Page 17 of A Furever Home (Gaynor Beach Animal Rescue #8)

ARTHUR

I’d have guessed Cheyenne was Brooklyn’s sister even if I’d seen her on the street.

She had the same tall, lean build, the same brown-blond straight hair, the same eyes.

Even the way she tilted her head, eyeing me as I entered the kitchen, carried an echo of Brooklyn.

Her nose was more snub, and I didn’t see the match to his dimples.

Then again, his weren’t in evidence either in their strained exchange of glances.

Brooklyn said, “Arthur, this is my little sister, Cheyenne. Chey, this is my…friend Arthur. He hurt his leg and his apartment’s a walk-up so he’s staying with me.”

“Don’t call me Chey,” she snapped, then raised an eyebrow at me. “Boyfriend?”

“Cut it out,” Brooklyn told her before I had to come up with an answer. “You’re the one who showed up here in the middle of the night. You don’t get to demand details of my private life. Or do you want me to ask if our parents know where you are?”

“Of course they don’t. Duh.” But she dropped her gaze and took another big bite of her sandwich.

I figured I knew one way to take the tension level between the siblings down a bit. “Hey, do you like dogs?”

A smile crossed Cheyenne’s face showing that in fact, she and Brooklyn did share those dimples too. “I love them. I heard barking.”

“My dogs. Brooklyn’s letting me keep them here until my leg’s healed enough to go home.”

“What happened to you?”

Before Brooklyn could lecture her again about nosiness, I said, “I got shot.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

“You can’t just say that and stop there. Like, are you a cop or something? Was it a burglar?”

“Nope.” Keeping a teenager off-balance wasn’t a bad thing, so instead of explaining, I called, “Ebony, come!”

Eb’s big paws scrabbled down the hallway from where I’d told the pups to stay, and he burst into the kitchen.

I ordered, “Sit,” just in time, before those same paws would’ve landed on Cheyenne’s lap. He plopped his butt down but gazed up at her, his big tail thumping.

“Can I pet him? Her?” Cheyenne’s eyes were glued to Ebony.

“Him. Eb for short. He’s very friendly but he’s also a moocher, so keep an eye on your sandwich.”

“Hi, Ebony.” There was something odd, a tone of wonder in Cheyenne’s voice as she reached to pet him that made me think of a much younger child.

I called, “Twain, come.” When the little beagle mix trotted in, I gestured him toward Cheyenne too.

In a moment, she’d slid out of her chair to the floor and was laughing, stroking Twain’s long ears while Ebony alternately nudged her with his nose and tried to lick her hands.

Brooklyn edged closer to me and said under his breath, “We weren’t allowed to have pets as kids.

Nothing useless. Our neighbor had hunting dogs, but they lived in the shed, and when they got too old to work or didn’t do what he said, he’d shoot them.

We weren’t supposed to ever pet them or give them treats because it would make them soft. ”

“Oh man. That’s sad.” I was really curious about Brooklyn’s childhood. The clues I had suggested something rigid and unhappy. Who didn’t allow pets? Who shot dogs? But three a.m. wasn’t the time to ask. “She seems to like these two.”

“I love dogs,” Cheyenne said. “I used to sneak treats to Mr. Gordon’s hounds.”

I told her, “Well, as long as you’re here, you can give Eb and Twain all the attention you want. They eat that up.” A click of smaller feet warned me Chili was about to arrive. Holding a stay command wasn’t her forte. “This third dog, though?—”

Chili paused in the doorway to the kitchen, spotted Cheyenne, and began barking her fool head off.

I gimped over, awkwardly stretched my leg out, and bent to scoop her up so we could hear ourselves think.

She grumbled a bit, but then relaxed in my hold.

“This is Chili. It’s probably best if you ignore her.

Let her come to you if she wants to, leave her be if she doesn’t. She doesn’t like most people.”

“She loooves me,” Brooklyn sing-songed. The smugness in his tone was probably due to the presence of his sister. I might not’ve seen my family in years, but I remembered the one-upmanship that was part of having siblings.

Chili has excellent taste. I didn’t say that out loud at the last moment, realizing that I didn’t know what role we were playing in front of Cheyenne. Or even if there would be an us , going forward. Maybe best not to sound too besotted. “He’s right,” I told Cheyenne. “She likes him the most.”

“He probably bribed her with tuna sandwiches.”

“Is it working on you?” Brooklyn asked.

That made her laugh, looking up from the happy greetings of the two dogs. For the first time, she seemed like a young seventeen, and I realized how much strain she must be carrying. “I didn’t come here just for the tuna sandwich, big brother, but it helped.”

I could see Brooklyn fighting not to ask her why she did come, except a yawn split his face. Of course, I did the same, and then Cheyenne and Eb followed suit.

Cheyenne stared at Eb’s furry black face as he gaped his jaws. “Are yawns contagious to dogs?”

“I think so.” I couldn’t help setting off another round.

Brooklyn sighed. “It’s late. Or early. Whatever. Finish your sandwich, Cheyenne, and then I’ll show you your room.”

“Can I shower?”

“If you want. If you can stay up for it. Otherwise, sheets wash. Do it in the morning.”

Cheyenne pushed away from Eb and stood, stuffed the last bite of sandwich into her mouth, then rubbed her eyes. “Bed sounds awesome. I slept on a bench last night.”

I met Brooklyn’s gaze and read fear in his expression, and no wonder. I was the youngest in my family, but I could imagine how scary the thought of a teen sister wandering out in the world alone was.

Well, not just imagine. Melissa was three years older than me, but she’d gotten herself into some hair-raising situations.

Luckily, that hadn’t been my problem as the baby of the family, and my parents had kept a lot of her worst moments from me.

I had the impression Brooklyn felt more responsible for Cheyenne.

“I’m glad you made it here safe,” I told her.

For a moment, her air of confidence wavered and she admitted, “Me too.” But then she dredged up a grin. “I still want that shower, though. I’m gross.”

“Follow me.” Brooklyn led her off down the hallway.

Eb stretched, then before I could stop him, set his paws on her abandoned chair and licked a glob of tuna and mayo off her plate.

“Ebony!” I scolded. “Sit.” Then when he did, “Down.” Once he’d been a good boy, I set Chili on the floor, hobbled over, and swiped a bit of mayo with my finger.

Twain happily licked it, Eb slurped his share.

Chili looked at me as if I was trying to poison her.

“There’s tuna in it, picky princess,” I told her, then gave Twain hers, before carrying the plate to the sink.

I heard the water come on in the shower down the hall, then Brooklyn reappeared.

I wanted to ask questions, to demand what came next, for her, for us, to ask if he still wanted me around.

But when he came into the light, he looked exhausted, almost lost. Darker-than-usual circles ringed his eyes, and his pretty mouth was pressed in a flat line.

I opened my arms and he came to me for a hug.

“Sorry,” he said from the circle of my hold. “I had no idea she was coming, or staying. I know family drama’s not what you bargained for.”

“Shh.” I told him. At least I could hold him and make him feel better. “We’ll worry about it in the morning.”

“I want you back in my bed, but we probably shouldn’t.”

“Probably not.” I was gay and out and not ashamed of anything, but I wasn’t comfortable coming out of a man’s bedroom in front of his teenage sister.

“Damn. I had plans for us and that bed.”

“They’ll keep.”

“Oh good. You’re not going to run away?”

I loosened my hold so I could meet his eyes. “Run?”

“Get out of Dodge. Fade into the distance. Scarper.”

“I know what it means.” A twinge of head pain made me say that more roughly than I meant to. Then the vertigo hit, and a flash of light across my vision forced me to grab the edge of the table. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizing. It’s not about you.” I regretted the gripe before it left my lips. I hate who I am these days. I don’t know why he puts up with me.

“Are you okay?”

No, I’m not okay. My head hurts, my leg hurts, I might puke on your kitchen floor, and I’m turning into Jekyll and Hyde without warning.

I’m scared this is still happening, and now your sister needs you more than I do.

Which is probably a good thing for your sake.

I couldn’t say any of that, so I mumbled, “I’m fine.

” Clutching my crutch in a tight grip and praying I’d make it out of sight, I trudged to the hallway, calling the dogs behind me.

Somehow, by keeping my free hand braced on the wall, I made it down the hall and into my room. When I closed the door behind me, the floor was closer than the bed. I put my shoulders to the wall, stuck my bad leg out, and slid down to my ass with a thump.

Footsteps paused outside my door. “Need a hand?”

I wanted to reply cheerfully, Sure, on my dick , but the last thing I wanted then was sex. Not to mention the teen sister in the bathroom. “Nope. Get some sleep.” And to prove I wasn’t entirely Hyde-monster, I added, “Good night.”

Brooklyn hesitated, then said, “Good night.”

I heard his door open, then close.

“Well, crap.” I raised my good knee and rested my forehead on it, waiting for the spinnies to fade.

Eb tried to lick my face, which wasn’t helpful but he meant well. Chili jumped onto the bed, as if she knew I was in no shape to remove her, and Twain stood by, tilting his head back and forth and whining under his breath. Xandra gave me a blue-eyed stare from the spare pillow.