Curly scratched the dog behind his ears. He’d bring the dog a steak next time he saw him.
“I’ll never give someone that kind of power over me again.”
“Shit, Brooke…”
“I know,” she said as she pulled her feet from his lap. “I’m sorry for dumping that all that on you. I don’t know why I did.”
“You are one badass woman.”
She stilled in the process of slipping her feet into her worn flip-flops. “What?”
He scooted closer then tucked an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. “Smart, brave, resilient, strong, independent.” He let his fingers linger on the soft skin beneath her ear.
“No, I…” she whispered, breathless. Her eyes fell closed.
“Badass.” When she shook her head again, he said, “Brooke?”
She met his gaze, and he saw the deep-seated vulnerability she hid behind her independent nature and feisty spirit.
“Bad. Ass. Incredible.”
This time her mouth pressed into a flat line. “Thank you.” Her shoulders straightened, and her gaze lost its openness. As though a steel door into her psyche slammed shut, her gaze lost its openness. “And thank you for listening to all that crap. I should, uh, get home. It’s past Ray’s bedtime.” She stood.
Yeah, she needed to get home before he threw her back down on the couch and didn’t let her up until she’d come screaming his name.
A few times.
The thought of it, of hearing his name called out at that euphoric moment when pleasure turned to ecstasy, had his dick throbbing with need. As soon as she left, he’d need to take care of that, or he’d spend another miserable night hard and wanting.
“Does Saturday work to come pick up the dog?”
He tilted his head. “So I still pass muster?”
“Yes, Curly, you do.”
“Saturday is perfect.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek, and if she noticed, he let his lips linger and his nose brush against her skin, she didn’t say anything. But he swore he heard the slightest intake of breath when he made contact. “Drive safe,” he said. “Text me when you get home.”
“What?” She laughed, but it was stiff. “Remember when I said I was forty-one? Been driving at night for many years.”
He shrugged and resisted the urge to smile at her prickliness. Like a hedgehog whenever he showed her kindness. “I’ll worry.”
Her eyebrows drew down. “Why?”
Laughing, he said, “How about you just text me as a favor, okay?”
“Sure. I guess.” She shrugged. “Good night, Curly. Come on, Ray. Let’s get on home.”
“Good night, Brooke. Bye, Ray,” he said, giving the dog one last pat on his head. Ray hurried along beside his mama but cast a pitiful look over his shoulder.
Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll be by soon.
Curly watched from his open doorway as she loaded Ray in her car then climbed behind the wheel. With a brief wave, she was off, backing out then heading down the street. He remained in the doorway for a solid five minutes, staring down the road and wondering what the hell was going on with him.
His head might be fucked for the moment, but two things were certain.
Prick’s operation was going to meet with an unfortunate end.
And Brooke no longer had to look after herself alone. She now had the Hell’s Handlers Florida Chapter standing behind her.
Even if it was a foolish move on his part.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AROUND NOON ON Saturday, Brooke sat outside her quarantine kennel talking to the dog David had brought her earlier in the week. Tim from the pitbull rescue was due any time, and she’d wanted a moment alone with the dog before he moved on to the next phase of his recovery. It’d been difficult to get close to the dog. Only his inability to walk at the moment kept him from attacking her.
“They’re gonna take good care of you, you hear?” she said. Inside, the dog snarled as he did every time she checked on him, fed him, cleaned the kennel, or interacted with him in any way. God, she hoped Tim could work his magic on this one.
“I know how scary it can be to go somewhere new where you don’t know anyone and start over.” Man, did she know that. “But you have a whole team of people who want to help you.” So much more support than Brooke ever had. “Don’t try to bite them, okay? They just want to help.”
They’d be sedating him for the car ride. No need to stress him out when he still had so much healing to do.
A horn honked twice from her driveway. With a heavy sigh, Brooke pushed to her feet. She tapped patted the side of the kennel, wishing she could do the same to the dog, but he’d never tolerate it. “Be well, my friend,” she whispered. “I hope we meet again under much better circumstances.”
It wasn’t possible to follow up long term with all the dogs she’d fostered or rescued over the years—there were just too many—but sometimes one wormed its way into her heart in an extra special way. Though this guy hadn’t been with her long and the interaction had been minimal, she’d be calling Tim often to see how he was faring.