Page 7 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

HIDING IN THE DOG FOOD AISLE

Sebastian

I pulled into the rest area north of Redding in the dark, thinking about not much.

Aiming for an open mind, I guess. Ten hours more to Portland, but that was all right, because they didn’t want me until Monday, and I was a high-energy guy whose stamina had been honed by eleven years of pro soccer.

Besides, I never felt like I’d really arrived someplace new unless I drove.

The only thing in the back of the SUV was a duffel with clothes, because the movers would do the rest, and a furnished apartment was waiting for me in Portland, thanks to the Devils staff.

I hummed a few bars of “Free and Easy Down the Road I Go” along with the radio and relaxed into my situation, because nobody in this world would pity a guy in my place.

This was my sixth team in my second sport.

I didn’t spend time thinking about whether I’d stay awhile or be on my way again next season, because that way lay anxiety.

I’d beat anxiety before, and I was going to keep beating it.

So I didn’t think about the new job or about my life.

I just pulled up not too near the restrooms and hopped out, did some jumping and some arm and leg swings, keeping loose, glad I wasn’t playing tomorrow and hadn’t had to fly.

A car pulled in at the edge of the lot with a serious rattle, and I glanced at it, still swinging my arms in circles, loosening up my shoulders and back.

A guy got out with a big dog on a leash, the dog moving slow.

They passed under a light for a minute, which let me see that the guy was big and the dog a long-haired thing, and then they were beyond the pool of light and I went back to leg swings, then decided to do a few sprints, because I still had a long drive ahead of me and was feeling a little jumpy.

That was why I was coming back from all the way over by the truck parking lot when I saw the guy again, leash in hand, walking fast toward the car and opening the door. No dog.

Oh. There was the dog, trotting toward the guy. I was a few yards away when the guy said, “Stay,” and the dog stopped. Whereupon the guy jumped in, turned the car on, and backed up fast, the rattle increasing.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Hey!”

A quick image of the guy’s head turning, then he stepped on the gas and peeled out. A flash of taillights, and he was gone. The dog stood, hesitated, stared after the car, took a few tentative steps forward, and stopped.

The rage was right there, blooming in my head. I wanted to chase the car down, but the guy was long gone. The dog kept watching, tail wagging faintly, and something in my chest hurt hard.

“Hey.” I went over to the animal and, since it was wearing a collar, held it by it. No tags, but that wasn’t a surprise. The dog glanced at me, then kept looking toward where the car had been. Still staying. Still being good, like that would matter.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, crouching down beside it and running my hand over its body. Thin. Long hair. Golden retriever, maybe, and female, but the hair felt rough, and there was a lump over its ribs. A good-sized one, like a baby’s fist.

Right. Think. I pulled my phone from my pocket and did some checking.

Animal shelter back in Redding, but they were closed.

Of course they were. It was Saturday night.

Vet? Would they hang onto the dog and take it to the shelter on Monday?

They were all closed. I thought a minute, then typed emergency vet redding ca, and got a listing for one.

In Chico, over a hundred miles east.

OK, what next? Police. I looked up the non-emergency number, then called it and explained.

“That’s out of our jurisdiction,” the woman said. “You want the county sheriff.”

Another call. This time, a man answered. Another explanation, and he said, “Take it to the shelter in Redding and call us, and we’ll send a deputy to put it in a kennel.”

“How long’s the wait likely to be?” I asked.

“Could be an hour or more. Saturday night.”

“Right,” I said. “Look—this dog isn’t in great shape. How crowded is that shelter?”

“Bursting at the seams,” he said, “like all of them.”

“Which means,” I said, “that they won’t take this dog.”

“Oh, they’ll take it,” he said. “And they’ll put it down. No choice. The whole country’s like that now. Probably why somebody dumped it. Think they’re giving it a chance. Giving it a chance to get eaten by coyotes, more like. That’s a bad way to go. Better to just put it down. Quick and painless.”

“OK,” I said. “Thanks.” And hung up.

The dog was still staring at the exit to the freeway, but she wasn’t wagging her tail anymore. I put my arm around her and said, “Hey, girl. It hurts, huh?” and she turned her head and looked at me, dark eyes trusting and somehow sad. I rubbed her ears, and she pressed her head into my shoulder.

“Here’s the plan,” I told her. “I’ll take you with me to Portland, find a place that will take you. Rescue group, maybe. You’re a golden retriever. Piece of cake.” They took older dogs, right? At least if the breed was popular enough. Dogs with huge lumps on them, though? Maybe.

She wagged her tail a little this time, and I said, “Looks like I’m on rescue duty again.

Got to tell you, though, I haven’t done too well on picking up women lately.

Seems the ones I like don’t want to get picked up, and the ones who want to get picked up, I don’t like.

You’re the exception, eh?” At which the dog looked at me some more, and I said, “Yeah, you’re breaking my streak.

Looks like we’re turning around and heading back to Redding for a leash and some dog food. Let’s go.”

Alix

Want some free advice? Do not walk around Target on Saturday night by yourself in a short sequined cocktail dress and heels.

A guy with a kid in the cart stared, and another guy, younger and without a kid, said, “Hi. How you doing?” I ignored him, and he said, “You don’t have to be all snobby about it. You’re not really all that.”

I could have said, “Obviously I’m not all that,” since I was, in fact, wearing that dress with zero makeup and my hair in a somewhat messy ponytail, possibly looking like a hooker who’d only got the outfit half right, or a woman with an extreme case of overdue-laundry-day.

I didn’t say anything, because I was not engaging.

I was grabbing a couple of easy outfits, some shoes, a carton of milk, and an energy bar, I was changing in the bathroom, and I was out of here.

I couldn’t stand to be in California any longer than I had to be, but I also couldn’t stand to wear this dress another minute.

It was drafty, for one thing. I should have brought the cape.

I’d have looked even stupider than I did now, but I wouldn’t be freezing.

Finally. Women’s wear. I picked out a pair of black stretchy pants, a pair of Levi’s, three long-sleeved tees, and a flannel shirt. Now I needed non-bridal underwear and a couple of bras, which would be in a different department.

Also shoes and socks. And a coat. Jacket. Sweatshirt. Something. I had my grandpa’s ratty old gardening jacket in the car, the only clothing of his that my grandmother still possessed, but even I had quailed about wearing it with my cocktail dress. I wouldn’t just look weird then, I’d look crazy.

I was thinking it when I saw him. The guy from the restaurant, the guy with the Uber.

Sebastian. Looking as good as ever, or better, actually, in Levi’s that were molded to his thighs—those were some thighs—and a cotton Henley sweater in soft blue.

He had thighs, yep, and shoulders, and all of that, and he looked … loose. Confident in that casual way.

Sex appeal, was what this guy had. What my grandmother called “allure.” Like Cary Grant, her favorite actor, except that Sebastian looked nothing like Cary Grant.

But he seemed like Cary Grant. Flannel-shirt Cary Grant.

Or Harrison Ford, maybe. More of a wolf look, and also a favorite of my grandmother, “before he got so old, like me,” she’d say, and laugh.

I thought that for half a second, and then I thought, I’m in the Redding Target, though! Looking like a lunatic. How is that even possible? How did this day actually get harder ?

Hide. I know, I know—stupid, but there I was, scooting across the main aisle with my cart and ducking into another one—dog food, it was, breathing a sigh of relief and then starting to laugh.

Just … laugh. I totally lost it, in fact.

I clutched my hair, doing no favors to the messy ponytail, shook my head, and laughed.

“Uh …” The voice was amused. And familiar. “I probably shouldn’t ask.”

I raised my head and accepted my reality. “Hi,” I said. “I was just …”

“Buying dog food,” he said.

“Oh, no. I don’t have a dog.”

“Which would explain why you’re laughing in the dog-food aisle.”

“Well, no,” I said, “I think the real explanation is that I’ve gone a little crazy.”

“Ah. Well, yeah. That would probably explain it better.” He was smiling, though. “I like the dress.”

“I know, right?” I had to laugh some more. “I need to pay for this stuff and change. Believe me, I feel as weird as I look right now.”

“I wouldn’t say you look weird. Sort of an odd mix of hot and …”

“Not,” I said, and this time, he grinned. “So you have a dog?” I decided to try, in an attempt to get the conversation off my clearly bizarre behavior.

“No,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“Huh,” I said, because there was a leash in the cart. Also a collar. A good-sized leather one, studded with metal hearts. I gave it a squint and said, “I do not want to know.”

He laughed out loud this time. “What are you imagining? No. I have a dog in the car. Not my dog. A dog.”

“All righty, then,” I said .

“What kind of dog food is good?” he asked. “I’ve never had a dog.”

“Sorry. You’ve just met the one other person in America who’s also never had a dog. Which means I have no idea.”

“I’ll just buy the most expensive one, then.

Here’s one for senior dogs. Is the one in my car a senior?

Not sure. Kinda stiff, but …” He crouched down to the bottom shelf to read the bag.

Really good thighs. “Senior means lower calorie. The dog’s skinny, so I’m getting the regular kind.

Chicken, salmon, high prairie. What’s high prairie?

” He read some more. “Buffalo. OK, I’m getting this one.

What dog doesn’t want to chew on a bison?

” He stood and hoisted the forty-pound bag into the cart, showing off some more lean, hard body and some definite biceps. “That’s the end of my shopping.”

“Poop bags,” I said. “Unless you want to be a bad citizen. Dog bowls.”

“See?” he said. “I knew I needed to run into you. Help me choose.”

“You do not need my help to choose poop bags.”

“I probably just want it, then,” he said, and smiled at me so disarmingly, how could I refuse?

When his purchases were in the cart, he said, “They have a Starbucks here.”

“I noticed.”

“We could go have a coffee,” he said. “Or head next door and get In ’n’ Out Burger. Sit at a plastic table and eat off a paper wrapper with no refinement at all. I’m hungry, and I’ll bet you are, too.”

“A burger and fries sounds so good,” I admitted. “But I have a ways to go tonight.”

“That’s why they call it fast food. Let’s go do it.”

“I still need to buy underwear,” I said.

“Good. I’ll help. ”

“You know,” I said, “you’re kind of take-charge.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He sounded pleased.

“It wasn’t necessarily a compliment,” I said.

“No?” he said. “Come have a burger with me, then, and we’ll work on my personality defects. I live to learn.”