I walk out of the bathroom, naked, dripping water on the floor. The dog sits upright on my bed like a furry mountain that grew eyes. His giant head tilts, and I swear the judgment is palpable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn him.
He thumps his tail once, and I can't tell if it's mockery or pity.
I hear the crack in the mirror continue to crawl wider behind me.
Scotch sprawls across the mattress. A massive heap of fur and drool, stretched diagonally so there isn’t a single inch left for me.
“Move,” I say.
He blinks at me.
“Seriously. I’m not in the mood.”
He sighs and shifts exactly one inch to the right.
One. Fucking. Inch.
“Wow,” I mutter. “Generous.”
He drops his heavy head right onto my pillow, claiming it with a finality that says he won this round. I wedge myself onto the sliver of mattress the bastard left me. He immediately presses his bulk against me, trying to knock me off the bed. “Should’ve gotten a cat,” I groan.
I settle on my back, staring at the ceiling. The ache in my balls hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s settled deeper. I glance at the window and my whole body locks up.
Scotch senses it, because the damn dog senses everything. He lifts his head and whines.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I lie.
He stares at me like I’m an idiot. I let out a breath and drop a hand on his fur, the movement more for me than for him. “Don't make a thing out of it,” I grumble.
He nudges my ribs with a wet nose, a slobbery demand for comfort. “Yeah, yeah.”
Moonlight comes through the curtains and my fingers twitch, and before I can even think about closing my eyes, Scotch launches himself off the bed in a floor-shaking thud and runs to the door—panting, pacing, his nails clicking fast against the wood.
“What now?”
The hum returns beneath the floorboards and Scotch barks anxiously.
“How about a walk?”
He starts pacing harder.
“Alright, alright,” I say, pulling on jeans and jamming my feet into my boots. “Calm your ass down.”
Winter in Tar City doesn’t fuck around, and that’s fine by me. It keeps the dipshits indoors.
“Stay close,” I tell him, snapping the leash into place. “Not chasing you all over the ice tonight.”
Scotch yanks the leash, then plants his giant paws, nose to the ground, sniffing like he’s trying to read the whole damn city from a single patch of frozen dirt.
I tug back. “Come on, let’s go. Walk. That’s the deal, remember?” I start walking but he’s a hundred and fifty pounds of pure stubbornness. He digs his paws in, refusing to budge. I stop and look back at him. He’s still got his nose buried in the snow, completely oblivious. The whole point of this was to move, to burn off this energy, not stand here and freeze my ass off while he investigates one square foot of sidewalk.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, giving the leash another sharp tug. “You’re the one who wanted out here. Now you’re gonna just stand there? Move your ass.”
He lifts his head, tongue lolling out, covered in snow, and gives me a look that says,You don’t appreciate the finer things.
“Come on,” I grunt. “Either piss or move.”
