CHAPTER THREE
Margaret Hayes was so sick of being called a Karen. That was just a term that people used when they couldn’t handle strong, assertive women willing to stand up for themselves. If they didn’t like her, they had her permission to get out of her way.
Like the mom pulling her kids out of Bruno’s way and glaring at her. Seriously? Screw you, lady. Just because Bruno growled at her little brat to warn him not to slap his face like a clumsy doll come to life just to eat and poop and stumble around in everyone’s way?
A security officer approached her, a resigned look on his face. Here we go again.
“Yeah, read the vest,” she said. “He’s a service dog.”
And then the doubtful look as he looked down at Bruno, who was growling again. “Problem?” Margaret asked.
“He doesn’t look like a service dog.”
Margaret felt a pang that she wouldn’t admit to herself was guilt.
Of course, Bruno wasn’t a service dog. She’d got the vest online because it was stupid that places wouldn’t let her bring her dog.
It wasn’t like Bruno was going to run wild in a jewelry store and break everything or jump onto tables at a restaurant.
He was a good dog. He was well-behaved. So, he didn’t like to be approached by strangers.
How about this? Don’t approach him. And don’t approach her for that matter.
“Well, he is.”
“What service is he trained to perform?”
Margaret rolled her eyes and walked past the officer.
She was so sick of this crap. The officer followed, and Bruno turned around and growled at him.
He decided it wasn’t worth his time, but she could hear him on his radio as she walked away.
“She says it’s a service dog, which is obviously bullshit. Typical Karen.”
She bristled. It wasn’t fair. She was an attractive single woman who lived, worked, and shopped alone.
She wanted a dog for protection. Why did people get so bent out of shape over it?
She only got the stupid vest because so many places didn’t allow dogs.
If they would just let her have a dog for protection, then they would never have to worry about whether or not Bruno had a piece of paper saying he was a professional fetcher or some bullshit.
The looks kept coming. Margaret kept her chin lifted as she passed them. Screw them all. Screw their judgment. They’d probably never been mugged in an alley by two men who had a discussion over whether or not they wanted more than her wallet.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She was not going to give these assholes the satisfaction.
“You’re a disgrace.”
Margaret froze. Had she really heard that?
“I can’t believe that disrespectful people like you get away with bringing your animals into a place like this.”
Margaret turned around. The speaker was a fake blond woman about ten years older than Margaret, standing with her hands on her hips and her lips pursed. A small crowd of people stood behind her, clearly excited to see the bitch with the fake service dog put in her place.
“You know, there are people with real disabilities who need dogs like—”
Margaret had enough. A switch clicked almost audibly in her mind. She stepped forward and snarled, “Fuck you, you fat old bitch! Go to hell!”
The woman recoiled as though Margaret had slapped her. She reddened and opened her mouth again, but before she could say anything, Bruno growled. She shrieked and jumped back, hands pumping in front of her like she had never.
Well, now you have.
“You know what?” Margaret continued. “Screw you. All of you. This is a public place, and if I want to bring my dog to a public place, I can. You can fucking deal with it. I’m not going to walk around here all by myself where men can ogle me and think dirty thoughts and fucking drag me into an alley and—”
“No one’s dragging you anywhere,” a male voice interrupted.
Margaret snapped her eyes over to the new speaker just as the growing crowd chuckled. A pair of young tarts in their early twenties giggled and whispered to each other, smirking at Margaret like the thought of a man wanting her was hilarious.
But they do, and sometimes they don’t take no for an answer. What do you want me to do, what the hell do you want—
“Ma’am?”
This latest voice was also male but older and firmer.
Margaret pressed her lips together and refused to turn toward the voice.
Its owner walked around in front of her, and when Bruno growled at him, the meathead Rottweiler he was walking growled right back.
The Rottweiler wore a vest too, but his said POLICE DOG K9 DO NOT APPROACH.
The police officer’s face was void of emotion. “Ma’am, you’re no longer allowed on the property. You need to leave the premises.”
Margaret blinked. “Me?” She intended that to be an indignant cry, but it came out as a hoarse breath instead.
“Yes, ma’am. I need you to leave the premises, please.”
He gestured over her shoulder at the exit. Margaret stared at him, shaking. “You’re kidding me.”
“No, ma’am. I need you to leave now, or I’ll place you under arrest.”
Tears sprang to her eyes again. You don’t understand. I just want to be safe. I just want to be safe. That’s what Bruno’s for. That’s why I have him.
The words didn’t come out. They couldn’t. It wouldn’t change anything, and Margaret wasn’t about to have an argument with this asshole so everyone could see her cry.
So, she blinked the tears away, turned around, and left.
The crowd behind her cheered. A fat drunk dipshit with a stained ballcap had an arm around the bitch who had started this whole thing.
The man who had earned the respect of the tweeny-boppers with his crack about no one wanting Margaret was now in the middle of a group of them laughing and trading jokes at her expense.
Margaret ignored them all. The officer with his brute dog followed them until she reached her car, then watched until she left the parking lot.
Margaret kept it together until she pulled into her driveway. Then she burst into tears.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She’d tried to get a service dog, but her insurance didn’t cover it, and service dogs were four times as expensive as regular dogs. Just because some asshole taught it commands like sit, stay, and play dead but do it while looking important.
And Bruno was a good dog. People expected all dogs to be cuddlebug kid magnets, but that’s not what they were for. German Shepherds were working dogs. Guard dogs. Bruno was supposed to protect her, not make Susie Q’s snot-nosed brats giggle.
Bruno nudged her and whined softly. She turned to him and held him close, sniffling through the last of her tears. He whined again and stayed still until she took a final shuddering breath, then pulled away.
She cupped his face. “You’re a good dog.”
He looked at her with his big brown eyes, and some of her sadness melted away.
That was a crappy mall anyway. She’d go shopping at Wegman’s for groceries, and if she needed something else, she’d just order it online.
Wegman’s didn’t mind if she brought her dog inside, and the drivers didn’t care if Bruno barked at them as long as he was behind a door or a fence.
She smiled and almost meant it. “Come on. Let’s get you some dinner, and them Mommy will pour herself a glass of red wine and chase it down with some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.”
Bruno barked eagerly, and Margaret laughed and left the car. Bruno trotted up the steps, tail wagging, but when Margaret opened the door, he stiffened. Margaret frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
A deep growl, almost a roar, escaped Bruno’s mouth. He shot forward, sprinting toward the back door. Margaret cried out, and when the back door slammed, she sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, Bruno, it’s just a groundhog!”
Bruno kept barking, but instead of digging up dirt in the yard like he usually did, his paws scrabbled on the back door. His barks had taken on an alarmed note, and Margaret frowned again. Was it a rattlesnake? Bruno was terrified of snakes, which was probably a good thing.
“Hold on,” she said, shutting and locking the front door behind her. “Hold on, Bruno. I’m coming.” Under her breath, she muttered, “dumb dog” with a generous note of affection.
She was halfway to the back door when she saw a shadow spilling across the entry from her living room to her kitchen. She stopped and stared at the elongated human figure splashed across the rhomboid of light streaming in from the window.
Her throat constricted. That’s why Bruno was barking. That’s why he’d freaked out. He wasn’t after a groundhog or a rattlesnake. He’d seen an intruder.
And it hadn’t been his back paws or tail slamming the back door shut.
Margaret stiffened and started to tremble. Her throat went dry, and her knees knocked. Oh God, please no, please no, please no.
She lifted her eyes and saw the intruder. For a brief moment, her relief at seeing a woman’s figure and not a man’s overwhelmed her terror.
Then her mind registered the mask. A Rottweiler, just like the brute that the police officer at the mall had.
Teeth bared in a snarl. Eyes bloodshot. Flecks of white paint meant to be foam or spittle sprinkles across the jaw.
Flecks of something brownish red that didn’t look like paint on the muzzle.
And finally, her mind registered the claws. Boxcutter blades embedded in thick rubber sheaths at all ten fingertips. More of the brownish-red not-paint.
A warm spot stained her crotch as her bladder let go. She tried to open her mouth to scream and found her fear was too great.
Then the figure rushed toward her, and it was too late to scream.