Page 10 of Broken Instrument

It’s a moot point, anyway. Pixie isn’t only Bud’s dog. Technically, she belongs to his daughter. He’d gotten her for Christmas one year as a gift for missing the previous one. And even though they go months without seeing each other, it’s not like my niece is going to willingly hand over her sole reason for visiting her father to a stranger all because he dropped the ball. Again.

I bite my lip to keep from taking him up on his offer and shake my head. “You can’t.”

“But your land––”

“No. You don't understand,” I interrupt. “Buddy’s daughter––”

“Bud has a daughter?”

“Yeah. She loves Pixie. And yeah, she might have daddy issues, but I can’t get rid of her dog because her dad decided to be an irresponsible asshole.”

His trimmed fingernails scratch against his five o’clock shadow before he digs into his pocket for his cell. “What’s your number?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll text you my contact info so you can reach out whenever your niece wants to see Pix.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I argue.

“Look. The way I see it, you can either let your landlord take Pixie to the pound, which’ll piss off your niece and your brother whenever he decides to show back up, or you can let me watch her while keeping full visitation rights until your brother decides to get his head out of his ass, or you can keep her yourself and go apartment hunting. The choice is yours.”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, his options swirling around in my brain as indecision gnaws my lower gut.

“I can’t just give her to you,” I mutter.

“You aren’t. You’re passing along babysitting duties until Bud shows up again.”

“Why, though? Why would you be willing to help?”

“Honestly?” He shrugs his broad shoulders, the dark blue henley making my mouth water as it stretches across his broad chest. “I have no idea. I guess I could use the distraction.”

“From what, exactly?”

He looks down at the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while reminding me of a little boy who failed a test or something.

“Life, I guess,” he answers. There’s something about the way he says it, though. The vulnerability. The resolution. The indecision. Like some twisted cacophony of mixed emotions urging me to dig a little deeper.

“You need a distraction from life?” I ask.

“Do you want my help or not?”

There’s a sharpness in his voice this time. Like he doesn’t want his acid tongue to hit its mark, but he’s blindly wielding it to keep anyone from getting too close. And it only piques my curiosity more. After all, I’m a writer. I’m a sucker for a good story with juicy details. And tragedies? They’re my specialty. But I don’t question him further. I don’t push him. Honestly, I think it’s because it looks like he’s already been bulldozed past his limits, and he doesn’t need anyone else pushing him further. Not right now.

And he’s right. I might not want his help, but I do need it.

It’s like he said, if I don’t take him up on his offer, I’ll be homeless. It’s not like I can keep hiding her in my apartment when Mortin knows she’s here and is currently camping outside my door. And I’m not about to turn my life upside down for a dog who isn’t even mine. Sure, she’s cute, but I’m not going to let myself get attached any more than I already have. I can’t.

She. Isn’t. Mine.

“And you promise to give her back to Bud when he shows up? ‘Cause this isn’t the first time he’s disappeared without saying where he’s going or when he’ll be back––”

“I know Bud,” he tells me. “And I know Pixie. Don’t I, girl?” Bending down, he scratches her ear again.

“Fine,” I mutter. “My number’s 555.332.0821.”

He types the digits into his phone, and my cell dings on the kitchen counter with an incoming text message a few seconds later.

“There,” he announces. “Now you know how to contact me.”

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