Page 80 of Can't Touch This

No apologies or explanations. It was what it was.

My shoulders rolled. “Well, buddy, you tell us. We’ll take it by the hour. How about that?”

His head bounced as he grabbed another mouthful of dwindling dinner.

Vesper smiled. “I think that was a yes.”

Silence fell as our attention remained solely on Scar. We didn’t speak as the battle weary Pusky Bull finished his food, yawned, and licked us in gratitude. When he stood on wobbly legs and left a patch of blood with every foot fall across the dusty wooden floor, I literally couldn’t fucking take it.

“Can you take away his pain at least?”

Vesper nodded. “Of course. Now he’s eaten, I’ll clean his wounds and bandage them.” She looked around the uninviting lounge. “Will he sleep in here? Or do you have a place with the other dogs?”

“He can’t go in with the others.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He’s a killer. He’s been bred to attack others. I can’t run that risk or freak out the other rescues.”

“I agree.” Standing, she headed after Scar as he looked at the window where a breeze came in and whined. “I think he wants to go out. Do you have a dog bed you can set up at least? Give him his own space until…”

Until he goes.

“Yes, of course.” Jumping into action, I added, “You take him to do his business and I’ll get his room ready.” I grinned, but it felt tired and forced. “Can’t have him sleeping in anything less than luxury from now on.”

She half-smiled. “You’re a good guy, Ryder. The best. And the dogs know it. You’re loved…by all of them.”

The moonlight cast her in silver shadow and it was my heart that lurched this time, not my cock. The intensity of that inconsequential moment filled me with lead and bubbles grounding me at the same time as making me float away.

I couldn’t reply.

I merely nodded and turned on my heel to prepare the best few days of Scar’s life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

---------------------

Vesper

BY THE TIME SCAR HAD done his business outside and allowed me to wash his paws in betadine and apply topical cream with bandages, tiredness was a heavy shroud. I’d found a few puncture wounds on his left flank from another dog’s teeth and a few festering sores under his front arms.

Every inch of him was inspected and tended to. I just wished I could reach into his chest and somehow fix his enlarged heart.

The clock in the kitchen showed two forty a.m. by the time I was happy with his condition and had given him a Schmacko treat I found in a drawer designated for utensils but was choc-a-block full of squeaky toys and dried jerky for dogs.

I’d completely underestimated Ryder.

Looking around his large but unhomely house, I picked up clues that he’d kept hidden. His humour and antics made him come across as carefree and slightly self-absorbed. But as my gaze landed on hammers and chisels and the occasional crude comment written by a finger in the dust on the kitchen top, I saw a man who had a fascination with fixing broken things.

Dogs. Houses. Maybe even humans, too.

I hadn’t been broken, but I had forgotten how to laugh; how to ask myself what I truly wanted. That night in my apartment had been the first honest to God connection I’d felt—not toward him but toward myself.

I hadn’t hid behind filters or thoughts of what I should be and how I should act.

He had a gift, and he gave it so damn generously to everyone.

Thinking of him must’ve summoned him as he appeared, his hands jammed in paint-splattered jeans like always, and his hair a mix of dark brown and plaster grey from dust. “How’s the invalid?”

Scar wagged his tail as Ryder bent over and scratched behind his ear but his breathing was no better. The rattle and wheeze broke my heart.

“Time for bed, buddy?”

---