Page 10 of Monster Mate

Riordan cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, I’ll go back for it now. Do you want it in the driveway?”

“Yes, please.”

He gave her a wink that would’ve irritated her coming from anyone else. But from him, it worked. Worked its way right into her panties, that is.

And with that, he dematerialized.

She turned a severe frown on Winston, who was now rummaging through a bag of Cheetos he’d apparently hidden in the couch cushions. “You could’ve been nicer.”

“I was nice to the last one. Look where that got us.”

His definition of nice and hers were vastly different. “You called Neil a flaming hemorrhoid on the butt of humanity.”

Winston pointed an orange-stained finger at her. “First of all, I wanted to call him a half-witted fart huffer, but I thought the hemorrhoid bit was classier since I’d only just met the guy and I didn’t want to embarrass you. You’re welcome. And secondly, I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

She blinked. That was Winston not embarrassing her? “No. You weren’t wrong. Just be nicer to Riordan, OK? He’s already done more for me than Neil ever did.”

He snorted. “That’s a pretty low bar you’ve set, child.”

Rude. Again. But also not wrong. Again. “I ignored the red flags for a little too long, alright? I get it. I had no idea it’d end…like it did.”

She saw no need to recap anything for Winston. He’d been there with her, packing their belongings up in her crappy car in the dead of night, and leaving town like they’d stolen something after Neil had been served with the restraining order.

Roxie rubbed the tiny scar on her hairline. It was a lovely little reminder of what happened when red flags were ignored.

Never. Again.

Winston’s stern glare softened a bit. “I know. It’s OK, you know. I never liked that shitty small town, anyway. And that nursing home was worse than when I was captured by the enemy in Nam.”

Roxie also saw no need to remind Winston he’d never been to Vietnam. What good would that do? Plus, the nursing home had been pretty terrible. Management had done a shit job of taking care of the place. Her job as a nursing aide had been rewarding, though. It was a shame she’d had to leave like she had, ensuring she couldn’t use them as a reference on her resume.

Then it occurred to her that someone was missing. “Where’s Waldo?”

Winston looked around. “Huh. He was here when I went upstairs to use the shitter.”

Roxie’s heart sank. “Oh, man, I told you not to let him out of your sight. He’s probably at the grocery store again.”

Waldo, her twelve-year-old Basset Hound, had a bad habit of sneaking out her bedroom window (which was broken and didn’t close properly), traipsing down the balcony steps to the deck below, then going walkabout around the town for hours on end. If he wasn’t brought home by a good Samaritan, she’d get a call from animal control that he was stealing food from the corner market or the butcher shop. Last time she’d had to pay over a hundred dollars in damages (i.e.: stuff that Waldo ate) and was lucky no one wanted to take Waldo to the pound.

She was just about to grab her sweater and go looking for him when Riordan materialized right in front of her with his arms full of her sweet, lovable, asshole of a dog.

Her breath whooshed out on a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank God. Where was he?”

“He was coming out of your neighbor’s house,” Riordan said, bemused. “Someone inside was yelling something about a rotisserie chicken that had disappeared when I saw him running through their dog door. I wasn’t sure he belonged here until I caught your scent on him. Then I saw his collar.”

Ugh. Great. Now she owed the neighbors dinner. She grabbed Waldo’s wrinkly face between her palms. Yep. That was definitely rotisserie chicken on his breath. “You’re lucky you’re so squishy and adorable.”

Winston snorted. “He’s not that adorable.”

Winston was absolutely full of shit because her baby was the most adorable thief ever.

Roxie had picked Waldo up from the pound four years ago. Every inch of him, all seventy-five pounds, from his ridiculously long ears to his droopy, sad eyes, to the fat wrinkles covering his little feet, was pure, unadulterated joy.

For her, at least. But for others…well, Waldo contained multitudes. He was an angel for her, but he could be a real dick to strangers.

When she adopted him, the shelter workers told her he’d been trained as a therapy dog but had failed his final tests because he didn’t like the tester. And when Waldo didn’t like someone, he bit them. Then peed on them.

Once he arrived at the shelter, it became clear that he was an escape artist, which is how he earned the name Waldo. (The question, “Where’s Waldo” had become the most common phrase uttered in the pound daily.)

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