Theo

Just call me Alpha Dog Crawford

 

I think Woody and I have finally settled into a routine. It’s been three days since the “alpha incident” as I like to call it and all the instructions that Joey gave me I’ve adopted and implemented.

Now when I call him or administer the medication, Woody is quick to adhere to my commands. It makes me question the way I’ve lived my life up to this point.

If a dog as small as Woody picked up on the fact that I am a push-over and dare I say, Pussy, maybe that’s how I’ve been with people, too. In my relationships – my previous one with Alyssa. Her parents. My own parents.

Even my agent, for fuck’s sake.

Christ, maybe I need to do something about my constant need to people please and do something to please myself for once. I don’t mean act like a thug, or some asshole prick or anything, but maybe I need to straighten my spine a bit more. Pull my shoulders back and tip my chin up and add some swagger.

I’m about to hold my own one-man-march with a sign that reads, “You can do it, Theo” when there’s a knock at the door.

I’m holding the script on my lap that I’ve been reading over the last hour, as I have a casting call tomorrow morning, but I throw it over onto the glass table in front of the sofa and head toward the door.

Woody circles in front of the door, giving a little bark of delight. I’ve only seen him that excited over Patrick and Joey, so I assume it’s her. Unlocking the deadbolts, I swing the door open to find the lovely Josephine from 2B standing in front of me in the hallway.

She looks exasperated, disheveled, and deadly gorgeous.

She’s wearing some flowy-white blouse and a navy-blue pencil skirt that ends at the top of her knees. As my eyes scan her delectable body, I notice her sensible flats and the way her shapely legs are silky bare. When my gaze returns to her face, I see her cheeks tinged a bright pink, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of frustration, confusion and interest.

“Hello, neighbor,” I say in greeting.

Her small hand lands on the doorframe, an unpainted nail agitatedly tapping against it.

She bends her head, staring down at the space between our feet and lets out a loud, desperate sigh.

“I’ve had the shittiest day ever. The kids were horrible. I was passed over for the part-time job I’d applied for to make ends meet this summer, and I locked myself out of my apartment. Is there a sign on my back that reads, “I’m a loser?” she asks, turning her head in both directions to look behind her.

It’s a dick move, but I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s adorable when she’s flustered – a true opposite of what she was the other morning at her place. Then she was in control and sure of herself. Right now, she’s a tightly wound woman who is in desperate need of a drink.

Or a foot massage.

Or a hard fuck.

Hm. I like the sound of that. I could make good on any or all three of them. Wonder what she would say if I proposed that? It’s the only neighborly thing to do, don’t you think?

Joey steps across the threshold and the door slams behind her. She takes a few steps toward the kitchen.

“I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere between school and home, I lost my keys,” she explains, opening a cupboard and pulling out a low ball glass. “I really need a shot of Patrick’s Irish whiskey. And then my spare key. Do you mind?”

Her body looks like it’s about to wither and crash to the floor. My first instinct is to wrap my arms around her and drag her in close for a reassuring hug.

The thought has merit, but even though she’s had a day from hell, and I know her body would be warm and luscious against mine, I resist the urge. We really don’t know each other very well and she might just knee me in the nuts for being pervy.

Plus, that’s what the old Theo would do. Comfort the woman in distress. Not the new me. No, Tough Theo doesn’t fall for that shit.

I need to hold my ground. Be the alpha. Man-up or whatever shit they say that turns girly men into Big Dogs. I can’t just bend over backwards for a woman I barely know and let her take advantage of the situation just because she needs a shoulder to cry on.

I watch her as she rummages around the kitchen, locating the bottle of whisky and pouring a finger into the glass. She catches me staring at her round breasts pressed firmly against the shirt, her nipples pebbling hard into tantalizing peaks that I have the urge to flick and nip with my mouth.

Her look of confusion, or disgust, squashes that image as soon as it came to mind.

“I’m sorry. I just barged in her and started bitching about my day. Do you want a shot?”

Instead of words, I nod my response because my throat went dry picturing her wet, hard nipples.

Shit. I need to get laid. It’s been months.

Joey pours me a drink and hands it to me before circling the counter and throwing herself down onto the L-shaped couch, Woody scampering behind her to catch up. Her glass barely makes the coffee table as she buries her face in the pillow with a deep sigh of relief, just as Woody climbs up to curl underneath her arm.

She mumbles something I can’t make out as I plop down on the end of the couch, nearest her head, the top of her head butting up against my thigh. I swallow down a sip of the Jameson.

A cough escapes my throat from the peaty liquid and I nearly gag with the reminder that not even a week ago I had the hangover from hell from this stuff. When I swore to myself that I’d never drink again. But then my senses are calmed by the low-burn and mossy scent of the liquor, and the warm, sultry scent of Joey.

When I tip my head down at the beautiful, strung-out woman on the couch next to me, I decide that acting neighborly is the right call to action. She’s had a day from hell, and I consider it my duty to help her out. I’ll save the alpha-male for another time.

Joey’s strawberry blonde hair spills out over her face and the pillow, and before I can stop myself, I push back the silken curls from her face. Her wide emerald green eyes pop open and I notice goosebumps spreading across her neck and arms.

For some reason, it thrills me to know that my touch can produce such a sensation. I wonder where else on this long, gorgeous body that gooseflesh can register.

Once again, I shake the thoughts free and remind myself to be friendly, not freaky, as I hand her the drink from the table. Our fingers briefly touch in the exchange.

“Thanks,” she says, sitting up against the back of the couch and taking one large gulp, finishing the drink without even batting an eye.

I’m a little more than impressed, considering I’m a light-weight with whisky.

“Here, drink the rest of mine,” I instruct, passing her my nearly untouched glass to her and removing the empty one from her hand.

“Ugh,” she grumbles, throwing back the remainder of my drink, before choking out a cough from the strong remnants. “I might need you to get me the rest of the bottle.”

I chuckle and my eyes find hers to determine if she’s kidding or not, because I really don’t know if she’s serious. But the smirk on her full lips and the squint in her mischievous eyes tells me what I need to know.

 Moving back into the kitchen, I grab the bottle from the counter and return to the couch, pouring us both another.

“Drink up. It’s not my booze. You can have as much as you want.”

This earns a beautiful, husky laugh and I take another sip from my drink. I can already feel the warmth swimming in my stomach.

I’ve never been much of a drinker. Usually just beers with my buddies or a bottle of wine with Alyssa. Her dad got us into some hoity-toity wine club and we’d get monthly deliveries of expensive bottles of wine. I actually began to enjoy the varieties and started reading up on wine in my spare time so I could be knowledgeable about the wine world.

Plus, it made me feel better about myself when we hung out with her parents, who were complete wine snobs.

Strong liquor, however, isn’t really my friend. I need to take heed of the warning signs flashing in my brain.

“Oh shit, this is strong.”

Joey cocks her head and laughs.

She teases. “We need to toughen you up a little if you’re going to continue hanging with Pat. He drinks like a fish.”

“Don’t I know it. The trouble he got me into when we were in college is the kind that I don’t want to have a repeat or even mention in polite company.”

I tip the glass up to my lips and take another sip. This time it goes down a bit smoother.

Joey looks at me thoughtfully. “Oh, I thought you two just met? I guess I got the impression that…”

I don’t know where she’s going with that, but I interrupt her. “Oh no. We go way back to our first year in college. But went our separate ways after graduation. You know how it is…things change. People grow and find their own paths. Plus, I met someone.”

I decide not to continue that story because the pain is still too fresh and hurt’s like a motherfucker. I want to push Alyssa and all our history we shared together out the window and into the gutter because that’s where it belongs. Along with my old identity.

Hindsight being twenty/twenty, I can now clearly see how she used and manipulated me for years. I was basically her puppet. She pulled the strings and I responded.

Well fuck that. No more.

I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. I’m not going to bend over backwards for other people. I’ll stand up for what I want and what makes me happy. I’m going to go full-throttle at making a name for myself and building my career.

Instead of prying, Joey nods her head, as if she understands the turmoil and fresh bruising on my heart and wants to avoid making it any worse.

To change the subject entirely, I ask her about her day.

“So, tell me…how bad was it? What do you do again?”

I know Pat gave me a litany of instructions and information before he left, and I vaguely recall him saying something about Joey being a teacher and being off this summer, in the event I need her to watch Woody. Other than that, I have no idea what her job entails.

She groans, dropping her head to her hands, her elbows to her knees.

“I’m a high school teacher. And this school year has been gruesome. Unbearable. It feels like my entire soul was thrown into the paper shredder.”

“Well, shit. That sounds bad.”

I’m not sure how much I should delve into the specifics of her situation. But before I question myself any further, she continues.

“I found out one of my favorite and brightest students is dropping out because she’s pregnant. She’s fucking fifteen years old! What the hell is wrong with this world? How did we fail this girl so badly that we didn’t teach her how to respect herself and the importance of protection? We’ve failed to teach these girls how to stand up for themselves and say no, so they don’t become easy prey to some asshole who pressures them into sex after only two weeks of dating,” she uses air quotes, “convincing her to give up her virginity.”

I wait, fearful of saying the wrong thing, completely unqualified to respond to her rant. I’m a guy. I’m not suggesting what that boy did is right, but I also know we will do and say just about anything to try and get into a girl’s pussy. It just is what it is. We think with our dicks, pure and simple.

Instead, I remain reflective and allow her to vent, choosing not to interject with questions. She flops her head against the back of the couch, her sweet-smelling strawberry curls tossed over the pillow. Her eyes close tightly in agony, but her voice becomes softer. More contained. But still filled with her pain and aggravation.

“Gina is so bright. So funny and smart. But I knew it…I just sensed she had self-image issues. I knew she came from a broken home. I saw how she carried herself in the hallways and in the classroom, always wrapping an arm around her middle, like she was trying to protect herself. Or to hide her shame. And I saw that boy lurking around her. But I didn’t fucking do anything!”

My stomach tightens with anxiety over what Joey must feel. Setting my glass down on the table, I reach over and gently place my hand on her knee to show my support. It’s the only thing I can think of doing. She startles slightly, but closes her eyes again.

“Don’t do that to yourself, Joey,” I implore. “You can’t control these kids or stop bad things from happening. You’re doing the best you can under the worst circumstances. It’s a shame this happened, because it’s obvious you really like this girl, but it’s not your fault she chose to have unprotected sex and got knocked up. You didn’t make it happen.”

She wrenches her knee away and I drop my hand. I don’t want things to get awkward.

“You don’t understand,” she whispers, taking another sip and placing it on the table next to mine. “It’s my job to be observant and do something about them. But I didn’t know until it was too late.”

I can’t possibly believe she feels responsible for this girl’s predicament, but I don’t feel qualified to argue the fact since I don’t know the entire story. So just like she let me off the hook about Alyssa, I decide to skirt the hundred-pound elephant in the room.

“You’re a teacher, Joey. Not a mind reader or their counselor. You couldn’t have known.”

She stares at me then, her bright green eyes either mulling over my words or maybe preparing to smack me in the face. But instead, she sighs and stands to head back into the kitchen.

I watch with interest as she flings open drawers.

“Have you seen a key on a red ribbon anywhere? Pat has my extra housekey, but I have no idea where he keeps it.”

I’ll admit, I may have peaked in a few drawers the last few nights, but it wasn’t out of snoopiness or boredom. I had to locate various cooking utensils and a light bulb for the kitchen stove. I don’t recall if I ever noticed another set of keys.

I shake my head. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. But we can call Patrick.”

I look to the clock on the microwave and do the math. It’s close to one in the morning in China and since he’s there on business, there’s a strong likelihood he’s asleep and wouldn’t answer until morning.

A kitchen drawer slams and Joey curses loudly.

“Shit! Just another nail in today’s coffin. I don’t think this day could get any worse.”

I move into the kitchen next to her, but leave about three feet of personal space between us, but do place a hand on top of her shoulder.

“Listen…why don’t we text Pat to ask where the key is, and in the meantime, I was about to fix some dinner. We can eat and see if we hear anything back. If not, you can stay the night here and then by morning, he’ll get back to us with the whereabouts of the key, and that will be that.”

I try to keep it positive and light, but I watch as her shoulders droop in a weary posture. I’m not sure if that’s just a continuation of her horrendous day or if she really doesn’t want to spend any more time over here with me.

Just to up the ante a bit, I throw out, “I’m hella good in the kitchen. It’s one of my many talents.”

Joey whips her head toward me, staring at me with skepticism.

She wavers. “That’s yet to be seen, because you’re certainly not good with dogs. Or first impressions, for that matter.”

I playfully clutch at my chest. “Oh, that hurts. But for the record, I was stupid drunk the night we met otherwise I’m sure your first impression of me would have been fantastic. Because I’m a charmer.”

Joey laughs. “And oh-so-modest.”

I shrug. “Eh, what can I say? And as for Woody and myself, we’ve become fabulous friends. He’s practically eating out of the palm of my hand.”

And just as if he knows exactly what I said and state his own opinion on the matter, Woody saunters into the kitchen. He lifts a hind leg, gives me a look that says, “you’re an idiot” and pees on my slipper.

Leave it to Woody to get in the last word.

At least it made Joey laugh.