24. Lilly
CHAPTER 24
LILLY
His admission makes me feel more special than the Green Berets—and not for the first time.
Still, just in case, I take the smallest stuffed tomato and eat it with as little chewing as possible. Then, mostly to get his attention away from my eating, I ask, “When you said a billion is a much bigger amount of money than a million, I got to wondering… Why do you need so much money in the first place?”
He considers this over a crostini. “I know you think there’s income inequality here in the U.S., and I won’t argue that point, but if you look at the world as a whole, that’s where a much bigger inequality comes into play—and I’ve been wanting to do something about that. Doing something, however, requires wealth in the billions rather than the millions.”
I’m speechless. The guy I thought was the human equivalent of Scrooge McDuck actually cares about income inequality? “What exactly are you going to do?” I find myself asking.
He tells me. His explanation gets kind of technical, but as best as I can understand, he’s soon going to release a cryptocurrency into the world, one that will allow people who don’t have access to banks to pay electronically where they couldn’t before. More importantly, the crypto will allow wealthy individuals to donate money to people directly—something Bruce is planning to pioneer.
“But isn’t there cryptocurrency already?” I ask. “Bitcoin and the like?”
“Mine will be more ecofriendly,” he says. “And hopefully more stable.”
“Wow,” I say. “This puts your workaholism in an almost angelic light.”
“Well, then I should give you the full disclosure,” he says. “I do expect that in the end, I’ll end up getting even richer—assuming I don’t decide to donate the new money I’ll make off this initiative.”
“How?”
He proceeds to explain it, but I only vaguely understand and am too embarrassed to admit it.
“How about you?” he asks when he’s finished talking in crypto-jargon. “Do you have a big goal that you’re trying to accomplish?”
I’m not sure if it’s the nice day we’ve spent together, or the fact that I feel us vibing in a major way, or the memory of that kiss, but I put all my cards on the table—or rather, blanket. “I want to train service dogs.”
Frowning, he halts the path of a tiny cucumber sandwich that was headed into his mouth. “I thought that’s what you do now . Didn’t you tell me about training your cousin’s dog to sniff out infertility?”
“The dog smells when someone is fertile, and yes, I did do that, but that has been my only service dog so far. Sorry if I made it sound like I’ve trained more. Using the money from this job, I plan to attend a specialized school and get a bunch of certifications.”
He nods approvingly. “Let me know if you need any money up front to pay for said school and the like. Also, now that Colossus is socialized, I can make it so that someone from the household staff watches him as you study for a few hours a day.”
By Anubis, if he’s going to experiment with being nice, and during such a romantic picnic no less, I can’t be held responsible for my actions (or panties coming off).
“Oh, and if you can think of a service dog specialization for Colossus, I’d be very interested to hear it,” he adds.
The idea comes to me in a flash. “What about your misophonia?”
Shit. My stupid reminder seems to evaporate his good mood. “How could a dog help with that?”
“You tell me,” I say. “He could provide emotional support when you need it, or I could teach him to bark at anyone caught chewing in your vicinity. That way, you’re not the only one bothered by an annoying sound.”
He perks up. “You could teach him that?”
I nod. “Food already gets his attention, and we know he can bark from earlier, so combining the two shouldn’t be that hard.”
A mischievous gleam enters his eyes. “How quickly can you do it?”
I shrug. “When do you need it done by?”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“Why?”
He sighs. “My family doesn’t really respect my condition. It might be nice if Colossus polices their behavior.”
There’s a lot of information packed in that statement, but I don’t have time to psychoanalyze at the moment. I’m frantically trying to figure out the most efficient training regimen… and coming up short. Not unless… “What if we cheat?”
Bruce arches an eyebrow.
“I could teach him to bark when he spots a gesture command,” I explain. “You could then stealthily do the gesture if someone eats around you—but we could tell them he’s barking because he’s a misophonia service dog.”
My reward is one of those rare smiles that turn his face into the epitome of handsome. “How about this for a gesture?” He massages his temple with his right index finger.
“I think I could get him to bark in response to that very quickly. Possibly even this evening. I just need to know what currently makes him bark so I can mark the behavior.”
“Rubbing alcohol,” he says. “I applied some after I cut myself shaving one time. He was barking as if I were a gorilla.”
“He must hate the smell,” I say with a thumbs up.
“That’s what I figured.”
I reach for a miniature quesadilla, and he does the same—and our fingers brush.
Oh, wow. This must be how Frankenstein’s monster felt right after that reanimating jolt of lightning.
Quesadilla forgotten, we lean toward each other, pulled by whatever energy our fingers just exchanged.
I moisten my lips. He watches me hungrily, then dips his head. Just as our lips touch, there’s a canine whine.
We fly apart like two magnets with polarities reversed.
Flushing, I turn and see that—unsurprisingly—the pitiful sounds are coming from Colossus’s enclosure. He must’ve finished his lick mats, saw us headed toward kissing, and felt left out.
“He probably wants to go home,” Bruce says.
Yeah. Sure. The dog wants to go home, not his dad who once again regrets almost kissing “the help.”
I touch my unsatisfied lips. “Great. That should give me more time for his training.”
Bruce leaps to his feet and extends his hand to help me get up. Pretending I don’t see the proffered appendage, I stand up on my own and get Colossus out of the enclosure and into his harness.
We don’t talk much on the trip back to the helicopter, and the noise during the flight doesn’t let us interact on the way back to the estate.
“Do you have any rubbing alcohol here?” I ask Bruce when we get into the limo. “I want to get a head start on the training.” And if that means we won’t have to talk—or feel tempted to kiss—all the better.
He rummages in the first-aid kit, but it turns out it has an antibiotic ointment instead of rubbing alcohol for disinfecting. Scooching over to the bar, he grabs a bottle of Absolut Crystal and asks Colossus, “Would you bark at vodka?”
Colossus wags his tail. No doubt the question he heard was, “Want a cookie?”
“Let’s test it out.” I prepare a cookie. “Open the bottle, dip a napkin in it, and let him get a whiff.”
When he’s almost done with the prep, I add, “Put your finger to your temple so he can see.”
Bruce lets Colossus sniff the vodka. The puppy barks.
This smell is an affront to olfactory perception—and this is coming from someone who luxuriates in the aroma of a ripe butt.
Belatedly, Bruce touches his temple, and I give Colossus a cookie.
“Now try just the temple bit,” I say.
Bruce does, but it’s not working yet, so we involve the vodka again and a couple of more times after that.
By the end of the limo ride, Colossus begins to understand what we’re trying to do and sometimes barks when Bruce touches his temple.
“We’ll work on this more for the rest of today,” I say when we come to a stop.
“Yes,” Bruce says imperiously. “Do that.”
“Ready to call it a night?” I ask Colossus when I catch myself yawning for the tenth time.
He cocks his head and gives me puppy eyes.
Sure, but can I request dreams in which I eat cookies?
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say when the sadness in said puppy eyes intensifies. “Fine. How about one more—but last one?” I put my finger to my temple.
The puppy barks triumphantly and proudly accepts his treat. He’s now fully mastered this trick and is ready to learn to bark under different conditions.
I check the clock.
It’s way past bedtime.
“Go to sleep.” I point at the tiny replica of Bruce’s bed that someone so helpfully brought over while we were at the zoo. “This is your new room.”
Colossus walks over to sniff the bed, then grabs the bedding with his teeth and starts dragging it—unsuccessfully.
Maybe he wants it farther from the wall? I move the bed a little, but the dragging behavior doesn’t stop.
Weird. Is it some ritual or an odd way to tuck himself in? Perhaps he’s working his way up to having his way with the bed? Roach would hump his bed upon occasion. And the pouf next to my recliner. And the broom.
Leaving Colossus to do whatever it is he’s up to, I undress, grab my nightie, and head to the bathroom for a shower. As the warm water pelts my skin, I close my eyes, but that causes some unwanted images to enter my mind—ones involving Bruce, his lips, and other body parts.
That does it. Once I get into bed, I’m going to release some of this sexual tension with one of my toys.
Plan in place, I exit the shower, dry myself, and put on the nightie—then remember I haven’t yet brushed or flossed my teeth. I’m mid-way through my brushing when I hear a heart-wrenching whine that sounds eerily like a baby’s cry.
Swallowing toothpaste, I run barefoot to see what’s wrong.
Looking miserable, Colossus sits next to his bed, whining.
“I’m here,” I tell him soothingly. “Go to sleep.”
He doesn’t listen, and nothing I try works—from belly rubs to behind-the-ear scratches.
Time for the big guns. Picking him up, I take him to my bed. If this is a big no-no for Bruce, he can chastise me for it later.
The whining continues. I begin to suspect what Colossus wants—the clue is that his little nose points unerringly at the door.
“Do you want Daddy?” I ask.
He whines again.
“He’s probably already sleeping,” I say. “He’d be grumpy if we woke him.” Or murderous.
Another whine.
“Seriously. Any chance you can wait till tomorrow?”
Nope. The puppy seems inconsolable.
Oh, well. My chances of getting fired have just skyrocketed. Sliding my bare feet into slippers, I take Colossus in one hand and his bed in the other and traverse the mansion—which seems to have grown just for this occasion.
When I reach Bruce’s room, I’m panting and there’s sweat beading on my temples. On the bright side, Colossus goes quiet, confirming my theory.
“Please behave,” I beg the puppy. “My best bet is sneaking you in and getting out before Bruce wakes up.”
Praying the door doesn’t creak, I open it just a sliver.
Crap.
It’s pitch black in comparison to the hallway.
I close my eyes and will them to adjust to the dark. At the same time, I pet Colossus and hope he doesn’t whine so close to his goal.
My strategy pays off. When I open my eyes, I can see into the bedroom well enough to sneak in.
Channeling my inner ninja, I hold my breath and tiptoe to the doggie bed’s former location.
Okay. I’m there and undetected thus far.
Setting the bed down, I put Colossus into it.
Yes! I did it, and Bruce is none the wiser—until tomorrow morning, that is.
I go into stealth mode once again and turn toward the door. That’s when a fat bead of sweat on my right temple starts to feel unbearable, and I absentmindedly wipe it off.
Colossus barks.
Shit.
I’m an idiot. I’ve just spent hours training him to bark when he sees someone’s temple being touched, and I just inadvertently gave him the command.
“Alexa, bedroom lights on!” Bruce shouts—and I feel a sense of déjà vu as I go blind for a moment.
Turning toward my doom, I squint against the brightness overhead—and my eyes threaten to leap out of my head and grow tongues so they can lick some of what they’re seeing.
Wearing absolutely nothing, Bruce is almost upon me, his gaze at its icy best, his every muscle rippling, and Titan fully erect, jutting out like the chiding index finger of a giant.
Driven by pure adrenaline, I back up a step and then one more… which is when I step on the edge of Colossus’s bed and lose my balance.
My hands begin to flail.
Oh, no. If I fall on the tiny dog, I’ll hurt him. So, I do the only thing I can to save him—let myself pitch forward, right at Bruce.