Page 57 of Love in Training
“I have a proposal,” he says. My eyebrows shoot up. Some part of me actually wants to laugh. He sounds like a goddamn robot.
“Then you should have stayed on your knees,” I snark. But when he just looks confused, I roll my eyes. “I took the dog for a run like you suggested. Now I’m in major need of a shower. Hurry up and spit it out.”
He straightens, even more stiff and formal, if that’s possible. “Today is...” He swallows, and for a nauseous moment, I’m sure he’s going to drag me with him into a black hole. I step back, consider making a run for it, but then he says, “I think I can help Rufus recover. I’d like to. If you’d be willing to work together.”
I was wrong. Thisisa black hole. Just not one I ever saw coming.
“Look,” he continues. “I’ve done some research and have a few ideas about what he’s struggling with. We could just try for a week or two. It’ll either help, or it won’t.”
I bite my lip. My knee-jerk reaction is to say no and shove past him. But instead, I force myself to ask a question. “And what would that look like, exactly?”
He shifts his weight uncomfortably. But when he brings his hand to rest on Rufus’s head, something changes. His whole posture is more relaxed, more fluid.
“You could bring him to the training center. Or we could just work in the park at first, if that’s more comfortable. I’m sure the running helps. But this dog was trained to follow specific commands, do specific types of jobs... My hope is he’ll settle down if we let him do them.”
I open my mouth, ready to sayyes, please. Beg for it, for anything that will settle Rufus at all. But I catch myself before I can walk into his web. I almost forgot I’m dealing with a Forbes. And they have a one hundred percent burn rate. I tighten my grip on the leash, moving toward the entrance of my building. “Sorry, I can’t afford formal training.”
“I won’t charge you,” he says quickly. “I just want to do it... for him.”
The gravelly quality of his voice gets my attention. I’m not sure whichhimhe means.
Rufus—or Kyle?
I turn to the dog, staring up at me, panting, with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. And I swear he has an expression in his eyes like he just wants me to figure things out.
So do I, dog. So do I.
“He needs water,” I mutter, opening the lobby door. But the traitorous animal lingers. Drew’s long fingers still stroke his ears, his golden eyes relaxed and trusting. I remember something Lydia said once about animals being able to tell things about people’s character. I roll my eyes. “I’ll think about it, all right?”
Drew nods, giving Rufus a final pat before he steps back. The dog looks from him to me briefly, like he’s not sure why we’re going separate ways. Then, finally, he follows me through the door.
Sometime around three a.m., I wake up to an unfamiliar sound. I hadn’t been dreaming, or if I was, I don’t remember. But I was so deeply asleep, it takes forever to form a coherent thought. I’m not even sure I actually heard something until it starts up again.
Squick, squick, squick . . .
A sort of rubbery, plastic sound. Not close, but definitely coming from inside my apartment. I look around for Rufus, who is usually curled in a ball on a mat next to the bed under the window—when he’s not just standing watching me sleep like a creeper. But he isn’t there now. Which probably isn’t good.
I turn on my bedside light and sit up. The sound seems to come from what’s left of the couch, but I can only see the back of it from here. The dog is probably finishing it off or, best-case scenario, chewing on his Kong. But something tells me I should make sure. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and just as my feet touch the floor, a new sound fills the air. One I recognize immediately.
“Oh no, you didn’t, you fucking?—”
I rush into my living area and flip on the overhead light. There, perched in the middle of the sofa he single-handedly destroyed, is Rufus. Holding what’s left of my favorite, now very chewed up, purple vibrator—currentlyvibrating—in his mouth.
“Give that to me.” I lunge for him, but he makes a dramatic escape over the back of the couch like a thief fleeing an art gallery. “Rufus.”
He looks at me. And then has the nerve to wag his black-tipped tail.
I nearly growl. “You are a very bad dog. Let me have that right now.” I come around the couch toward him, trying again to reclaim my sex toy.
Rufus watches my movements, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear something twinkles in his eyes. He makes a playful sound in his throat and launches onto my bed, doing what I can only describe as a bow, stretching his head down toward his front paws with his butt sticking up in the air. The maimed purple cock hangs out the side of his grinning mouth, still vibrating, and I almost scream.
“Goddammit, stop! This isn’t funny—just spit itoutalready!”
Immediately, his whole demeanor shifts. He straightens, all sense of play disappearing. The toy falls out of his mouth, landing destroyed on top of the covers where I probably left it last night while trying to escape my grief. When I reach to grab it back from him, he lets out a low, distressed whine.
I hold up the formerly dick-shaped purple silicone, turning it over until I find the power button and shut it off. I rotate it, examining its thoroughly chewed state, and as I do, the very-chewed business end falls off. I let out a long, shaking breath.
“That. Was. My. Favorite!”
