The dog saved my life. It deserves a cleaner ass than that to bite if it’s in the mood to chew on something—not that I’m volunteering my own. I tell myself I’m doing it a favor because mine is sweaty from the run.
“Stravinsky, no,” comes a firm, gravelly command.
The dog immediately stops sizing up the man’s buttocks and sits, its rump firmly on the ground and its mouth open and tongue hanging out in an “I’m waiting for your next command, aren’t I a good dog” pose.
It’s an instantaneous transformation. Holy cow. That’s some amazing training.
The dogs’ owner appears from between the trees. He’s tall—really tall. Broad shoulders and a lot of muscle, but not in a pretty-boy model way. They seem more utilitarian, developed on a farm rather than in a gym. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and frayed blue jeans. Boots with soles that look hard. A pair of reflective sunglasses wrap around his eyes, and the only thing I can see is his wide forehead, thin nose, flat mouth and strong jaw. His thick, dark hair’s cropped—too short to grab, just like his dogs’ ears. His expression doesn’t change to reassure me that he’s a safe person, like most men do when they meet a woman for the first time.
“Thank you.” I give him a slightly nervous smile.
He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he approaches, his movements unhurried but precise. I can feel his eyes doing a quick scan of me behind the sunglasses. My pulse skitters, and the fine hair on the back of my neck bristles with something I’ve never felt before. If I have to put my finger on it, I’d say it’s a little bit like fear and a little bit like being buzzed. Whichever, it’s making it hard for me to breathe evenly.
Swallowing, I glance down and spot sweat, dirt and stains on my shirt and pants from the run and fall. I squirm as my face heats with embarrassment. My rescuer’s probably wondering if I’m friends with the flasher. We’re both filthy, although I’m certain I smell better despite my sweaty state.
My mouth is sawdust dry, but I manage to say, “You saved me from this pervert.” Just so he knows that the creep and I have nothing in common.
The man stays silent.
Ooookay… This is awkward. But I don’t want my savior to go without at least knowing his name.
This is the first time I’ve encountered somebody who looks like an angel. Not the nice, sweet kind who sings heavenly songs and make you feel warm and happy, but the kind God sends down to smite bad guys. The stranger could also pass for a demon who’s crawled out of the fiery depths of hell, but I prefer the smite-mission angel.
You better make friends with him, something in my gut says.
And every cell in my brain says I need to listen to my gut.
I start to extend my hand until I realize my palms are damp with sweat. I should say something to let him know I’d like to get to know him or something. “I’m Angelika,” I blurt out. “You are…?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he lets out another whistle. The Dobermans come over, then fall in behind him. The perv stands up, his hands and legs shaking.
“Cover it before I cut it off.” The dog owner says it as though the very presence of the flasher offends him.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The pervert immediately pulls his coat together, holding it tightly. Liquid drips down one leg.
“Leave,” my savior says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but his word carries, full of raw power that sends shivers down my body.
“Sure, man. No problem. No hard feelings.” The perv nods and starts to back away slowly, his eyes on the man and the dogs.
One of the Dobermans barks, like he’s annoyed the perv’s taking his sweet time. The flasher jumps, then runs, stumbling a little in his hurry. One hand holds the coat together as the other protects his crotch.
“Thank you,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady, so my savior doesn’t think I’m crazy or something. Bet he already does. Why couldn’t I have waited until now to introduce myself and act all cool and…you know, like the kind of person you’d want to be friends with? I totally blew it in my desperation and scrambled thinking.
But he’s already started walking away. I take a hesitant step toward him, but his dogs are moving in a protective formation that blocks me.
“Really. Thank you,” I call out. I’m not going to fight three trained Dobermans.
He glances back over a shoulder. And I swear I can see the faint hint of a smile fleet over his face.
But then he turns around, and all I can see is his back.
Chapter Two
Angelika
By the time I reach my tiny garage apartment, my whole body feels heavier than a full-size sofa. The high I would’ve gotten from the run is gone, burned off in the flasher-inspired adrenaline rush.
I take a quick shower. My place is cheap. Well, “cheap” is relative; it costs a fortune compared to Cincinnati. But it’s cheap for L.A., and everything inside reflects that.