Hatchet glared at Rev as he closed the door. His gaze shifted to me. “For the record, I wasn’t there to race. I was watching. And before you ask, Rev wears a helmet.”
He grabbed a silicone mat, slathered it with peanut butter, and gave a sharp whistle. The pup’s ears perked immediately. She tottered over, tail wagging hard enough to throw her off balance. Her tiny nose twitched as she scented the snack. Hatchet tossed the mat into the crate, and she trotted inside without argument. He clasped the door behind her.
“Poor baby,” I said, loading pizza onto a paper plate.
“She likes her crate. It’s her safe space.”
I looked at him skeptically, but the pup settled on a torn blanket. “So, what are your name ideas? Real ones. Not fucking Wobbles.”
“Hear me out: Pirate.”
“What? No.”
“Come on. We could get her a little peg leg,” he said with a grin.
“Absolutely not. How about Luna?”
Hatchet furrowed his brow. “LikeLooney Tunes? I don’t think so.”
“No, like the moon. Luna is ‘moon’ in Latin.”
He considered the suggestion for a moment and sipped his beer. “How about Red?”
“We’re not naming her after a fucking color. Armadillo?”
Hatchet scoffed. “What’s with your obsession with fucking armadillos?”
“What? They’re the official state mammal.”
“Nerd,” he teased.
The argument spiraled playfully, one veto after another, until the pizza box was nearly empty. Hatchet cracked the crate open, and the pup bounded out, tripping over her three remaining paws. I absently tossed her a piece of rogue pepperoni from the counter.
“Don’t feed her table scraps,” Hatchet snapped, more exasperated than I’d ever heard.
“It’s just a snack,” I insisted.The pup stared at me with hopeful eyes.
His jaw tightened. “You’re teaching her to beg.”
“Look at that face,” I cooed. “How can you say ‘no’ to that?”
A low growl rumbled from his chest. “You’re going to create a monster. We have to be consistent, so she learns how to be a good dog.”
I smirked up at him. “You’re unexpectedly strict. Like an overprotective dog dad. It’s kind of hot.”
Hatchet crossed his arms, his muscles flexing under the ink. “Someone has to make the rules,” he shot back, pretending he hadn’t heard the second half of my comment.
“Someone has to break them,” I countered, stepping closer as I grinned. “And that someone will be me.”
Hatchet shook his head. “I think I finally get why Merrick swore you gave him gray hair as a teenager,” he muttered.
I scoffed. “I was a perfectly well-behaved teenager.”
“Right. So that wasn’t you who stole a fifth of Goldschläger from the clubhouse and got plastered on your sixteenth birthday?”
I grimaced at the memory of spicy cinnamon burning my throat and nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do. I was there. The smell is still burned into my nostrils. Linc was a prospect then. Poor bastard had to clean your puke out of Merrick’s truck. I swear his floorboards sparkled with gold for years.”
