Page 35 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “Any of what?”

“The war. Your father. The contract. Brothers. Enemies. All of it. Tell me something real that isn’t any of that.”

He was quiet for a second—thinking, not deflecting.

“I had a dog,” he said.

I hadn’t expected that. “What kind?”

“Brown and dumb,” he said. “Some mix. His name was Polk.”

“Why Polk?”

“I was seven. I liked the street.” He set his glass down. “Winston had him removed after three months because dogs were a distraction.”

I looked at him.

“I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me,” he said.

“I don’t feel sorry for you. I think your father is a clinical problem.” I leaned forward. “What was Polk’s deal? What kind of dog dumb are we talking?”

He considered this with actual seriousness. “He would walk into walls if something distracted him. Not run—walk. Just—committed to a direction and then surprised every time by the wall.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It was embarrassing, but he was my dog.”

I laughed.

“What?” he said, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

“Nothing. Continue.”

“There is nothing else. That’s the whole story. I had a dog named Polk. He was structurally incompetent, and I loved him. The end.”

“I had a cat,” I offered.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t seem like a cat person.”

“What does a cat person seem like?”

He thought about it. “Comfortable with indifference,” he said.

I pointed at him. “That’s rude.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.” I took a piece of bread from the basket the crew had set out. “Her name was Domino. She was black and white. She hated everyone, including me, and she lived to be nineteen years old through pure spite. I cried when she died. My mother told me she was surprised the cat died of natural causes and not from going missing days at at time, hoeing.”

Amai looked at me for a second, something open in his face. “Nineteen years?”

“She was a spite machine. She just refused.”

He shook his head.