Page 28 of Spiced!

He turned it over and read it, then he handed it back without a word, turned, and walked three steps. He stopped . . . again.

“Adrian,” he said, without turning around.

“Yeah.”

“Text him tonight.”

“It’s late.”

“For the love of God, he just left. It is not that late, and you know it.” He started walking again. “Text him tonight,” he called over his shoulder, “and don’t say anything about the dog.”

The crowd swallowed him before I could argue.

I stood before the booth by the door and looked at the number on the bill and listened to the room doing what the room did on a Saturday when everything had gone the way it should’ve gone. It was warm and loud and full of people who’d had a good night.

Without thinking, I sat down in the booth.

I sat in Brendan’s booth.

And I held out my phone I didn’t even remember grabbing when I stepped down from the bar.

Me: This is Adrian. Not a puppy emergency.

I put the phone face down on the table, picked up my Fanta, and waited. The bar moved around me in its Saturday way, some of the guys checking out the dancer in his Speedo sitting out in the open. I was basically naked every night, but oddly, never felt exposed while dancing on the bar. Sitting there, in Brendan’s booth, I felt every inch of my exposed skin, every eyeball scanning me, every smile and leer and . . . shit. I felt it all.

Outside, Tampa was doing whatever Tampa did after midnight. Mofongo was probably asleep in his crate at home. He’d be asleep on my foot within minutes of me walking in the door.

And there I was, in glorified underwear, waiting on my phone to—

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Glad to hear it. How’s Mofongo?

I smiled without meaning to. Then I realized I hadn’t saved Brendan’s number in my contacts and quickly did so, giving him a name that seemed appropriate.

Me: I should be home in half an hour. I expect a thorough tongue bath, possibly a piddle, likely both.

His response came back in under a minute:

Puck’s Dad: Classic beagle behavior. They’re very committed to feet.

Me: Is that a medical assessment?

Puck’s Dad: Entirely clinical.

Me: Look at you, Mister MD.

Puck’s Dad: That’s DVM, if we’re being proper.

Me: I’m sitting on a vinyl booth in a sweaty Speedo. Please, let’s be proper.

I looked up at the bar, at the room I’d been working for two hours, at Benji moving through it like he’d been born to it, at Jacks behind the bar with his quiet competence, at the warm light and the noise and the specific feeling of a Saturday at Barbacks when everything had landed right.

Then I looked back at my phone and typed without thinking.

Me: Brendan.

Puck’s Dad: Yeah.