C H A P T E R T W O

LELA

“Then why do you keep calling me?” I snap into the phone. I know better than to answer, but I’m beginning to realize I’m a masochist.

If I weren’t, I wouldn’t keep signing up for misery.

“Because I care about you, Lela.”

“No, Hunter, you don’t.”

It’s early. Too early to be dealing with him. On top of that, I have to get packed and out of here in a few minutes, so I don’t have time. I know I should just hang up right now, but I don’t. I set the phone down on the tiny kitchenette table and put it on speaker while I dip my organic Earl Grey tea bag into the cup of hot water I just brewed on the hot plate.

With my other hand, I shove the last bite of my homemade macaron into my mouth and let my eyes roll back as it melts in my mouth.

“I care.” Hunter’s distracted monotone hints that I am not his sole focus, even right now. He is probably engaged with a silicone, collagen-injected Barbie with a permanent “fuck me” face on his computer screen. “Besides, you aren’t on Facebook, and you never answer email. You don’t even text. So you force me to call you.”

I’m tired. I took the last shift doing the rounds last night and still had to be up at dawn to do morning walks with the seven dogs on my training roster before I turn them over to one of the other staff to cover while I’m on assignment. Hunter sighs dramatically into the phone, and my stomach turns over on my breakfast of macaroons, banana taffy, and tea.

I have a secret talent. I can make almost any sweet confection just by taste. No recipe needed. Even growing up in the Airstream, I was always cooking up some candy concoction and sending my dad into a sugar coma with all my sugary creations.

Dad.

The necessity for me to be successful at this job is more so now than ever.  Dad never let on that much growing up about money. But as I got older and started helping him more, paying the bills, I never realized how much it costs him just to do his job.  Just his onsite Errors and Omissions as well as Liability insurance is half of what he makes. 

Couple that with the accident last month where he slipped and fell down the metal stairs climbing up to the top of the rig.  He’s unable to take any new work for at least a couple months while he recovers from a two broken ribs and a fractured tibia. 

My income is more important than ever.  Keeping this job.  Doing well.

“Are you there?”  Hunter asks with an irritating whine in his voice. 

Hunter broke up with me via text message three months ago. You might think the breakup is what bothers me, but it isn’t. Honestly, I didn’t care all that much about it. I just hate texting, and if he’d listened to me even once then, he would have known it. I loathe that form of communication. Just another way he showed how disinterested he was in what mattered to me.

“I think we are done here.”  I bark at the phone.

I’m not rude by nature, but Jesus, enough. I don’t recall really caring that much about him when we did date, and I certainly don’t now. I take a sip of my tea then lean over the phone and speak clearly into my upturned cell. “Because I’m sure one of your cam girls is waiting for you to enter your Mastercard number and pay for her next semester at Fancy-Nancy’s Beauty College. Oh, wait, I mean my Mastercard number that you took out of my wallet.”

In fact, the coincidence is I was in the process of scripting out how to break it off with him when he texted me that day. I knew it was going nowhere and truth be told, I just didn’t enjoy him all that much.

In fact, I never really wanted to date him in the first place, but I sort of felt like I should be dating. So when he asked me out, I figured, what the heck. Give this grown-up dating and relationship thing another try. I’d had a couple other guys I’d spent time with in the past but nothing serious.

At that time, Dad was on a job a couple hours from here, and we were supposed to be at the drill site for a few months. I’d wandered into town one day and found a used bookstore. Then, as I was standing there with a wonderfully old and musty-smelling copy of The Catcher in the Rye, Hunter appeared with his gleaming white smile and Ken-doll hair.

The day he sent his breakup text was the same day, actually just a couple of hours before, Dad and I landed at that last Ren fair, and I toppled ass over teakettle onto the knife forging demonstration. Or more accurately, the knife forger, because I don’t remember much about any demonstration. Just him.

All in all, quite a memorable day. It was the end of an era for Dad and me. I was moving off to start my new position with Dan Sullivan. Our last sort of send-off Ren fair together. Hunter dumped me, saving me the trouble of doing it myself.

Then I ran smack into a tsunami of feelings for a stranger that I’ve yet to shake from my muddy boots.

The thought of the forger I met that day still sends the most delicious tension spiking between my legs. The memory of him as he brought down the hammer onto the glowing orange heated metal with a bang, as he drew my eye, as he touched me... I’m lost in that moment all over again. So much so that I barely remember Hunter is still on the phone.

“Why are you being such a bitch today?” His whiny voice cuts into my memory, making me jump and grind my molars together.

“In the two months we dated, Hunter, you also dated two strippers from The Top Shelf Club and used my PayPal account to pay for $362 on CamSluts4U.com. I think I have some grounds for bitchiness. Add to that we are broken up, Hunter! We dated. That’s it. No big deal. Now we are not dating. In fact, we haven’t been dating for months. Okay? Why are you still calling?”

The more appropriate question is, why do I answer? I’m not good at this. These sorts of human male-female interactions. I think I’m just not cut out for relationships. I’ve tried a couple, even tried sex with one sort of relationship.  It was nothing to write home about let me tell you.  My own hand is a thousand times better than the little experience I’ve had.

The thing is, I grew up around all these alpha men along with my dad. Men in the oil industry live a rugged life. They are on for twenty-four-hour shifts, on-site out in the middle of nowhere tending the rigs.

Growing up, they all treated me like their own. I was always protected and cherished by so many of those burly men over the years. They may have been rough around the edges, but they had hearts as big as Texas. That was all I ever knew. Rough-hewn diamonds who kept me safe from the world. But the irony is the few guys I have dated in my short life have all been so beta it’s laughable. I never connected with anyone on the level I crave.

For the most part, I’m just more a dog person. Dogs give me that kind of protective love and devotion I’d be thrilled to find in a human but don’t think it exists. My man-picker is clearly broken, so as a natural loner, I’ve settled comfortably into the idea that my life will be me and my furry friends until I cross the rainbow bridge myself.

And I’m sort of okay with that. Less disappointment. More dogs.

Win-win.

Hunter huffs into the phone. “Fuck you, Lela.” He’s particularly nasty today. “If you would have paid more attention to me, maybe I wouldn’t have spent my time elsewhere. What do you think of that?”

I know exactly what I think of that.

Go fuck yourself, Hunter.

It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t let the venom fly. I’m twenty-four years old, and I’m still trying to please everyone, including this asshole, and I know why as well.

My mom. I knew her for less time than I’ve known my current pair of boots, but if she taught me one thing, it was to be nice. Good girls don’t make a fuss.

“Look, Hunter, why are we even having this conversation?” I take another sip of tea and drop my butt into one of the wooden chairs at the little table. I lean over to shove my socked feet into my hiking boots, proceeding to tighten the laces and finish them off in double knots.

I need to get moving.

“I’m just am trying to be your friend, Lela. You could use some friends.”

His last jab hits me in a tender spot, and he knows it. I took this job with Dan to try to settle in someplace. The gypsy lifestyle gave me zero chance of building some honest to goodness friendships. A zip code of my own.

Time to try something different.

Roots and friends.

And a good paycheck.

I contemplate my response as I stare at the phone, sitting back in the chair and crossing my arms. I imagine the smirk on his face as he waits for me to agree with his commentary on my life.

But not this time.

With a deep breath, I push myself to my feet and stuff the last of my clothes that are heaped in wads on the little table into my duffle bag. I zip it closed, grab the handle, and lift it off the table.

“Hunter?” I place my lips close to the receiver and continue in a throaty voice. “Good-bye. Good luck. Don’t call me again. We aren’t friends. We aren’t anything. We never were.”

I tap the end call button, my heart beating triple time. Being so direct feels good. Uncomfortable, but good.

Deep breaths, Lela. New day, new opportunities, lots of responsibilities.

I look at the papers sitting clipped together next to the phone and get my head back in the game.

It’s an hour drive to get to my assignment, no problem. I work through my mental checklist, double-checking all my training aids are packed into my backpack, truck, or duffel. It’s a puppy job, but Dan said it was an important client, a friend of the family, so I don’t want to screw up.

The one consistent thing my father let me have in my nomad life was my dogs. From the first ragged stray I took in before my mom even left us, I’ve had a way with dogs. This is the first time since then I’ve not had at least one dog of my own. But six months ago, I lost my best friend, and I haven’t been able to think of bringing another dog of my own into my life.

Miller was an English Bulldog that stole my heart from first snort. He hobbled toward me at a city-run shelter in Richmond, Virginia with a crooked front leg, a chewed-off ear, and a bad attitude. He plopped his fat butt down on top my boot, sort of telling me he’d claimed me. His coat was caked with mud, and he growled and snapped at anyone who tried to get near him.

But he took one look up at me, and I was done for. We spent eight years together in the Airstream. When he died, it shook me to the core. I haven’t taken on another dog of my own since, and honestly, I’m not sure when I will.

So, training other dogs is perfect right now. Immersing myself in this new venture keeps me involved with my beloved canine friends without risking another heartbreak like losing Miller.

Over the years, I’ve managed to turn my vagabond dog training into a thriving small business of my own. Even with all the traveling we did, I was still able to take on human-canine clients in almost every city where we stopped for more than a week since I was fourteen. And now I’m an apprentice to the famous Dan Sullivan. The guy from the TV show No Dog Left Behind.

He’s known for taking most any canine problem and turning it around. No Dog Left Behind is his show and his motto. It’s sort of a big deal to be here, and I’m trying crazy hard to fit in and thrive.

When Dan called me to his office yesterday, my heart was in my throat. Dan has quite an operation here, but he keeps as hands on with all the staff as he can.  His celebrity status doesn’t keep him from running his own show and I respect him for that.

Anyway, I was sure I must be in trouble. I mean, I’ve only been here three months, and I’ve been doing great work with the animals. He’s been impressed and talking about this pilot for a new show with me as the head trainer. Unfortunately, my work with the fellow humans around here hasn’t been as stellar.

It’s not that I’m rude, I’m just so awkward. I think the other staff misunderstands my standoffishness as insolence, and that creates friction between us. But it’s not that at all.

I just don’t know what to say most of the time. So yesterday, when Dan sat me down, I was sure that was going to be the end of the dream. When he told me he was sending me on this special assignment, one that needed just the right touch, I wasn’t just relieved, I was over the moon. He also said in all his years doing what he’s done, he’s never had an apprentice with such natural talent as he sees in me.

He said I remind him of himself. That I’ve got that inherent connection to the subtle language of the dogs, that I understand them and have that extra something needed to be able to be a true leader.

We also talked more about doing a few pilot shows featuring me. It’s a spin-off of his series, but we will focus primarily on puppies, with which I have a particular knack. I never dreamed my little dog training hobby would ever have the possibility of landing me on TV. But if it helps people raise better puppies and keeps more dogs in happy homes and out of shelters, I’m all in.

He said I would be staying at the client’s home for up to a week, doing twenty-four-hour-a-day training with the pup.  It’s not just a client, this sort of thing is unusual for sure, but apparently Dan wants to be sure this client is well taken care of.  She said something about his Dad wanting to impress the client, so whatever, I’m down.

I asked if there was anything in particular I should know about the dog, but Dan said no. No aggression, no huge problem, apparently just someone who has no idea what a puppy needs in order to become a happy, well-adjusted dog.

Getting away from the compound for a few days suits me just fine. The client lives up in some remote part of the hill country and is a friend of Dan’s father. So it’s a good opportunity to impress Dan by doing the best job I know how.

I toss my backpack strap over my left shoulder, and it pulls at an errant strand of hair loose from my messy bun. I grimace and pull back, freeing myself, and I look down at my outfit.

Standard. Lands’ End khaki shorts, ever-present Timberland boots, an official Dan Sullivan polo shirt, and zip-up North Face jacket. Variety is not the spice of my life.

I grab my phone and stick it down inside the pocket on my duffel. Then reach for the plastic zipper bag full of pink macaroons I made last night. I’ll be floating on a sugar high by the time I reach the little town of Tobias where the client lives.

I’m so mainstream. So...modern.

I mean, I get paychecks now. They take out Federal, State, and FICA taxes. There’s an actual street address printed below my name.

And now I’m even being entrusted to go out and represent Dan Sullivan on my own. No one over my shoulder. I look back as I reach the front door, feeling the urge to say good-bye to someone. Anyone. But there’s nobody else here, just me.

Locking up behind me, I realize at least with my dad I had someone. One person, but still, it’s something. A sense of home.

It’s odd, though. I feel alone, but I’m still looking forward to the drive and being back out in the woods. Most of the drill sites where Dad and I parked were out in the middle of nowhere, so isolation is a familiar companion. Remington is a bigger town. With its hustle and bustle and the training facility with all the commotion, it just seems to make my aloneness more acute.

I look down at the name and address again on my client folder.

Client name: Ms. Shirley Rhodes

Canine Name: Little Shit

The puppy’s name gives me a quick chuckle as the cool fall breeze messes with my hair, and I head for the truck, hoping it starts. I turn the ignition, and old Red fires up with a puff and a backfire.

I stuff another whole macaron in my mouth, holding it between my teeth and thinking another cup of tea would have been nice. I shift the truck into reverse, twisting my head to look behind me as I back out of my parking spot.

Well, Shirley and Little Shit, here I come.