“You’ll come to us if you need us, right?”
My smile is weak but genuine. “I will.” Maybe, I think, which really translates to maybe not. Because I really don’t want anyone else being dragged into my crap.
“No maybe about it.” See what I mean? Creepy, damn mind readers. “You’ll come to us,” he pauses and his next word sounds more like a command. “Right?” And I hear the underlying threat beneath it. Or else you’ll feel our wrath.
“Fine,” I say on an exhale.
He winks at me, and I wonder, for the millionth time, how it is that I have no attraction toward him. Kane is seriously hot. He’s built like a brick shithouse.
Okay, I don’t actually know what that means, but it sounds pretty powerful, right? I mean, he’s tall, over six feet and broad chested. His blond hair is short, tousled, and I often wonder if it’s natural or if he artfully styles it himself. Kane’s funny, fun to be around, and pretty much a jovial kind of guy. Sure, he tosses out the “darlin’s” faster than a Pez candy dispenser, but anyone can easily see that deep down he’s a good guy.
With that said, he’s also not someone I want to piss off. Not like anyone wakes up in the morning and thinks, I feel like pissing off a former Green Beret today. But, really. I wouldn’t ever want to cross this dude. I’m pretty sure he walks out of his house each morning and all the insects and animals scatter to get out of his way. You know, the opposite of the Snow White effect. There won’t be any cute little birdies flocking to him to perch on his shoulders and arms.
A bald eagle, maybe. But sweet, little birdies? Hells, no.
“So, what do we do?” I question him as he stares thoughtfully at the television monitor on the wall for a moment before answering.
“Nothing yet, Davis.” Turning to me, he softly repeats, “Nothing yet.”
And hell if I don’t feel pretty damn useless at that moment.
Chapter Three
Foster
I unlock the door to my house and disarm the alarm system; the clinking of Harley’s nails on the hardwood floors alerts me to his presence as I toe off my shoes onto the mat in the entryway.
My Belgian Malinois is fully trained, courtesy of a place down in southeastern Florida that thoroughly trains their dogs in preparation to place them in homes of former Veterans, blind individuals, and others in need of service dogs. Harley has helped me out over the years—far too many times to count. I sometimes feel as though he has a bit of Hendy in him; he will somehow sense it and nudge me with his wet nose to rouse me from a nightmare before it gets too intense. He knows when I feel anxiety, is so in tune with my emotions it’s often eerie when he knows before I do that I’m going to need him, need his comfort.
Case in point, as soon as I set my keys, sunglasses, and phone down on the counter, he is right by my side, tail not wagging, eyes intently watching me.
“Got some bad news, buddy,” I tell him, my throat tight as I walk over to the large leather couch in the living room. Dropping down onto it, I rest my forearms on my knees, back slumped and he comes to sit on the floor between my legs. Leaning down closer to him, he nudges my cheek with his nose.
“I don’t want to believe it, boy. Can’t believe it, you know?” My voice is thick, and I fail at blinking back the tears, watching as they drop down onto his dark fur. “Hendy can’t be gone, can he?” I move back a bit, gazing into Harley’s deep, soulful eyes. “Crazy that I—a guy without a soul—am crying, right?” My humorless laugh sounds hollow to my own ears. I stare at the wall, lost in thought, while Harley walks off to exit through the backdoor to the porch leading to the small fenced in section of yard. His collar holds a sensor which opens the doggie door, letting him come and go as he pleases when I’m gone.
It’s odd he should disappear at that particular moment, but, hey, maybe he has his own business to take care of. When he approaches me less than a minute later, I look down at his nudging of my hand to see that he has brought me something. A toy. But it’s not just any toy; it’s the toy Hendy had brought him the last time he’d come to visit.
The thing is, this isn’t Harley’s favorite toy. Sure, he plays with it, but this is one of those freaky moments where my dog somehow knows. He knows—remembered—Hendy had given him that toy, knows who I was talking about.
My dog isn’t the type to go crazy, licking people up and down when he meets them, either. There are only two people he absolutely loves “kissing”: my sister, Laney, and, of course, Hendy.
So, as I sit on my couch, fucking tears trailing down my cheeks like the biggest pansy that ever was, my dog hands me the same toy Hendy had given him. Like a sign of something.
And it’s then that I realize two things:
One, I have the best fucking dog in the world.
And two, there is no way in hell I am going to believe Hendy is dead until I see the body for myself.
*