Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Tuesday evening, after the longest two workdays of my life, I take Rufus for a run.
I ended up tethering his leash to the chair in my cubicle on Monday after he helped himself to some cupcakes left over from a birthday in the break room, as well as a reheated slice of pizza Brian brought for lunch.
I had to order a whole pie from down the street just to keep him from filing a complaint with HR.
Things seemed pretty under control today until Jana, of all people, popped around the side of my cubicle and asked if I could get the dog to stop whining so she could talk on the phone.
This, on top of him shoving his cold nose in my face repeatedly the last two nights, drooling on my sheets, and squeaking until I finally lost it and locked him in his crate—where he still cried.
He needs activity—he needs to run, stupid Drew Forbes repeats in my head like an obnoxious reminder. So that’s exactly what I’m doing, hoping to give the dog whatever it is he needs so I can meet my own.
The weather has warmed, making like spring instead of winter again for a few days, and I’m far from the only person in Denver rushing out to soak up the sunshine.
But surprisingly, the crowded jogging path doesn’t faze Rufus.
He just seems happy, out from under my desk.
By the time we complete our final circuit of the park, the dog and I are both panting, but the way he looks at me as we slow to a walk and head home—I’d almost swear he’s grateful.
I grip the leash, and we match pace. I know dogs can’t possibly measure time or track significant events.
They remember things, obviously, but there’s no way Rufus could understand that today marks one year since Kyle’s death.
Or what that means. He just has one of those expressions that seems like he does.
I take my time returning to our building, stopping along the greenbelt on the way there to do some stretching, loosening up my calves and hamstrings. Now that I don’t have work to distract me, I just want to skip over the rest of today.
I try to center my anxiety on the new Unmatched article dropping tomorrow, wondering if I’ll have to start looking over my shoulder again after it prints.
I’m working so hard to focus on this, and the music drumming in my earbuds, that I don’t notice the wall that is Drew Forbes’s chest until I nearly walk straight into it.
“Hi, um . . .” He trails off when he sees me.
And even though he’s literally outside my building, he is apparently so unhappy to see me, he drops to his knees and greets the dog instead.
Rufus knocks his glasses sideways, licking his face like it’s covered in au jus.
But I can’t help noting the gray pallor of the man’s skin.
The shadows lingering around his eyes. There’s no denying that today sucks for him too.
But why is he here?
I stand there, waiting for him to finish communing with Rufus, annoyed that his mere presence precludes my own mental escape. Like I needed a living, breathing, bespectacled reminder of the person I’m trying hardest not to think about today.
Finally, he clears his throat and stands, and I wait for him to explain why he chose to further ruin my already terrible day with his appearance.
Without looking at me, he extends his arm, a small brown paper shopping bag dangling from his fingers. “This is for you.”
Wow. I’ve received literal death threats with more enthusiasm.
I give the bag a wary glance before taking it, wondering if it’s filled with poison.
Or maybe a bomb. I narrow my eyes and reach inside, but what I find is a simple, tasteful wooden picture frame the exact size of the one he dropped.
I have to admit, it’s nicer than the original.
I hold the frame a moment, trying to figure out how to make speech work, but Mr. Congeniality beats me to it.
“I have a proposal,” he says. My eyebrows shoot up. Some part of me actually wants to laugh. He sounds like a goddamn robot.
“Then you should have stayed on your knees,” I snark. But when he just looks confused, I roll my eyes. “I took the dog for a run like you suggested. Now I’m in major need of a shower. Hurry up and spit it out.”
He straightens, even more stiff and formal, if that’s possible.
“Today is . . .” He swallows, and for a nauseous moment, I’m sure he’s going to drag me with him into a black hole.
I step back, consider making a run for it, but then he says, “I think I can help Rufus recover. I’d like to. If you’d be willing to work together.”
I was wrong. This is a black hole. Just not one I ever saw coming.
“Look,” he continues. “I’ve done some research and have a few ideas about what he’s struggling with. We could just try for a week or two. It’ll either help, or it won’t.”
I bite my lip. My knee-jerk reaction is to say no and shove past him. But instead, I force myself to ask a question. “And what would that look like, exactly?”
He shifts his weight uncomfortably. But when he brings his hand to rest on Rufus’s head, something changes. His whole posture is more relaxed, more fluid.
“You could bring him to the training center. Or we could just work in the park at first, if that’s more comfortable. I’m sure the running helps. But this dog was trained to follow specific commands, do specific types of jobs . . . My hope is he’ll settle down if we let him do them.”
I open my mouth, ready to say yes, please.
Beg for it, for anything that will settle Rufus at all.
But I catch myself before I can walk into his web.
I almost forgot I’m dealing with a Forbes.
And they have a one hundred percent burn rate.
I tighten my grip on the leash, moving toward the entrance of my building.
“Sorry, I can’t afford formal training.”
“I won’t charge you,” he says quickly. “I just want to do it . . . for him.”
The gravelly quality of his voice gets my attention. I’m not sure which him he means.
Rufus—or Kyle?
I turn to the dog, staring up at me, panting, with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. And I swear he has an expression in his eyes like he just wants me to figure things out.
So do I, dog. So do I.
“He needs water,” I mutter, opening the lobby door.
But the traitorous animal lingers. Drew’s long fingers still stroke his ears, his golden eyes relaxed and trusting.
I remember something Lydia said once about animals being able to tell things about people’s character.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll think about it, all right? ”
Drew nods, giving Rufus a final pat before he steps back. The dog looks from him to me briefly, like he’s not sure why we’re going separate ways. Then, finally, he follows me through the door.
Sometime around three a.m., I wake up to an unfamiliar sound. I hadn’t been dreaming, or if I was, I don’t remember. But I was so deeply asleep, it takes forever to form a coherent thought. I’m not even sure I actually heard something until it starts up again.
Squick, squick, squick . . .
A sort of rubbery, plastic sound. Not close, but definitely coming from inside my apartment.
I look around for Rufus, who is usually curled in a ball on a mat next to the bed under the window—when he’s not just standing watching me sleep like a creeper.
But he isn’t there now. Which probably isn’t good.
I turn on my bedside light and sit up. The sound seems to come from what’s left of the couch, but I can only see the back of it from here.
The dog is probably finishing it off or, best-case scenario, chewing on his Kong.
But something tells me I should make sure.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and just as my feet touch the floor, a new sound fills the air. One I recognize immediately.
“Oh no, you didn’t, you fucking—”
I rush into my living area and flip on the overhead light. There, perched in the middle of the sofa he single-handedly destroyed, is Rufus. Holding what’s left of my favorite, now very chewed up, purple vibrator—currently vibrating—in his mouth.
“Give that to me.” I lunge for him, but he makes a dramatic escape over the back of the couch like a thief fleeing an art gallery. “Rufus.”
He looks at me. And then has the nerve to wag his black-tipped tail.
I nearly growl. “You are a very bad dog. Let me have that right now.” I come around the couch toward him, trying again to reclaim my sex toy.
Rufus watches my movements, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear something twinkles in his eyes.
He makes a playful sound in his throat and launches onto my bed, doing what I can only describe as a bow, stretching his head down toward his front paws with his butt sticking up in the air.
The maimed purple cock hangs out the side of his grinning mouth, still vibrating, and I almost scream.
“Goddammit, stop! This isn’t funny—just spit it out already!”
Immediately, his whole demeanor shifts. He straightens, all sense of play disappearing.
The toy falls out of his mouth, landing destroyed on top of the covers where I probably left it last night while trying to escape my grief.
When I reach to grab it back from him, he lets out a low, distressed whine.
I hold up the formerly dick-shaped purple silicone, turning it over until I find the power button and shut it off. I rotate it, examining its thoroughly chewed state, and as I do, the very-chewed business end falls off. I let out a long, shaking breath.
“That. Was. My. Favorite!”
Rufus tilts his head, wagging his tail slightly.
I hold it in front of his face, look him in the eye and say, “Not a bone.”
To his credit, the look the dog gives me is a polite rebuttal.
I cover my face with my hand. “Fuck!”
After tossing away the remains of the only reliable dick in my life, and arguably one of my last remaining sources of stress relief, I fire off a text to Drew Forbes, giving exactly zero fucks about what hour of the morning it is.
Meet in the park tomorrow. 5:30p.m.