Chapter 3
SANDRA
“So, not that I’m admitting that should actually be her name, but why Junkyard?
” I ask as she looks up with literal sad puppy-dog eyes like we’re betraying her on the deepest level possible.
“Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that.
Your paw is safe in the baggie and I know you’re beautiful, but you smell like you’ve been sleeping in a dumpster. ”
Piston covers her ears with a laugh. “Don’t listen to the mean lady, Junk.”
She really shouldn’t listen to me. I’m lying.
Well, kinda. She definitely needs a bath, but what I’m really smelling is Piston’s clean mix of body wash and leather.
We’re working together to get her into the washing station and he’s far more distracting up close.
I should’ve known I was in trouble even before he took his jacket off for bath time, but it’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of instant something.
That little sizzle of interest that can’t be reasoned into being, or away if it’s there.
Some of it’s the fact that he’s an attractive man if you’re into the tall, tatted and slightly dangerous look. Which I stupidly am. But he’s also annoyingly nice, and kinda funny. Plus he clearly loves dogs, soooo… ugh. I’m doomed.
He looks a little hesitant to tell me. “I don’t know. It’s not the fanciest name, but it felt right when I saw her crawling around under the cars. I grew up in a scrap yard. It was the family business, I guess. One person’s trash is another’s treasure.”
“Really? That’s kind of cute actually. Princess is still better obviously, but I’ll think about it. I bet living there must’ve been cool. You probably saw all sorts of stuff.”
His laugh has a bitter edge to it. “You could say that.”
“What do you mean?” The question pops out, pushed by pure curiosity, but the look on his face makes me wish I kept my mouth shut. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
This isn’t a date. He doesn’t owe me his story any more than I owe him mine.
I aim the water nozzle off to the side, letting the spray hit my fingers until it’s a good temperature.
Junkyard’s tail is tucked between her shivering legs, but she seems resigned to her fate and willing to put up with the indignity of a bath as long as we’re here with her.
I’m careful with the water, making sure to take it slow and gauge her reactions.
She’s a little shy about movement near her head, but her instinct is to cower, not snap.
I’m crouched down, focused on talking softly to Junkyard and working in the pet shampoo when a finger brushes over the tip of my nose leaving behind a small pile of bubbles and making me jump. “Hey!”
Piston grins and blows soap suds in front of Junkyard.
She immediately throws herself into the game, trying to catch them in her mouth.
Like most young dogs, she has no sense of what her size or strength actually means.
She might not be huge, but she’s solid muscle, and she joyfully sends me straight onto my butt.
Junkyard thinks it’s part of the game, but Piston’s expression is caught between shocked and amused.
“You think it’s funny?” I ask, deadpan. Warm water is soaking into my jeans.
His dark eyes track the movement of my hand holding the hose. “Uh…”
I flick the stream of water, inviting Junkyard to play. Her mouth chases after it, snapping like it’s possible to bite and chew. Piston grins, at least until I nail him right in the chest. “Whoops!”
Piston hauls me to my feet and we wrestle for control of the nozzle while Junkyard gleefully plays around our legs.
He could overpower me easily if he wanted, but he’s so careful, both of me and of the dog.
He lets me have my fun, at least until I slip and actually spray him right in the face. A thick eyebrow goes up.
“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t mean to do that?” I ask.
He moves, fast as lightning. My arm holding the hose is pinned behind my back, not painfully, but it’s not going anywhere either.
We’re inches apart. He leans in and a drop of water rolls down his nose and splashes right onto my face before his mouth is there.
I gasp and my hand goes slack, the hose hitting the floor and flopping around in the metal basin beneath us.
It might not be my first kiss, but it might be the first one that matters.
Before starting with the bath, I put my hair up in a messy ponytail bun, and now there are tendrils of hair sticking to my neck and cheeks.
I’m a mess, and I probably smell like wet dog, but all thoughts of keeping things friendly and at a distance fly out of my head the instant his tongue slides against my lips.
I open to him like a flower for the first rays of sun in the spring.
Piston’s kiss is slow and deliberate, sneaking up on me until I find my back against the wall and my hand sliding into his hair.
His mouth tears off mine and I groan as he licks water off the side of my neck.
Thank goodness for Junkyard, who quickly gets bored of the hose now that it’s not doing anything. She whines and puts her front paws on Piston’s legs, delicately tapping him with the injured one. We’re here to entertain her, after all, and kissing isn’t much fun from her point of view.
Face flushed and heart pounding, I pull away and finish rinsing her off. “Sorry about—” I hesitate.
“I’m not.” But he backs away, grabbing a couple towels from a stack on the counter nearby. One he tosses to me, the other he uses to attempt to dry himself off a little. “You should come by the clubhouse sometime. I think you’d have a good time.”
My hands stop rubbing the towel over Junkyard. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why? You got a man?”
“What? No!”
“A woman?”
I roll my eyes. “Also no.”
“Then why?”
“It’s… not my scene.” Truth but not. The lie tastes acidic on my tongue.
He gives me a smug look. “Honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s bullshit. You stared down the three of us without flinching, gave as good as you got, and you kiss like someone who knows how to fucking ride.”
I’m not sure if he means a bike, or a biker. Probably both, and now I’m going to be seeing that image in my head when I close my eyes tonight. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t know me.”
It comes out bitchier than I mean it, but he doesn’t know that I spent three years trying desperately not to be that girl.
Trying to be normal. I got my GED and went away to college.
I kept my hair its natural brown, and pushed down all the dark, ruined parts of myself.
I was a little older than the other freshmen, but it worked out.
I met nice, normal people who tried to be nice, normal friends with me, but the funny thing about trauma is that it doesn’t care what you wear or how you do your hair.
Somehow I always managed to screw it up. To say too much and forget to hide my sharp edges.
I like you, Dee, but you’re a lot, you know that?
So what’s the point of trying to fit in? People are hard, dogs are easier.
“Hey, I wasn’t trying to piss you off.” Piston crouches down on the other side of Junkyard.
“Truth for a truth? You asked about growing up in the scrap yard, yeah? Parts of it were kinda cool, but my old man was a fucking piece of work. He made my life hell and I got out of there as soon as I could.”
I keep my eyes fixed on what I’m doing. It’s easier to speak when I’m not looking at him.
“I… I ran with a rough crowd when I was younger. It took a lot to crawl out of that place, and I’ve seen enough to know who the real bad guys are.
” Junkyard decides I’m not paying nearly enough attention to drying her off and does a full body shake from tip to tail.
Her good ear ends up flipped, and a dark splotch catches my attention. “What’s that?”
Both of us look closer.
“It’s a fucking tattoo,” Piston says in disgust.
Sure enough, there’s a crudely drawn dollar symbol inked in black on the inside of her ear.
Junkyard yawns, the pain of that particular injury long forgotten.
“We don’t do it here, but some programs mark strays if they’ve been spayed or neutered.
I don’t think that’s what this is, though.
Do you recognize the mark? Is it a gang or something? ”
Piston pulls out his phone and takes a picture. “Not that I know of, but I’ll ask around.”
I should tell Piston to leave, and start getting Junkyard settled into one of the open kennels, but for some reason I don’t want this part of the day to end.
Maybe I need to get out more. I’ve been back in town for nearly six months and my only social life is Jerry, the only friend worth hanging onto from my old life, and my sister.
I love them both dearly, but Jerry is in the honeymoon phase after moving in with his boyfriend, and Natalie is too busy juggling three men, an almost four year old, her bakery, and morning sickness to have time for me.
Speaking of which… “Can you keep an eye on Junkyard for me? I need to make a call.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I bring them into the break room. There’s the usual kitchenette and space to eat, along with a ratty couch, a reclining chair, a secondhand TV, and a bunch of dog beds and toys so we can socialize them in a more homelike normal environment.
Piston grabs the remote and flicks on the TV like he’s at home.
He sprawls out on the couch with Junkyard happily curling up next to him, her head leaning against his leg.
Piston has an arm draped over the back of the couch, and I get the urge to curl up next to him just like the dog.
I slip out the door and call Natalie.
"Sandra? Something up? I thought you'd be home by now." Natalie sounds confused and a little dazed, like she just woke up from a nap. She's been tired lately, another reason I don't like bothering her.
"I'm okay, but we had a stray brought in and I’m going to be stuck here for a while longer. Just didn't want you to worry."
“You’re about ten years too late for that.” She’s only teasing, but the reminder of how long I’ve been a burden still hits home. “Do you need anything? Quickshot’s home. I could ask him to bring some food over for you. I’m testing out a new recipe and have a ton of extra cookies."
"Thanks, but I’ll figure something out. Don’t let the guys eat everything, though.” Extra treats are hard to keep around with three men and a little boy in the house.
She laughs. “I’ll hide some just for you. How’s the stray?”
“She’s a total sweetheart, and her name is Junkyard.”
“Junkyard? Who named her? Carl? That definitely wasn’t your idea.” In the background I hear my nephew Clark asking about cookies. “That sounds like something only a man would come up with.”
“Yeah, the guy who brought her in picked it.” I feel a little funny not telling her about Piston and the others. I will eventually. It’s not a secret exactly, just a truth I haven’t mentioned yet. After the phone call, I do a walk-through of the kennels and go back to check on Piston and Junkyard.
There’s a baseball game on the TV, and he glances up when I walk in, smiling when he sees me. “I ordered Chinese. Hope you don’t mind. If you want to kick me out I’ll just take it with me.”
“I am kinda hungry…” I kick off my sneakers and settle onto the couch next to him, pulling my feet up under me. Junkyard is fast asleep on his other side. “So, who’s winning?”