Chapter Eight
Jock
Jock woke to the weight of Tank’s head on his chest and Maynard’s warm bulk pressed against his side, the pit bull’s soft snores a steady counterpoint to what looked like midday quiet.
The living room was dim, the light of the sun barely creeping through the well-closed blinds, casting errant stripes across the dog bed where the two beasts had joined him, making a Jock-and-dog-pile last night.
He shifted, wincing as his back protested the night spent on the floor, but he didn’t move to get up.
Not yet. The dogs were calm, and after the chaos of last night’s run-in with Calder, he needed this moment of peace to keep his head straight.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he reached for it, careful not to jostle Maynard too much. The screen lit up with a text from Silly.
*Boarding soon. Can’t wait to see you and the boys. Love you.*
A smile tugged at his lips, some of the tension in his chest loosening. She’d be home by early evening, back where she belonged, her laughter filling the house again. He typed a quick reply:
*Miss you, baby. Boys are hogging the bed. Safe flight.*
He set the phone down, his other hand finding Maynard’s head.
The pit bull sighed, leaning into the touch, and Jock’s heart clenched.
Those blue and brown eyes had trusted him from that first moment in the alley, and now, with Calder’s confession ringing in his ears, that trust felt like a responsibility he couldn’t shake.
Last night had been close. Too close. If Ace hadn’t been there to pull him back, Jock might’ve done something stupid. Something stupid enough, it could’ve landed him in a cell instead of here with his dogs.
Calder’s smug face, his casual admission of dumping Maynard to die, had lit a fuse in Jock that still hadn’t burned out.
When he thought about it too much, he felt like he was vibrating apart.
He’d wanted to smash that smirk off the guy’s face, make him feel the pain he’d inflicted.
But Ace had been right. For the cops to be able to do anything, they needed more than a drunken confession.
Wrench was working with Dyno’s sheriff contact to pull Calder’s records, looking for a pattern of abuse or anything else that could stick in court.
Jock wanted justice, but he mostly wanted answers.
Probably answers that would never come, like why Maynard?
Why that alley? Why someone would be so damn cruel?
Tank stirred, letting out a low grumble as he stretched, his massive paws pushing against Jock’s thigh.
“Easy, Tanker,” Jock murmured, scratching behind the mastiff’s ears.
“You’re supposed to be the calm one.” Tank huffed, settling back down, but his eyes flicked to Maynard, like he was checking on his new shadow.
The two dogs had settled into an easy truce, Tank’s dominance clear but tempered by a mature patience Jock hadn’t expected.
It was like Tank knew Maynard needed a protector, just like Jock did.
He eased himself out of the pile, careful not to disturb the dogs too much, and over Tank’s complaining groans headed to the kitchen to start coffee.
The routine grounded him. First grind the beans, then fill the pot and wait for the hiss of the machine.
Something I can see: the coffee dripping.
Something I can hear: Tank’s snores. Something I can feel: the cool counter under my palms. The mantra was second nature now, one of two lifelines Dr. Jaagr had given him years ago to keep the desert from swallowing him whole.
Last night, after being in that alley, he’d almost lost it, the sand creeping into his vision as Calder’s voice blended with the ghosts of his squad.
You’re fucked in the head, Jake. He shook his head, pushing the memory away.
Maynard’s whine had brought him back, and Silly’s voice on the phone had kept him there.
The coffee maker beeped, and Jock poured a mug, glancing at the clock.
He had time before he needed to head to the garage, only because he’d told Twisted he’d finish that bike today.
He grinned as he took a sip of java because he knew something Twisted didn’t.
Normally he wouldn’t see any issue with filling out the time.
Today, however, his mind was on Calder. Wrench had promised an update today, and Jock was itching to know if the sheriff had anything solid.
He sipped his coffee, the bitter heat waking him up, and checked his phone again.
A text from Ace: *Dyno’s guy found two more reports of burned dogs in the parish, same MO, but these were dead. Calder’s name came up in one. Sheriff’s picking him up today. Stay cool, brother.*
Jock’s grip on the mug tightened, the skin on his knuckles blanching. Those two other dogs, the ones that didn’t make it—the thought made his stomach turn, but it also meant evidence. A trail that could put Calder away. He texted back:
*Thanks for the heads-up. Let me know when they’ve got him.*
He wanted to be there when Calder was cuffed, to look him in the eye and let him know Maynard wasn’t just a stray nobody would miss.
Maynard stirred on the couch, lifting his head to track Jock’s movements. The pit bull’s burns were healing really well, the formerly raw patches diminished to crusted scabs under the pajamas, but he still moved gingerly sometimes, favoring his left side.
Jock crouched beside him, running a gentle hand over the domed top of his head.
“You’re a tough bastard, aren’t you?” he said softly.
Maynard’s tail thumped, a determined wag, and Jock felt that responsibility settle deeper.
This dog had chosen him, just like Silly had, and he wasn’t about to let either of them down.
His phone rang, and he answered without looking, expecting Wrench. “Yeah?”
“Brother.” Wildman’s voice rumbled, rough but warm, like gravel under tires. “Heard you had a wild night. Wrench called me after you and Ace left the bar. You holding up?”
Jock exhaled, leaning back against the couch, Maynard’s head resting on his thigh.
“Yeah, it’s heavy. Calder’s gonna be locked up soon, but it’s stirred shit up, man.
My head’s back in the sand, and I can’t shake it.
” He paused, stroking Maynard’s ear, the dog’s steady breathing a comfort.
“Feels like I’m letting those ghosts win. ”
Wildman’s tone softened, the party-hard persona giving way to the steady friend Jock had come to rely on.
“You ain’t letting nobody win, Jock. You’re here, breathing, takin’ care of that dog.
That’s the fight. Those ghosts? They don’t get to define you.
You and Maynard, you’re cut from the same cloth. You’re both survivors.”
Jock’s eyes stung, and he blinked hard, focusing on the feel of Maynard’s fur under his fingers. “He’s tougher than me, brother. Took what Calder did and still trusts. I’m over here jumpin’ at shadows.”
“Bullshit,” Wildman said, firm but kind.
“You’re tough as nails, Jock. You pulled that dog out of an alley, got him to Kent, and faced down Calder without losin’ your shit.
That’s strength. Brotherhood ain’t just the patch on your back.
It’s tied up in the way you show up, for Maynard, for Silly, for all of us.
You’re IMC, but you’re my brother, too, forever. Patch or no patch.”
The words settled over Jock like a warm blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He glanced at Tank, who’d woken and was now watching him with those soulful eyes, and then at Maynard, who’d shifted closer, pressing against his side.
“Appreciate that, Wildman. More than you know. Just needed to hear a voice that gets it.”
“Always got your back, man. You need me, I’m there. Jussy’s already plannin’ to drop off some gumbo soon. She says it’ll fix your soul.” Wildman chuckled, the sound grounding Jock further. “You tell that pitty he’s gotta share.”
Jock managed a laugh, the first real one all morning. “Maynard’s a hog, but I’ll make sure he leaves some for me. Thanks, brother.”
“Sounds good. And Jock? Keep those dogs close. They’re good for you.”
“Yeah,” Jock said, looking at Tank and Maynard, who were now both watching him with matching expressions of devotion. “They are. Thanks again.”
“Anytime. Now go do somethin’ with that dog. Keep movin’ forwards.”
The call ended, and Jock set the phone down, his gaze settling on Maynard. The pit bull’s tail thumped again, even stronger this time, like he knew the storm in Jock’s head was passing. “All right, boy,” Jock said, pushing to his feet. “Let’s get you movin’. You and me, we’ve got work to do.”
He grabbed a handful of treats from the kitchen and led Maynard to the backyard, Tank trailing behind like a loyal shadow.
The grass was damp with remnants of last night’s dew, the air crisp with the promise of fall.
Jock started with simple commands, working up through sit, stay, and come with a steady voice, letting Maynard build off each success like a small victory.
Maynard responded eagerly, his movements sometimes careful but growing bolder, his blue and brown eyes locked on Jock with unwavering trust. “Good boy,” Jock said, tossing a treat that Maynard caught midair, his crooked tail wagging furiously.
Jock knelt, scratching behind Maynard’s ears, and felt the ghosts recede a little further.
Something I can see: the grass under Maynard’s paws.
Something I can hear: his happy huff. Something I can feel: the sun on my back.
He thought of Wildman’s words about brotherhood, showing up, and surviving.
Maynard’s healing was a mirror to his own, each step forwards a defiance of the pain that had tried to break them both.
“We’re gonna be all right, aren’t we?” he murmured, and Maynard’s head tilted, as if in agreement.