Just For Kicks. Susan Andersen

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      She was terrified, though, that she wouldn’t find this one quickly enough. She’d been lucky up until now that everyone in her building had turned a blind eye to the covenant stating that each unit in the condo was only allowed one pet.

      Jones could change that in the blink of an eye. He had the power of the rules on his side, and he was such an obvious letter-of-the-law freak that it wasn’t even funny. All he needed was to lodge one formal complaint and she could lose not only Rufus, but two of her other babies, as well.

      The idea made her sick to her soul and her hand shook slightly as she fit her key into the lock. Furious that Mr. Grim-and-Grimmer could bring her to this, she couldn’t prevent shooting him a dark look. He was so unyielding, both physically and mentally. And as much as she hated having to explain herself, she choked down her pride and did so, keeping her tone neutral when she said, “It’s not Rufus’s fault, you know. He’s a good dog at heart. I found him abandoned on the side of I-15 and I’m guessing he had a pretty rough puppyhood, so it’s taking him a little longer than usual to settle in.” The tumblers disengaged and she opened the door.

      As she stepped over the threshold, her dogs greeted her with a rendition of their nightly frenzied, glad-to-see-ya dance. Rufus continued barking as he leaped up on her. And while Buster was older, quieter and more restrained, he still insisted on getting close enough to lean heavily against her uninjured leg, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Her cats jumped down from their respective perches and flowed across the room to weave in and out of her feet, meowing for their dinner. It was loud and messy and her favorite part of the day.

      Wolfgang clearly wasn’t as enchanted. She caught the expression on his face when Rufus jumped with joyous abandon all over his beautiful suit.

      Predictably, Jones was not amused.

      She swallowed a snort. As if she’d ever seen that particular emotion on his face, anyway.

      “Sitz!” Wolfgang snapped.

      “Zits?” she repeated in confusion. But Rufus abruptly quit barking, and when she turned to look at her suddenly still dogs, she saw an almost human look of discombobulation on their furry faces. Then, as if it were a synchronized event, they both plopped their butts on the floor and stared up at the tall blond man with rapt attention. Even the cats paused for a nanosecond before resuming their demand for dinner.

      Wolfgang turned to her, his posture erect, his face a blank canvas that somehow still managed to project disapproval. “You’re right, it is not your dog’s fault,” he agreed. “It’s yours. Exert some damn control.” And picking a brown dog hair from his slacks with one hand, he reached out with his other to grasp the knob on the door. Gently he pulled it shut.

      She stared at the blank panel that had been firmly closed in her face and felt her blood pressure spike from normal to stroke level in two seconds flat. If there’d been a mirror handy she wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam blowing out her ears like cartoon factory whistles. Gasping for oxygen that seemed to have been sucked clean out of the foyer, she gritted her teeth against her choler.

      To no avail. “You. Fascist. Son of a. Bitch!” Furiously she swung her bag of melting ice at the door.

      Her animals scattered and she limped around to face the suddenly empty entryway. “Sorry, you guys,” she said guiltily. “I’m sorry. But, God, have you ever met such a miserable human being?” What a lousy time for Treena to be gone. Ordinarily she’d be heading down to her friend’s apartment to vent and spend a comforting twenty minutes assassinating Jones’s character. Instead, she sucked it up, shoved down her self-pity and limped into the kitchen to start opening cans and bags.

      Hearing the sound of kibble being poured and the can opener whipping lids from tins brought the babies out of their various hiding places. And the familiarity of having Buster and Rufus do their doggy dinner jig while Rags and Tripod rubbed up against every available surface as they waited for her to put their bowls on the floor soothed Carly’s ragged nerves.

      She got them situated, then found a corked bottle of wine in the fridge and poured herself a glass. Her ankle was throbbing again, so she tossed back a couple of aspirin. Then, noticing the trail of water where her bag of ice had sprung a leak from its unscheduled bash against the door, she grabbed a Ziploc bag and transferred the dripping contents into it. Deciding that the water on the floor would dry just fine without her help—and that she had been pushed quite far enough for one night—she hobbled into the living room.

      Where she stopped dead. “Oh, crap.”

      Several of her throw pillows were torn apart. An explosion of feathers, foam and shredded silk festooned her furniture and covered the hardwood floor. She didn’t know how she’d missed it on her way to the kitchen but could only assume her fury over Jones’s behavior had temporarily blinded her. “Rufus!” she yelled furiously.

      The dog slunk out of the kitchen and crept past her, his belly close to the floor, to huddle in the foyer. Looking over his shoulder at her with big brown eyes, he started to crouch in a way Carly was much too familiar with.

      “No!” she snapped. “Dammit, Rufe, if you pee on top of this, you are a dead dog.”

      But when the pup got nervous, he piddled, and a puddle began to form on the Italian tile between his hind legs.

      Of course. It had been that kind of night.

      She clenched her teeth against her chin’s sudden desire to wobble. She would not cry, dammit. She wouldn’t!

      But neither would she clean up the mess right now. Collapsing onto an overstuffed chair, she propped her foot on the mismatched footstool and gingerly arranged the ice over her swollen ankle. Then she knocked back her glass of wine in one long gulp.

      Rags jumped up into her lap and circled twice before sprawling over her thighs in a warm bundle of long black fur. His purr kicked in with the first stroke of her hand down his back. Tripod leaped onto the arm of the chair and walked along it with surprising grace for a cat with only three legs. Sitting down close to her, he batted at a strand of beaded fringe on her costume, then ignored her in favor of licking himself clean.

      His actions reminded her she was still wearing her costume. Swell. In addition to everything else, now she’d probably have the wardrobe mistress on her case. Hopefully the news of her injury would keep her off the woman’s shit list. Otherwise she’d have to make a special trip back to the casino tomorrow just to return the garment and wig—and never mind that it was her day off. Not to mention that she’d have to bum a ride or call a cab just to get there, since her freaking car was still in the casino garage.

      Buster came and laid his brindled head on her knee. She raised the hand she’d been stroking Rags with to scratch between the tufts of fur that stuck up atop the dog’s head. Rufus remained in the entryway, but no longer did he look contrite. Instead, he was now seated in front of the door, staring at it expectantly. She realized with a sudden shock what was likely keeping him there.

      “You little bugger! Are you looking for that cretin to come back?”

      The dog’s ears suddenly perked up and he began to wriggle on the tiles. A sound Carly knew too well rumbled threateningly in his throat.

      “Please, Rufus, no more,” she begged. “No more tonight, okay? Trust me on this, the last thing you want to do is to bring yourself to Jones’s attention again.”

      But it was no use. The young dog danced in place as sharp, staccato СКАЧАТЬ