Chapter VII The Bark Side （Lena）
VII
The Bark Side
(Lena)
I almost don’t go.
Right up until the minute I arrive, I’m thinking I’ll turn back.
And I look ridiculous, walking into another ambush. It’s clear they could be anywhere—clout chasers on social media, armed with their phones. Waiting to spot Brady and anyone he’s with to photograph their every move.
I’ve gone out of my way to look inconspicuous, but it’s turned me into a slob.
Instead of my usual jeans-and-tee off-work combo, I’ve gone for an oversize hoodie and sweatpants.
Hair in a bun, hood pulled down over my face.
The biggest pair of shades I own. I think I only wore them once to a bachelorette party where we dressed up like a group of old ladies going out for bingo night.
Honestly, I look like someone trying to hide.
Ugh.
Why bother? At some point you have to ask yourself.
There’s a decent chance I’ve stepped over some invisible line. Maybe vaulted over it, and there’s a minefield waiting on the other side.
But the last thing—the very last I want—is for some jerkoff to see me with him and think we’re dating.
All because he gave me a hug.
Because I let myself cry all over him.
The sad part is, I still liked the hug. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a little comfort when they’re coming apart?
If he’s got enough heart to rescue a dog, he has enough to give me a hug.
Or so I thought.
But that was before he offered me a deal with the devil. Before the pictures dropped.
Just thinking about them makes my anger boil over.
How many times have I gone to Benny’s before? And the one time I go out with Brady, against my better judgment, it’s a setup.
I think back to the crowds and busy tables there. So many people who could’ve taken advantage of the buzz and snapped a few photos.
I haven’t decided yet if he planned this whole thing. I can’t dismiss the idea, knowing he only wanted to take me out in the first place to ask me to be his prop.
How far would he go to get his way?
How many affluent fuckboys like Brady Pruitt never learned how to comprehend no?
And if he did, he’s not getting his way. I don’t forgive and I don’t forget.
I’ve already been through far worse than anything he can do to me.
Even so, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s following me with a camera right now. Thanks to the social media flap, I’m now “Sad Girl,” the latest love interest for a man this city obsesses over.
Whatever. It won’t help him convince me to be his pawn.
Somehow, despite every bitter voice in the back of my mind telling me I should just head home and forget Brady exists, as the sun drops behind the horizon, I find myself waiting where he told me.
Logical? Hell no.
I’m leading with my one vulnerability.
Despite the drama, I still want to think the best of him. At least, I want to give him a chance to apologize and fix this like a man.
The rich clown owes me that much.
Even Dr. Ezzie asked about it earlier, which was doubly humiliating.
She had to confirm if the woman in the picture even was me, after Trish showed her everything, of course. They recognized Brady from our stint with Charlie.
I’m stewing more by the minute when I finally spot Mr. Jackwagon himself, a few minutes late, striding up the path.
Like me, he’s dressed down today. He doesn’t stand out as one of the most eligible playboys in the city, I guess.
Sure, he still looks like he could’ve stepped out of a photo shoot, but I figure that’s a common style for him. It comes with the territory when you’re naturally gorgeous enough to bend the world to your will.
And is he walking like he’s a man with a little humility in his veins?
Nah.
He strides through the park with that loose, easy stride I’ve seen before, graceful and strong. He should be crawling.
His eyes flick to mine immediately.
Guess my disguise isn’t nearly as good as I’d hoped.
We’re not alone in the park, but no one gives us so much as a second glance as he reaches me and stops, this conflicted and lopsided smile hanging on his face.
“Glad you came, Sass.”
That makes one of us.
“Oh, no. Think hard before calling me that.” I fold my arms. “I hope you had time to rehearse. Start groveling.”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head.
“Didn’t come here to do anything else.” His charming smile drops, and he looks so serious. Disarmingly so. I wonder if he’s practiced that sad-puppy look. “Look, I’m sorry as hell. This isn’t close to what I intended.”
“You mean you weren’t trying to force me into a pretend relationship?” The acid in my voice hurts.
He winces. “No, hell no. I get why you’re pissed—you have every right to be.
And I know it looks bad, but I didn’t know we’d get dinged all over the damn internet.
I’m not planning to pressure you into anything.
If the photos hadn’t dropped with a dozen big Seattle influencers weighing in, you never would’ve seen me again. ”
“What a relief,” I hiss.
He sighs. “You deserve a way out from my problems, Lena. I’m here to help you find one.
This was my fuckup for not being more careful.
I should’ve remembered how impossible it is to catch a break.
Reinventing yourself takes years, apparently, when everybody’s dead set on reminding you what they see. ”
Annoyingly wise words.
Despite myself, I feel a twitch of sympathy.
If he’s sincere about changing, it would suck to have the whole world making it harder, I guess.
“This happens a lot?”
“You have no clue.” He snorts.
The way he rakes a hand through his dark hair looks genuinely tormented. The kind of genuine I thought I saw back at the bar when he smiled like I meant the world.
Backstabbing, rich fucknugget.
God, I wish hating him was simple.
“I never should’ve offered you a drink. Never mind anything else. It’s my fault, and I’m not denying it.” He chuckles, short and dark. “I must have been out of my fucking gourd.”
“You got that right.”
“Which brings us to today and why I invited you here.” He pulls out his phone and waves it at me. “I want to set the record straight. This isn’t about you, and I’m not leaving you hanging, spinning in my net.”
That little grain of sympathy sprouts.
Damn him. Having to deal with so many rumors must get exhausting, especially when he’s trying to avoid some twisted arranged marriage with Miss Congeniality.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
It will only make the whole thing even worse.
I’m annoyed that I imagine Nancy reacting when she hears the news. She acted like she had some kind of claim on him.
Plus, his stuffy, image-chasing parents. He hasn’t said much about them, but I’m not stupid. I know the implications.
Then I wonder about Harry.
What if he recognized me in the photos?
God.
He’ll almost certainly come stalking around Pawsome Hearts again, armed with a way to embarrass me to death. Pressuring Dr. Ezzie until she hands him the keys to the kingdom.
All so he can demolish the clinic and build an ugly new stack of gentrified condos.
Holy hell, no!
Before, this dilemma felt hopeless. Going up against Harry with my limited influence felt like throwing a bucket of water at a wall and praying for erosion.
But if I had Brady’s help . . .
Stupid, I know.
Reckless.
Self-destructive.
When I came to the park, I was ready to throw his offer back in his face, and maybe any stray coffee cups I could find littering the ground. To laugh at the idea that he ever thought he could bribe me into being his flipping girlfriend.
Now, though, I see the offer for what it is without the personal outrage.
It’s more transactional.
One million dollars isn’t anything to sneeze at either.
Yesterday, I fled because the thought of lying to the world for money made my skin crawl. And he threw it in my face two minutes after I thought I could trust him.
Today, I’m reassessing my memory and my morals. What I’m prepared to do to save Pawsome Hearts.
“What’s your plan?” I ask, leaning up on my toes so I can see what he’s typing into his phone.
“Shoot this situation dead. I’m posting the truth for my followers. Everything. I’ll deal with the shitstorm it’ll bring down later. Almost done,” he grinds out, glaring at the screen like it’s biting him.
“Wait, don’t post it yet,” I say.
He stops and looks up. A fraught line appears between his brows.
“What?”
“I said don’t post.”
He shakes his head.
I inhale slowly. “If I wanted to be your fake girlfriend—if—I’d need the money up front.”
“The money . . .” His face clears. Those blue eyes blaze. His mouth loosens just a fraction before it tightens again. “The money I offered yesterday, you mean?”
“Duh. Do you think I’m beating back rich guys who want to pay me to kiss them?”
“Lena, I—” He blinks and then buttons his lips like he knows he’s about three seconds away from blowing it again. “Go ahead. Talk.”
“I don’t like being forced into anything.” Understatement of the century. “But a small part of me might see how this could benefit us.”
He looks like he’s biting his tongue, but he just nods.
“The thing is, I’d need to convince Dr. Ezzie I’m her other option for a buyout,” I say. “I’ll also need to find a new vet doc to partner with. I can’t run the clinic without doctors.”
“Sure.” Brady looks out across the blue-grey water, his eyes sharp. “We’d just need a contract outlining the terms.”
A contract. Yikes.
So official.
But maybe that’s exactly what we need to keep this from getting too stupid.
It’s not that I necessarily think Brady will take advantage of me. Not intentionally. Not deliberately.
But I do think this situation is delicate and requires rules engraved in legalese.
“The contract would state I’ll relinquish my right to continue our arrangement after one year,” he continues.
“A whole year? Holy shitballs.” I stand with my hands on my hips, legs splayed.
Yeah, it’s a power pose. I once read about them helping in social situations, but today it helps keep me from feeling like I’m helpless here.
Even while I’m giving up my soul.