Ask Me If I Care (SWAT Generation 2.0 4)

Ares reached her hand across the center console and placed it on my forearm that was resting on top of my water bottle in between us.

There she left it until she told me where to turn twenty minutes later.

“Right there,” she said. “That one.”

I turned, seeing the ‘Dottir Kennels’ sign at the gate.

“They know we’re coming?” I asked quietly.

She nodded. “They do.”

“Good, ‘cause I’d hate to get shot for driving up into someone’s driveway,” I muttered.

She snorted as I parked my truck, her eyes on the woman who was coming out of the house to see us.

I couldn’t tell which sister it was, but the moment we were both out and standing in front of her, she said, “Delanie.”

I chuckled. “Y’all really do look alike.”

Delanie was Booth’s baby mama.

That I knew for sure.

“We do,” Delanie confirmed. “It helped that I cut my hair, though. Now she looks like me, but with longer hair.”

Ares snickered. “I’d love to cut my hair, but…”

“Don’t you dare ruin all that beautiful red hair,” Delanie ordered. “I swear, all Asa talks about when he sees you is wanting to watch Ariel after.”

Ares snickered. “Where is Asa?”

Delanie’s eyes warmed just a fraction of a bit more. “He’s with Booth and Bourne today. They’re going camping for the weekend.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun!” Ares said. “We used to go camping a lot when we were younger. Those’re some of my favorite memories. It’s been a while, though. I’m not sure I could hack it now like I did then. I have to say, I’m fairly fond of my nightly showers.”

Delanie’s eyes sparkled as she gestured for us to follow her inside.

We did as she continued to speak about Booth, Dillan and her son.

She suspiciously left out Bourne, but I could practically feel the itch right underneath the surface to mention him.

“…he’s loving this camping thing. Each time he comes back, it’s like he already has the next outing planned,” Delanie continued.

I looked around the house, noticing the random dogs laying on various pieces of furniture. There were at least five inside the house.

In fact, one such dog, which definitely wasn’t a frou-frou dog at all, caught my attention from across the old farmhouse and I stilled.

His eyes were on me from all the way across the area.

We were standing by the front door, and he was standing by the back, his eyes locked completely on me.

I gave him a once-over, seeing the obvious deformities.

He was missing an ear and an eye and had some obvious scarring near his jaw.

And despite his fancy outward appearance—he had to be a poodle—he definitely wasn’t one that I would expect to be able to go up to and pet.

I just hoped that Ares wasn’t expecting to get that one, because he didn’t look like the type to tolerate her.

Not that Ares would be bad to him, but that she would try to love on him, and this guy really didn’t seem like the cuddling type.

“And this is Trigger,” Delanie said as she guided us into the living room. “We’re gonna let him come to us, because he really dislikes being boxed in.”

“Amen,” I muttered. “Me, too, buddy.”

Ares shot me a swift smile that had my brows raising in question.

She looked away as Delanie started to speak about Trigger.

“Trigger’s had a lot of social interaction,” she continued. “In the beginning, Trigger was trained as a personal protection dog. So he has all of the basics down when it comes to that. When the owners realized that he didn’t really have the temperament to do what they were asking of him, they gave him to an ex-cop. The ex-cop trained him with narcotics, getting him to decipher different drug smells. But when he tried to work with him, Trigger was reluctant to perform. The ex-cop then gave him to a friend. Who gave him to another friend. Who then gave him to one other friend. The friend in turn abused him, which brought him to the shelter.”

My heart immediately went out to the dog.

Poor thing.

But it sounded like he was a smart boy.

Trigger got up off his rump and started forward, only for him to stop four steps in.

He did this a couple of other times before he came to the part of the kitchen that separated it from the living room.

As we spoke about him, I kept my eyes peripherally on the dog, wondering why I cared so much. Why I wanted the dog to come to me.

But I couldn’t explain my reasoning, I just felt like it was important.

“…when we got him, we got him healed up. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s a different story. He’s a good dog. The best, actually. He’s just very standoffish. When we started raising him as a PTSD service dog…” My head whipped around to Ares. Ares who was studiously doing her best to ignore me. “…we thought it would be a good fit for him and that ‘correct’ person. We were going to let him pick… and obviously he has.”