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“Oh, shit, let me help.” I slip my hands under her arms to hike her up. “You okay?” Instead of Zoey, Chunky answers in a whine that draws my attention. “Chunks, you okay, too?”
Luckily, Zoey seems steady on her feet because Chunky has one foot held up to show me that he’s tangled in the seatbelt that is supposed to keep him safe. I get him situated and feel eyes on me. I turn to see Zoey pressing her lips together gleefully. “Good to see where I rate.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You were standing, at least. This poor guy couldn’t even stand because his footsie was all twisted up. Isn’t that right, big guy?” I’ve gone into a baby voice of my own as I check over Chunky’s perfectly fine leg and foot.
“Pew, pew, pop, fizz . . .” Zoey mutters under her breath.
“What was that?” I press, faintly remembering the last time she said something like that and knowing it led to some good stuff.
“Oh, nothing . . . just my ovaries exploding again. Men and dogs are women’s kryptonite.”
“Well shit, you’re in trouble then because I’m taking you someplace with lots of dogs.”
Her back goes straight and her eyes widen. “You are? Is that a hint or are you trying to throw me off?”
“Guess we’ll see.”
Zoey scratches behind Chunky’s ears, baby talking to my chubby dog, “Do you know where we’re going?”
I see what she means because she looks damn sexy loving on Chunky and I can foresee a future with Zoey holding a swaddled baby and using that same tone. My man-ovaries are exploding too.
“He might. But he won’t tell you. Isn’t that right, Chunkster?”
We get in the car and drive off, Zoey’s faith in me meaning a lot more than words can say.
“Okay, okay . . . now, what are we doing?” Zoey asks. “Seriously, Blake.”
“Well, I did a little social media investigating,” I explain, chuckling when Zoey lifts an eyebrow of her own. “No, not creeping. And not on you. On Yvette Horne.” Zoey’s other eyebrow jumps up to match the first, and I rush to make this sound less sinister. “Her accounts are all public, no private profiles I could find, and thankfully, no Only Fans accounts. That was a rabbit hole I wish I hadn’t gone down. Let’s just say it’s . . . not for the faint of heart.”
“What do you mean?” Zoey asks. “I mean, I know what Only Fans is, but did you find something?”
I shudder at the memory. “Not Yvette’s, but to check and confirm, I had to search around. I had no idea there were so many people wanting to be sugar babies and daddies. So. Many.” Wide-eyed, I look at Zoey and mouth once more, “So. Many.”
Zoey laughs. At me? Or at the idea of sugar relationships? I don’t want to know, so I drive full-steam ahead into what I did find.
“Yvette’s pretty active on Facebook. Lots of check-ins, daily posts, sharing quiz results that apparently mean she’s 96% like Elsa and 78% like avocado toast, and most importantly, I found hundreds of pictures. Some of them with the dog we saw. Or well, the dog I saw.” I give her a side-eye, checking to see if she’s thinking about where her head was when I saw the dog, and though she fights the smile, her lips tilt up at the edges.
“Rusty,” Zoey says out of nowhere, but then she explains. “When I went to do the initial exam on Richard Horne, the dog out front was fighting with a deputy. He called the dog ‘Rusty’.”
“Yeah, that’s the dog’s name. So there are pictures of the dog and the same guy I saw leaving Yvette’s house, and she’d tagged a location.”
“A tagged location?” Zoey asks, shaking her head. “Nope, she’s not that smart, is she?”
“Not super-smart,” I agree. “But the guy’s name is Sebastian, and he’s a dog trainer. Apparently, he’s got some deal going with social media, like he’s some wannabe Dog Whisperer or something. Says he can train any dog. And it’s big, I guess. Guy’s got a hundred thousand followers! Did you know dog trainers were that in demand?”
“I can’t imagine why,” Zoey says, turning around to look at Chunky in the back seat. “I only know the most well-behaved, calm, healthy dogs. No needy little sausage rolls that beg for peanut butter.”
Chunky, hearing the word ‘sausage’, squirms wildly, trying to get to Zoey and making me groan. “No, Chunkster, no sausage. Kibble, doctor’s orders . . . kibble!”
Zoey stage-whispers to Chunky, “He is a mean old thing, isn’t he? I’ll see if I can find some peanut butter-flavored dog biscuits that won’t get us in trouble. Would you like that?”
I’m creating a monster. An adorable, sweet, beautiful monster . . . and I’m not talking about Chunky.
