“Yes?” I call.
Janine pokes her head around the door. Fifty-five years old and happily married with four children, she makes the perfect secretary, the sort of dedicated employee who’s not going to try and sleep with me for my money or position … which has happened before, and which is one of the reasons I appreciate Janine so much.
She gives Scrappy a tight smile – her only downside is she’s not a dog person – and then turns her tight bun of gray hair to me. “The trainers are here for their interviews, sir,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “You can send the first candidate in. Scrappy, come here. It’s time we found somebody to tame you.”
Scrappy tilts his head at me for a moment, and then turns and pads to the corner of the room, where the plant pots used to be before he ravished them. He cocks his leg and pisses right on the wall.
“I guess there are downsides to everything,” I sigh, smirking despite myself. “Get rid of the plant pots, he pisses on the wall. Bring them back, and suddenly we’re living in a goddamn archeological dig.”
Scrappy looks at me with a casual shrug and I get myself ready for the interviews. I’m keen to get these out of the way, as I’ve got minor European royalty in later to discuss a protection contract for an awards ceremony, and later I have to handle some logistical matters relating to my gyms.
But I did promise Mother I’d civilize the wild hound.
And a SEAL is nothing if not a man of his word.Chapter TwoKatNerves dance through my body as I sit in the waiting area, my shirt suddenly feeling too tight, hugging to my body as though it’s trying to embarrass me. My Goodwill skirt suddenly feels incredibly cheap, even though it’s been washed several times and is in good condition. I feel too young, a mere twenty years old when all the other potential trainers in here are at least in their mid-thirties, with the weight of experience behind them.
I sigh as softly as I can, a way to let out some of the pressure building inside of me.
The waiting area overlooks the city, shafts of sunlight penetrating the late-autumn clouds.
Being this high up makes me think of Rusty running around somewhere down there. A pang thrums through me every time his little face appears in my mind. Rusty was my Jackhuahua – a Jack Russel crossed with a Chihuahua – until I woke up one day in the halfway house and he was gone.
Someone stole him. Or he ran away in the night. I don’t know.
And that’s what hurts most of all.
That was a year and a half ago now, and maybe it was then that I decided I’d stop drifting like the street kid I’d always been and try to make something of myself. So I worked as a waitress and took night classes and pursued my dream of becoming a dog trainer.
So far I’ve only worked with smalltime clients, earning barely enough to pay the rent of my one-room studio in the grimiest part of town.
But still, it’s a start.
And if I can secure a contract with Colton Crew, CEO of Crew Protectorate, Crew Gyms, and Crew Clothing, then it’ll be my chance to jump right into the big leagues.
Fat chance, you mean.
Risking a glance around the room, I spot Kylie Clerkwell, a face I recognize from the dog training magazines I order when I have some rare spare cash.
She’s world-renowned for her training abilities. She’s worked in Hollywood. She’s the trainer to the stars.
And I … am none of those things.
I’m just me.
I’m not even sure how I secured the interview, my only explanation being that either Colton’s secretary made a mistake or some glimmer of my passion for canines shone through.
Rusty, I really miss you right now.
I interlace my fingers before realizing how sweaty my palms are, and then anxiety surges into overdrive and I imagine that everyone else in the room can hear the damp squelch noise my sweaty hands make. And of course, that makes me sweat even more.
God, dogs are so much easier to be around than people.
Finally, Janine appears at the door, a soft smile on her face as her eyes roam over the room and finally settle on me.
“Katherine Jenkins?”
I’m not about to tell her that nobody calls me Katherine, not even my parents, and not just because I don’t have any.
That’d be the mother of all downers, I sense.
Thank you, Janine, and incidentally, did you know my parents died in a house fire when I was nine?
“Y-yes,” I say, hating the stammer in my voice.
“It’s time for your interview, dear.”
“Yes,” I say again, sounding like the world’s biggest idiot.
I stand and walk across the room, feeling my tights cling far too eagerly to my full thighs. I usually wear sweatpants and baggy clothes, but something tells me that wouldn’t fly here, in one of the fanciest and most upscale sections of the city.