Page 174 of The Billionaires

Belatedly, Bruce touches his temple, and I give Colossus a cookie.

“Now try just the temple bit,” I say.

Bruce does, but it’s not working yet, so we involve the vodka again and a couple of more times after that.

By the end of the limo ride, Colossus begins to understand what we’re trying to do and sometimes barks when Bruce touches his temple.

“We’ll work on this more for the rest of today,” I say when we come to a stop.

“Yes,” Bruce says imperiously. “Do that.”

“Ready to call it a night?” I ask Colossus when I catch myself yawning for the tenth time.

He cocks his head and gives me puppy eyes.

Sure, but can I request dreams in which I eat cookies?

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say when the sadness in said puppy eyes intensifies. “Fine. How about one more—but last one?” I put my finger to my temple.

The puppy barks triumphantly and proudly accepts his treat. He’s now fully mastered this trick and is ready to learn to bark under different conditions.

I check the clock.

It’s way past bedtime.

“Go to sleep.” I point at the tiny replica of Bruce’s bed that someone so helpfully brought over while we were at the zoo. “This is your new room.”

Colossus walks over to sniff the bed, then grabs the bedding with his teeth and starts dragging it—unsuccessfully.

Maybe he wants it farther from the wall? I move the bed a little, but the dragging behavior doesn’t stop.

Weird. Is it some ritual or an odd way to tuck himself in? Perhaps he’s working his way up to having his way with the bed? Roach would hump his bed upon occasion. And the pouf next to my recliner. And the broom.

Leaving Colossus to do whatever it is he’s up to, I undress, grab my nightie, and head to the bathroom for a shower. As the warm water pelts my skin, I close my eyes, but that causes some unwanted images to enter my mind—ones involving Bruce, his lips, and other body parts.

That does it. Once I get into bed, I’m going to release some of this sexual tension with one of my toys.

Plan in place, I exit the shower, dry myself, and put on the nightie—then remember I haven’t yet brushed or flossed my teeth. I’m mid-way through my brushing when I hear a heart-wrenching whine that sounds eerily like a baby’s cry.

Swallowing toothpaste, I run barefoot to see what’s wrong.

Looking miserable, Colossus sits next to his bed, whining.

“I’m here,” I tell him soothingly. “Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t listen, and nothing I try works—from belly rubs to behind-the-ear scratches.

Time for the big guns. Picking him up, I take him to my bed. If this is a big no-no for Bruce, he can chastise me for it later.

The whining continues. I begin to suspect what Colossus wants—the clue is that his little nose points unerringly at the door.

“Do you want Daddy?” I ask.

He whines again.

“He’s probably already sleeping,” I say. “He’d be grumpy if we woke him.” Or murderous.

Another whine.

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