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“Will you teach me how to cook?” I ask. She looks at ease in the kitchen, somewhere I’ve never felt comfortable.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Tomorrow I’ll teach you if you’d like. You can make yourself useful now by…” She grabs a flat box from a cupboard and frisbees it to me. “Break these bacon strips into doggie-sized pieces and give him one bite at a time. Only if he’s a good boy.”
“Define ‘good boy’.”
“This means s.i.t.” She demonstrates the matching hand signal. “Tell him the word along with the visual cue. Give him a bite only when he responds quickly and perfectly. I’m a stickler for accuracy because he’s always pushing the limits. Aren’t you, big boy?”
She says that last part with a sing-song voice that makes my already rock-hard erection sit up and take notice.
“This,” another hand signal, “means l.i.e d.o.w.n. And this means please.” At first, I was confused, wondering why an owner would use the word ‘please’ to her dog. Instead, when her hands move together at chest height in a floppy motion, I realize it’s a way for the dog to solicit a treat. “Don’t overdo that one because he turns into quite the beggar when you give him free rein.”
I’m glad she gave me something to do because if left to my own devices, I’d just watch her move around the tiny kitchen. That would lead to pictures in my head of dozens of ways to mount her, which would not be good for our budding relationship. We’ve barely established a truce.
“Tell him he’s the goodest boy,” Cally instructs as she puts the finishing touches on dinner. “He’s a chow hound and loves the food, but he still needs to hear your praise.”
“You’re a good boy.”
“Okay. You don’t have to use baby talk. ‘Goodest boy’ was a stretch, but you have to say it with feeling. Let him know you think he’s the smartest dog on the planet, because he is.”
The spot behind my belly button tightens for a moment. For a quarter of a century, the scientists who bred and raised me beat all emotion out of me—except aggression. Express affection? That’s going to be tough.
It strikes me that this is a wonderful opportunity. I can learn this new behavior with training wheels. Somewhere in the years I was being socialized underground in Area 51, I decided my fondest wish was to have a relationship with a woman.
In order to do that, I need to be able to show her my emotions. Lucky me, I get to practice with Tater, who I’m pretty sure will be what’s considered a warm audience.
“Good boy.” I try, but even to my own ears, I sound like a bad imitation of a robot. “Who’s a good boy?” Ah, that’s better. The question at the end makes me sound humanoid at least.
I slide off the chair and put him through his paces as we circle the room. With each iteration, I imbue my praise with more inflection. By the time Cally is plating our food, I’m comfortable leaning down and crooning, “Who’s the goodest boy?” in his face. I’m not sure which of us—Tater Tot or me—has the biggest smile on our face when Cally calls me for dinner.
Chapter Fifteen
Cally
All three of us seem calmer now that the escape issue has been put to bed. Whoops. Bed. That’s not a safe topic.
Even though Sylas is currently prancing around the room, being far too generous with bacon morsels, his erection is still the elephant in the room neither of us is talking about.
At some point between commands, Sylas emits a bugle. He tries to contain it, slamming his lips closed, but the compulsion must spring from some primitive place deep inside him because the plaintive bellow continues until it ends with two almost whistling sounds at the end.
Eyes rounded in dread, he glances at me to see my response, but I just shrug, then laugh.
“Are you warming up to provide dinner music?” I try to normalize things, imagining spending time with a splicer is going to be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I was invited to do a five-minute segment on The View to talk about my coffee-table book.
“I’m a male of many facets.” He tosses his shaggy brown hair to punctuate his statement. “If you want musical accompaniment, I can provide it. Although I’ll expect a tip.”
His eyes widen and fly to me, perhaps asking if I caught his double entendre. I’m not even sure it was intentional.
We both manage to smile, which is far better than the threats we traded earlier. It’s just that he’s so freaking handsome. There’s something about his perfect features and all those muscles combined with his complete lack of guile that is ridiculously appealing.
Soon we’re sitting on opposite sides of the bar that separates the galley kitchen from the rest of the room. Tater has gorged on so many bacon bits that he’s not even begging for people food. He wouldn’t like it, anyway. It’s vegetarian.
Now that he’s not bossing me around, Sylas seems almost shy. It’s kind of cute. When he’s distracted by food, though, his awkwardness fades and he engages me in conversation.
“I’ve been wondering since I met you, why were you on that dirt road? I’ve looked at drone maps of the area. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Do you want the long story or the short answer?”
He finishes chewing his bite, sets his fork down, leans forward, and gets the most sincere expression on his face. “I want the long story, Cally. Nothing would make me happier than knowing more about you.” Then a startled expression crosses his face as though he realizes maybe that was too authentic.
