Chapter 8 Briar #2
He chuckles. “Both actually, and Gary knows a lot. But I would love to hear it from you too.”
The way he says it, with his dark gaze dropping to my lips and the slightest heat in his tone, I think he truly would listen to me ramble on my favorite subject for hours. Not that I’m going to test that theory.
My walkie-talkie crackles at my waist, Jonah calling for me. I grab it and lift it to my mouth. “This is Briar. Go ahead.”
“You were just over here at Flamingo Fountain, right? It’s flooding again,” Jonah answers.
Under my breath, I whisper, “Shit.” The drain in the flamingo area has been clogging too often, which creates stress on the sensitive birds. “I’m coming,” I tell Jonah on the walkie-talkie. To Dominic and Harley, I say, “I’ll be back. I’ve got to go unclog the drain again.”
I start to jog toward the flamingos but realize there’s another thud sounding out along with my boots’ clomping noise. I glance over my shoulder to find Dominic jogging along with me and I stop. “What are you doing?”
“Helping. A flood sounds serious. Let’s go,” he answers.
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything—not thank you, or I don’t need you.
He just starts jogging in the same direction we were going.
Apparently, he’s helping? I look back at Harley, checking in, and when he catches my eye, he flashes me a thumbs-up that he’s okay and then points at Gary, who also gives me a thumbs-up.
My son is here a lot, knows how to behave himself, and every employee recognizes him.
Trusting that he’ll be fine with both Gary and Trina watching from nearby, I continue after Dominic.
He’s made some headway on me, apparently using the signs to direct his path, and I catch up right as he reaches Flamingo Fountain.
“Where’s the issue?” he asks, annoyingly not even breathing hard. Unlike me.
“Drain. Clogged,” I pant, pointing. The drain itself is under the murky, muddy water and not visible, but I’ve dealt with it enough to find it blindly. “Jonah will help take care of it.”
Dominic frowns, worried eyes swinging from me to the flamingos, who have water nearly up to their knees now. But they’re fine. Not in danger or anything serious, they just don’t like changes in their environment, like rapidly rising water.
“I’ve got it.”
And before I can stop him, Dominic wades into the water, tennis shoes and jeans and all, like it’s nothing. He tries not to splash, kinda skating forward instead of stepping, so as not to scare the flamingos.
“Tell me where,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me, but keeping a close eye on the birds.
Even in the wild, they’re not aggressive, and in captivity, the most they might do is approach in hopes of getting a shrimp pellet, but he’s acting like he’s been cast as the hapless victim on When Flamingos Attack.
To be fair, they’re watching him with bald curiosity, but that’s about it.
“Two feet to your left.” He moves accordingly. “Right there,” I say. “You should be able to feel it with your right foot. There’s usually grass and dirt covering the grate.”
He looks thoughtful as he tries to find it under the water. “Got it.”
I expect him to kick the debris out of the way. Maybe swipe it with his foot. But nope. Dominic bends down, reaching under the dirty water with his hand to clear the clog. He angles his head to keep his face out of the water, but it’s still up to his chin as he works.
The flamingos, now especially interested in the unusual specimen in their midst, move closer. “Marion, leave him alone,” I warn one of the more curious and territorial males.
Dominic sends a wary glance their way, and mockingly assumes a decent Karate Kid-esque crane kick stance. “Back it up, Marion. You don’t want this smoke.”
As if he understands the challenge in Dominic’s words, the flamingo starts honking loudly at the invader in his pond. Kaa-hooonk, kaa-hooonk. He adds in a few beak clacks and wing flaps too.
“Probably should’ve asked this sooner,” Dominic grits out as he lowers his leg and goes back to rooting around, trying not to swallow any of the gross water, “but are flamingos mean? I’d rather not get an eye pecked out, if possible.
” Dominic sputters as he throws a few handfuls of weeds far away from the drain and the flamingos.
“I don’t think he’s trying to attack you,” I say, pressing my lips together to hide my laughter.
Dominic glances from me to Marion, realization dawning. “Oh no, not interested in your mating dance, either, birdie.”
I do laugh then. I can’t help it. Dominic looks ridiculous, neck deep in the water with a pink flamingo inching closer with those high-knee steps like he’s sneaking up on the big behemoth of a man.
“Look out, he’s gonna getcha!” I taunt.
Dominic tosses a few more handfuls of sludge away, and after a moment, the water starts to drop to normal levels. Standing up tall to survey his handiwork, he grins. “I did it,” he says proudly.
He is covered in mud, his wet clothes clinging to him, and when he threw the debris, some of it landed on him, so he has a few blades of grass on his hat and a streak of questionable origin on his cheek. He looks adorably, boyishly dirty. “Yes, you did,” I agree, nodding.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks, growing suspicious. Looking behind him, he grunts, “Where’s Marion?”