Page 4

Chapter Four

There is something about the smell of the animal shelter that always lifts my spirits. I have a great association with the antiseptic smell of cleaner combined with the distinct mix of animal musk. I grin as I walk through the door and fill my lungs.

“Hey, Ava.” Chloe, the shelter’s manager, stands behind the main desk, paperwork spread across the work surface.

“Good morning.” I grimace. “Scheduling?”

Chloe taps the eraser end of a pencil on the sheet in front of her. “You know how much I loathe this task. Nobody is ever happy with the schedule.”

“Except me!” I grin.

“Well, you’re a volunteer, so technically you aren’t on the schedule.” Chloe waves the pencil at me like she’s scolding me. “I really don’t know what I would do without you, though. Weekends are the busiest, and if you weren’t here to take care of the animals, we’d be doomed.”

“Oh, you’d be fine! You survived without me before.”

“I’m serious, girl. Those poor animals are so much better off with you around. I can’t keep enough employees to get it all done. It’s literally not in the budget.” Chloe grins. “Trust me when I say, nobody wants to adopt a dog who peed in their kennel.”

“Speaking of, I’ll head back now.” With a bounce in my step, I point myself toward the kennels.

“We have a new volunteer today,” Chloe calls. “Looks like we’ll have him for a while, so I want him trained to help you out.”

“Oh, great! It’ll be nice to have someone to work with.”

I push through the employees only door. The new volunteer stands with his back to me, reading the bulletin board. His hands are stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans and his shoulders are so relaxed that he manages to look bored. There is something familiar about him.

“Hi,” I say. “You must be the new volunteer. I’m Ava and I’ll…”

He turns around and my words fall away as my stomach clenches. Dylan Scott. Oh no. Not him.

“Oh, hey. You’re the mud girl.” He chuckles and then squints. “I think. It’s hard to recognize you now that I can see you.”

“Oh good. You’re a comedian,” I grumble.

Dylan is trouble with a capital T. He skips tons of school, has been suspended a couple of times, and has a reputation as the school heartbreaker. Chloe indicating he’ll be around for a while probably means he’s serving court-ordered community service. Great.

Running into him in the office the other day was one thing, but having him show up here in my sanctuary with something to hold over my head is beyond upsetting. Suddenly, I’m less excited about being here.

“So, what is there to do around here?” Dylan pulls his hands out of his pockets and holds them out to the side to indicate the entire shelter .

“Let me just put my stuff away, and we’ll get started.” I store the lunch Sam packed for me in the refrigerator and shove my purse into a locker. Taking a mental deep breath, I don what I hope is a pleasant expression and turn to Dylan. “Did you put your jacket away? You’ll probably need it.”

“Nah, don’t have one.”

I look at his t-shirt, which I suddenly notice fits him really well, and simultaneously blush and frown. “You came like that? It’s like forty degrees outside.”

“What can I say? I’m hot.”

His sly grin tells me his double meaning was intentional. I roll my eyes and spin on my heel to march to the door. I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge, so I end up colliding with it, nose-first. My eyes water from the impact and I wiggle my nose a couple times to avoid sneezing. I’m glad Dylan is behind me so he can’t see how stupid I feel. I press on the release bar more carefully this time making sure I hear the catch release, and then push the door open. I hold it open for Dylan as he strolls through behind me.

Stepping up beside me, he scans our surroundings, taking in the large concrete slab enclosed by a chain-link fence.

“Each morning we start with the dogs.” I walk toward the dog run to the right of the patio. “They all need to be let out for exercise and a potty break.”

“Potty?”

I halt and turn to stare at him. He hasn’t moved to follow me. “Uh, yeah. Have you never heard the word potty?”

The corner of Dylan’s mouth curls into a half-smile. “I’ve never heard anyone use it voluntarily.”

I glare at him. If this is how he’s going to be, it’s going to be a long day. It doesn’t help that I totally agree with him about that stupid word. I first volunteered the day after my sixteenth birthday. When my trainer used the word “potty”, I physically recoiled from him. But, a year and a half later, I don’t even think about it anymore. I choose to let the subject drop and walk to the waist-high fence enclosing the dog run.

“We take the dogs out in order, from kennel A through to kennel Z.” I lean over the fence and point up the dog run. “We call this space patio A. And the other one across the way, patio Z. Kennels A through M are on this side. And kennels N through Z are on that side.” I indicate the fenced-in dog run to the left of the door we exited through. “You have to pay close attention to the kennels with the red tags on the handle. Those dogs have to be let out alone because they don’t get along with other dogs.”

I enter through a gate into the cemented dog run that runs along the row of kennels. Each kennel door has a letter stenciled on it. Dylan finally gets a clue and jogs over to patio A to follow me into the dog run. A double-take over my shoulder makes me freeze. “Rule number one. If you find a gate or door closed, then always close it again after you go through it.”

Dylan’s hands are buried in his pockets again. He shrugs. “Okay.”

I look between him and the gate. When he doesn’t move, I jut my chin toward the gate, which stands open.

“Oh.” He jogs back to the gate and swings it closed. When he returns to my side, he adopts an ultra-relaxed demeanor that is somehow irksome. He raises an eyebrow, like I’m the reason for the delay.

I narrow my eyes. What is it about him that instantly irritates me? I clench my jaw and tromp over to kennel A. “You’ll notice there is no red tag on kennels A or B. You can let both of these dogs out at the same time.” I swing the door to the first kennel open and a medium-sized brown dog races out. I can’t help the smile that forms as the dog immediately sprints at full speed the entire length of the dog run and back again. I know he will make at least five circuits of the patio before he’ll stop for some attention, so I slide over to the next kennel and let the next dog out.

This dog is another medium-sized dog with long black and white fur. She’s a jumper, so I wait patiently while she jumps around me in excitement.

“Wow,” Dylan breathes.

His voice grabs the dog’s attention, and she spins and does her jumping routine around Dylan next. I’m surprised when he stiffens and looks slightly terrified. I bite my bottom lip in wonder as he draws in his arms and scrunches his shoulders.

“That’s Belle,” I explain. “She’s been at the shelter for a couple of weeks now. She’s very sweet, but as you can see, she’s enthusiastic.” I point to the other dog who is just starting a new circuit of the patio. “And that’s Chip. He’ll calm down soon. He’s been here about the same amount of time as Belle. The info card, next to each kennel, has all the important information about the dog. Stuff like age, breed, personality. Sometimes you’ll have to answer potential adopters’ questions.”

Belle stops jumping and sits attentively at Dylan’s feet. As Dylan stares back at the dog, I try to figure out what his expression is. He seems resigned or irritated and maybe confused? But I can’t quite parse it out. Chip has finally run enough, and pads over to sit at Dylan’s feet too. Dylan frowns and glances from the dogs to me.

“Why are they doing this?”

I chuckle, enjoying his discomfort. “I guess they like you.”

“How would they know that already?” Dylan backs up a couple of steps and both dogs scoot forward.

“Anyway.” I step to the supply closet. “While the dogs are out doing their thing, we get to clean their kennels. Some dogs have medical issues, and you will have a lot to clean up, but most of them are just a simple sweep and a mop.”

I show him how to clean the first kennel and then make him do the second .

“Since we will get through the kennels quicker once you’re trained, we should take a little extra time to engage with the dogs. Dogs are so much happier with human interaction.” I squat to the pavement and Belle and Chip immediately trot over to me with their tails wagging. Chip is a licker, so I laugh as I fight to keep my face away from his tongue while also rubbing the sides of his head.

Dylan is bent at the waist, tentatively patting Belle.

“Oh, you can do better than that. She loves to have her ears scratched.” I demonstrate on Chip by scratching hard behind his ears.

Dylan curls his fingers over one of Belle’s ears and rubs.

I purse my lips. Why did he choose the animal shelter for his community service if he isn’t comfortable around animals? I shake my head and pat Chip’s rump, getting to my feet. “Come on, boy, back in.”

I lead him to his kennel, and he trots inside. “Good boy.”

Closing the door, I call Belle over, but the dog doesn’t budge. She continues to stare happily up at Dylan, her tail swishing back and forth over the concrete. “Why don’t you put her away since she’s your new best friend?”

Dylan points to the kennel. “Go on.” He points again. “In.”

“How about you walk to the door first? Then point and tell her in.”

“Oh.” Dylan follows the directions and Belle scampers inside. She turns and stares back at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth and her long, feathery tail swaying back and forth. “Um, good girl.” Dylan seems hesitant to close the door but finally swings it shut.

“I take it you don’t have pets.” I cock my head and wait for his answer.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and shakes his head.

“Okay.” I clap to re-energize myself more than anything else. We’ve only cleaned two kennels, but it feels like we’ve been here together for a month, and I’m ready for a break. “Next is Popeye. He’s a persnickety character. He mostly likes people, but definitely can’t tolerate other dogs. So, he comes out here alone. Hence the red tag. If he growls at you, leave him alone to do his thing while you do yours.”

I open the door to kennel C and Popeye walks out without even glancing at me. He’s a tall dog with a brindle coat.

“Whoa.” Dylan watches Popeye with interest. “That is the burliest dog I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah.” I sigh and grab the broom. “He was rescued from a dog fighting circuit. He’s got some issues. It’s super sad.”

Popeye walks over to kennel F, the only other door in the row with a red tag, lifts his leg, and pees on the door.

Dylan raises his brows and barks out a laugh. “No way! He knows that dog’s a jerk too?”

I chuckle as I head into Popeye’s kennel. “Yeah, I mean dogs are all about pecking order. Pack mentality. Stuff like that. You can’t be an alpha if you don’t establish your dominance.”

For some reason, I think of my mom and grandma arguing. Is that what they’re doing? Trying to establish dominance? Or do they just have behavioral issues that keep them from getting along with others like Popeye?

I’m a little irritated that Dylan isn’t waiting with the mop bucket ready to follow my sweeping. I consider telling him to mop. I imagine myself taking charge and dictating, in no uncertain terms, what his responsibility is. But I hate confrontation, so I meekly mop Popeye’s kennel too. When I finish, I step out to call the dog in. I’m still feeling salty and open my mouth to say something sarcastic, but I freeze. Dylan is scratching behind Popeye’s ears and the dog is actually smiling. It’s hard to place dogs with behavior issues, so Popeye has been at the kennel for a couple of months already. And to my knowledge, he has never let anyone pet him.

Dylan looks up at me with a smile. “Cool dog!”

“Yeah, he is.” I swallow a lump of fear when Dylan raises his other hand to the dog’s head to scratch both sides at once. I forgot to warn Dylan that Popeye can act defensively with sudden movements. When Popeye leans his head into Dylan’s hand, a surprised gasp escapes me.

“What?” Dylan freezes. “Should I not be doing this?”

Popeye nudges Dylan’s hand with his big square nose and the boy’s face transforms as pleasure shapes his mouth into a grin. “Oh, you want more, do you?”

I’m not sure what is more captivating, the burly dog turning into a big softy, or the bad boy getting all mushy. When Dylan kneels in front of Popeye, they’re eye-to-eye, and the dog licks his face. Dylan laughs and rubs the dog’s nose.

“Gross, you big brute.”

I don’t have the heart to interrupt. I’m not aware of Popeye having received—or accepted—this kind of attention since he came to the shelter. And I admit, there is something equally compelling about the bad boy of Oak Grove High grinning like a five-year-old girl who just received a pony for her birthday. He looks like a completely different guy with his soft edges and bright eyes.

I blink.

He's really good-looking.

I mean, everybody knows it, including himself, but he’s usually hard lines and a guarded expression. An untouchable. Right now, his face is open, and he looks entirely approachable. His hair even looks extra floppy. More like Prince Eric's hair from The Little Mermaid, instead of Danny Zuko from Grease.

“What?” Dylan asks again.

I realize I’ve been staring. I swipe my mouth with my sleeve to make sure there’s no drool and clear my throat. “I hate to put him back, but we do need to keep going.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dylan pops up and walks toward the kennel, Popeye strolling beside him. He’s walking like he’s the expert dog handler. So annoying.

Dylan passes close enough for me to get a whiff of pine and leather. I can’t stop myself from watching his progress. His body has a natural languidness that gives him the air of being super relaxed. It lures me in while simultaneously ticking me off.

His hand trails along Popeye’s back as the dog strolls into the kennel. Again, he seems reluctant to shut the door. But when he turns toward me, all his hard, cold angles are back in place. Whatever magic Popeye cast on Dylan has worn off.