step in, and let my hands slide over his chest, bare under the flannel, warm, faintly greasy, and familiar.
He watches me with a little spark in his eyes. And then I lean down… and lick a slow stripe up the side of his neck.
McCormick makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a bark. “Stiles! What the—”
I lick him again. Right beneath his jaw. “Mmm. Briny. Complex. Notes of Nathan’s and Ballpark.”
“Notes of heaven,” he mutters, eyes going wide.
I press him up against the wall and nibble just below his ear, where the last of the scent clings the strongest. “You’re disgusting.”
“You licked me.”
“You’re still disgusting.”
“Do it again.”
I do. He groans and drops the to-go box. Mac wraps his arms around me and murmurs into my hair, “You love my meat sweat pheromones. Just admit it.”
I laugh against his neck, lips sticky with laughter and a little salt. “You know I do.”
And then we make out like two teens at a gas station hot dog roller. Which is, frankly, the only way this night could end.