Page 33 of 1 Last Shot

So instead of leading him into the bathroom again, I take the blanket and lay it out by the front door instead. It's not the worst thing in the world to have a scary dog like him be the first thing anyone sees, I’m just worried he's going to tear my house apart while I sleep.

But when I think of dropping him off at the shelter instead, the concern becomes nonexistent. I'd rather wake up to a torn-up couch than imagine him shaking in a crate at that place. Plus, it's not like there's anything valuable in my apartment—I’m too much of a minimalist and give too few shits for that.

"Alright, boss," I start, watching as he settles on the blanket. "Just… try not to do too much damage, alright? If you keep it clean, I'll get you a big breakfast tomorrow morning. Deal?"

When I only get a blank stare in response, I shake my head and turn to my own bedroom.

Guess we'll see.

* * *

Over the next few days, I go through all the steps you need to go through after rescuing a stray dog: I buy dog food, some treats, take him to the vet. He doesn't seem to have any interest in his dog bed or his toys, but I'm just glad he's eating. Also, that the vet gave him a clean bill of health after a round of vaccines and some heartworm medicine. And confirmed that his missing leg was a birth deformity, not an instance of animal abuse. Thank fucking God.

The only step I miss is actually taking him to a rescue shelter.

Because the more time I spend with him, the less I like the idea of giving him up.

We quickly settle into a new daily routine. My shifts at the strip club have me coming home in the middle of the night, but because I’m suddenly not dreading getting out of bed for another meaningless, repetitive day, I find myself starting my days earlier than usual.

I’m also having breakfast for the first time in my life that’s not just coffee. I eat when the dog eats, and then we go for a long, lazy walk around the city. That’s one thing I never really considered, that having a dog would get me more time to do one of the only things that clears my head. And with one long walk after breakfast and another between my training sessions and work shifts, we spend a lot of time exploring the city.

Plus, seeing the look of excitement on Oscar’s face when I give him some chicken, or grab the leash to take him for a walk, givesmea burst of happiness.

It’s on one of these before-work walks, when I’m thinking about how I’d like to introduce Oscar to a certain neighbor of mine, that I turn a corner and find none other than Isabella walking out of the corner store on our street.

She spots me at the same time, and we both freeze.

My mouth instantly dries at the sight of her. She's dressed in tights, over-the-knee socks, shorts that are so small they can only be called boy shorts, and a baggy sweater to cover everything else up. It’s all I can do not to gawk at her.

“Hey,” she says with a smile as she steps out on to the sidewalk.

The smile immediately disarms me.

Fuck, how did that happen?

I’m so thrown off by the realization that I blurt out, “Why are you dressed like that?”

She looks amused as she gestures to her outfit. "Three guesses, Kane."

My eyes narrow. "Smartass," I mutter.

The corner of her lip twitches with a smirk, but it quickly spreads into a warm smile when her attention catches on the dog patiently sitting at my feet.

"Who's this?" she asks, and I'm glad to see she doesn't immediately approach a strange pitbull.

"He's a stray I just picked up,” I answer.

"He's very handsome," she says, smile still in place. "Does he have a name?"

I hesitate before admitting, "I guess I've started calling him Oscar in my head." Isabella gives me a blank stare. "Like Oscar the Grouch," I explain. "Since I rescued him from a dumpster."

Her expression immediately shutters, and she looks at Oscar with sadness. "That's horrible. How could anyone be so cruel to an animal?"

She's visibly holding back from approaching him, though she can't seem to stop herself from dropping into a squat to be on Oscar's level. So I answer the question I know she's dying to ask. "I'd say you can pet him, but he doesn't seem to be great with strangers, so it's probably best if you stay—"

The words freeze in my throat when Oscar's ears swivel toward Isabella, and his tail starts wagging. I swear there's something like a pep in his step when he walks forward to greet her.

"Oh," she breathes in surprise. She extends her hand, her face lit up with happiness as Oscar first sniffs, then licks her. His tail wags even faster when she pets his head and scratches behind his ears. "You were saying?" she asks, giving me a smug smile.

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