Page 20 of Pretty Dogs

“Youweren’t the one that pinned me down,”Dallasmuses, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Hewas stronger.”

Iclose my eyes and grit my teeth asIpull in a slow breath.IfI’msupposed to stay calm, he can’t say shit like that.

“You’rein that old camp by the river, aren’t you?”Scoutguesses. “Nicespot.Who’syour buddy?”

Calvinglances between us with an edge of panic, then zeroes in onRoman. “Please, canIhave my cat?”Heedges closer to the huge man and scoops upRamboorHobbesor whatever from its box.Romansadly watches the kitten go, but he doesn’t stop him.Theblack and white ball of fur digs claws deep into the kid’s hoodie as he hugs it to his chest. “I’mnot gonna rat out my bro– my friend.Ijust want to go.”

Scoutraises his eyebrows at me, butIshrug irritably.Theymade it clearI’msupposed to behave myself.Dallasjumps into the silence. “Ifyou guys don’t have anywhere to go or anything to eat, maybe we can help you.”

Ican’t bite back the half snort, half growl that bursts out of me. “Comeon.Ifhe’s old enough to be carjacking people, he’s old enough to take care of himself.Tellyour fuckingfriendthatIshoot any stray verminIsee crawling around my property.”

“Please.”Dallasrolls his eyes. “You’renotClintEastwood.Ignorehim,Calvin.”

Scoutclears his throat and shoots us a dirty look, butCalvinjust straightens up with as much dignity as someone can have with a cat trying to squirm out of his hands. “We’realright, thank you.”AndhereIgo again, accidentally liking him for a second.

WhenCalvinopens the front door,Romansurprises all of us by snapping his fingers.Thekid pauses, looking confused, andIcan seeRomesearching for words.Idon’t think they’re going to come with a stranger in the house and all of us arguing. “Tellme,”Scoutmurmurs, squeezing his shoulder.

Romefires off a fast, messy series of signs.Iknow most of them, likeTubbsandplay, but he andScouthave their own made up shorthandIcan’t interpret.CalvinwatchesRoman’shands move in total fascination.

“Hesays he really likesRambo–uh,Hobbes–and that he wants the cat and dog to be friends,”Scoutexplains. “Ifyou’re sticking around the area, he says you should bringHobbesback to visit.”

JesusChrist,Ilive with a bunch of bleeding hearts.Scout’sthe only other person in this house with any street smarts.Ilean back against the door frame, sulking.WhenCalvinlooks at me,Ijerk my head likefuck off.

“Thanks!” he calls without answeringRoman’sinvitation, then cradles the kitten securely and starts running.Icross to the big window and watch him skitter across the fields toward the river.He’sundersized for a kid his age, which makes his fearlessness even more stupid.

Romanclears his throat. “Doyou think he’ll come back?” he asks softly.

Myfriend strokes gentle fingers through his boy’s hair. “Ihave no idea.Butyou’d better let the dog in before he dies of a broken heart.”

Dallascomes over to look out the window, his hand resting on my back. “He’sjust a little kid.Youshouldn’t be mean to him.”

Ifrown at his wide, chocolate-colored eyes. “Areyou serious right now?Youstill have a giant bruise on your forehead.”

“Hesaid he was sorry.”

I’mtrying to come up with a way of saying “I’mgonna have to lock you in my closet until you promise you’ll never leave my sight again”withoutusing those words whenScoutpops his head back in the room.

“Funnything,Dallas.Wewere unpacking the groceries and these must have fallen in the bag somehow.”Hechucks a bundle of something across the room, andDallasscrambles to catch it before it hits the floor.It’sa package of cookies, with a dark-haired little girl on them.

“I–”Dal’sfingers tighten around them, and he hugs them to his chest.Hisvoice sounds soft and a little bewildered, like in the toy aisle at the store. “Youguys didn’t have to do that.Noneof you…”Heglances back at me. “Noneof you had to do any of this.”

Scoutshrugs, his face deadpan. “Noidea where they came from.Imust have gotten them confused with theOreos.”Heflashes me a smile asDallasgoes rushing to the kitchen to put on some tea.

7

DALLAS

“Thanksagain.Ireally appreciate the opportunity.”

Headup.Smile.Strongvoice.Firmhandshake–wait, how firm?Isthis too firm?Shit.

Richard, the owner ofCopperCreekFashion, accepts my confused strangling of his hand as we both get to our feet.Theforty-something-year-old man intimidates me with his perfectly curly beard, cashmere sweater, and nine-hundred-dollar designer jeans, but his smile is genuine and kind.Rightnow he’s too busy staring out the office door into the shop behind me to notice if my grip is the appropriate strength.

“Nooffense, but do you happen to know that man?Idon’t, um, recognize him.”

Myheart sinks asIspin around and crane my neck over a shelf of perfume.Sureenough, a thatch of blond hair that looks like it lost a fight with a weed whacker is bobbing around between the racks asBeckprowls the shop.MaybeIshould feel offended thatRichardassumesI’mfriends with a sketchy guy in a pink hoodie that saysAllTrash,NoTrailer.Buthe’s not wrong.

“Ohf–”Ibite back a profanity. “I’mso sorry.”

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