I raked my fingers through my disheveled hair. “Fine.” I took the leash off the hook and Mouse tapped around the kitchen walking from me to Dutch with a whine. I crouched and called him over. “C’mon, Mouse. It’s okay.”
Dutch turned on the faucet and started cleaning up, ignoring both of us.
“You really are a dick.” I stood and caught Mouse against me then clipped the leash to his collar.
Dutch bowed his head for a moment, his fingers gripping the sink before he went on back to the dishes.
I grabbed the handle bag from Animal House and dumped everything into it. It didn’t make any sense. He obviously had taken care to get Mouse food, treats, and a good number of toys. I ruffled Mouse’s fur and tugged on his leash. “We gotta go, pal.”
He laid down on the floor and put his head between his paws.
“Don’t start that.” I pulled on the leash, but he didn’t budge.
Dutch gripped the sink, but didn’t turn toward us. “Go on, Mouse.” His voice was flat and emotionless.
Mouse whined.
I wanted to fix it and soothe both of them, but it wasn’t my job, dammit. At least I could console Mouse. I crouched next to him. “C’mon, buddy. For me.”
He scrabbled to his feet and slowly walked behind me.
I stuffed my feet into my boots. “Thanks for dinner,” I said over my shoulder and slammed the front door behind me. I didn’t give Mouse time to get stubborn. I knew he’d pout and lay on the damn porch. I’d parked my truck in Dutch’s driveway instead of my own and walking over. While I’d had dinner, the truck had iced over. I blasted the heat enough to make a hole for me to see and backed down the drive and over to my portico.
Mouse stood on the bench seat, staring out the window to Dutch’s house. He barked, but it was a pathetic cry more than anything.
My eyes stung.
I knew how he felt.
TWELVE
Dutch
I opened the door,my notebook under my arm, to find Mouse on the damn porch again.
It had been a week since I’d fucked up with Phoebe. A week of waking up each morning with my dick hard as a damn pike from dreaming about her. That lush mouth sometimes sucking me off in my dreams. Or I counted all the flecks of paint on her breasts and proceeded to give her an orgasm for each one.
Each time, I was denied.
Because I didn’t deserve to come. No matter how many times I used my own goddamn hand in the shower, the orgasm was hollow and made me feel like shit.
I shouldn’t have touched her. She wasn’t the kind of woman who had meaningless sex. She practically sparkled with golden happiness. I’d just fuck her up with my bullshit. She didn’t deserve that even if I’d been weak enough to tap into it for those precious few minutes.
She was better than any fucking drug I’d ever had in my life.
And I’d tried more than a few in my thirty-five years on the planet. I’d done the rebellious teen phase with an extra layer of grief when my mom died. Luckily I hadn’t gone too deep into theharder stuff. I’d mostly stayed in the party-drugs-and-alcohol lane. But writing had eventually replaced the parties and I’d traded one obsession for another.
I channeled the dark and twisty corners of my mind into psychological horror.
And my last book had been my finest one yet.
My publisher had believed in it as well. To the tune of an eight figure deal. The first twenty-five percent had landed in my account two years ago. Monte’s faith in the outline had driven me to write faster than ever before. Between the research and development phase of my process and actual words, my novels usually took over six months. Then a good chunk of revisions with my editor.
This one had been entirely in my head. No folklore jumping off point. No gods and monsters of lore.
Just man versus land. My character Gerry’s mind had been the monster. The Great Basin Desert had been the protagonist. Punishing extremes in temperature had been a great way to fuck with my character both body and mind.
Vantage Pointwas supposed to bring me to the next level in my career. Christopher had whispered all the things I’d secretly longed for. The movie adaptation that he’d seeded in my mind after he read the first few chapters.
