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he asked, “You expecting somebody?”
Dilbert’s ears twitched, but otherwise he didn’t move. Dean slid out from under his chin, and the dog groaned, then rolled onto his back, letting out a loud snore.
“It’s okay, you lay there while I get it. If it’s an ax murderer, I’ll let you know.”
Dilbert opened one eye for half a second and then closed it.
Dean opened the door to find Sergeant Oliver Martinez and his dog, Beast, on his doorstep.
“Hey, man, what’s going on?” Dean asked.
“Nothing, just coming by to see what you were up to. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.” Martinez stepped into the house with Beast, not even waiting for an invitation. “Figured I’d take a chance.”
“Something wrong?” Dean asked.
“Nah, Eve is out with her friends, and I just didn’t want to sit at home alone.”
“Aw, were you lonely?” Dean teased.
“Eh heh, shut up.”
Dean chuckled as he went to the fridge. “Want a beer?”
“Sure, thanks.” Martinez sat down on the couch, disturbing Dilbert, who woke up, saw Beast, and started barking excitedly. The two dogs were good friends and both wiggled as they turned in circles, sniffing each other’s butts.
Dean handed Martinez the beer as he sat down. “You know, the only time Dilbert moves at a pace faster than snail is when you bring that behemoth over.”
“Yeah, he’s a leader, like his master. He starts to howl when he hears a fire engine and gets all the other dogs in the neighborhood going. I’ve been getting the stink eye when I leave my house.”
The dogs chased each other around the couch and down the hall. Dean finally hollered at them to chill when the picture frames on the walls started to rattle.
“Your moose is going to bring the roof down on us,” Dean said.
Beast had earned his name, being a huge mutt with a flat face and powerful body. Best thought he probably had some mastiff in him, which would account for the drool and flatulence Martinez was always complaining about. Despite all of Beast’s quirks, Martinez had fought for the dog when it was discovered he suffered from severe separation anxiety and would no longer be eligible for military dog training. Like Dilbert, Beast was used to demonstrate obedience for the kids, but other than that, he was just a spoiled pet.
“Naw, we’ll be fine. So, what’s new with you? Any progress on getting that psychiatrist of yours to give you the green light?” Martinez asked.
Dean shook his head. He’d gone for his weekly session, and like every time before, she was insistent they talk. She wanted to know how he was sleeping, if he was suffering from any anxiety or depression. If there was anyone special in his life. His answer was no to all; the last thing he wanted to do was give her anything she could use to keep him permanently riding a desk.
Although, giving her nothing wasn’t helping either. In nine months, any time he’d asked when she was going to clear him to return, she’d say, “That all depends on you.”
Which was bullshit, because if it were up to him, he’d have been gone already.
“No, she’s just dicking me around. About ready to request a new evaluation.”
“That sucks, man, I’m sorry,” Martinez said.
If anyone would understand where Dean was coming from, it was Martinez. Several months ago, Martinez was at Mick’s and stepped in when some drunk asshole was getting a little too aggressive with a couple of girls at the bar. When he subdued the guy and had him arrested, he’d had no idea he was messing with General Reynolds’s son. As a result, the general had taken him off active military police rotation and stuck him at Alpha Dog to help plan a fund-raiser. Martinez had been pissed off and bitter about being reassigned, until he’d fallen for the general’s daughter, Eve, and realized he loved working with the kids and dogs more than he liked dealing with the assholes in his squad.
“You’ve been there, too,” Dean said.
“Yeah, but my situation was a little different. I was benched because of the general’s personal issue with me, not because they were worried that I might be suffering from PTSD.”
Those four letters ran down his spine like an ice cube on chilled skin. He didn’t have PTSD. It was normal to have nightmares and be haunted by something tragic, but that didn’t mean he had a problem. He didn’t drop to the ground when he heard a car backfire or drink until he blacked out. He was dealing. Why did no one understand that?
“I don’t have it. I’m fine, but thanks for the support.”
“I’m just speaking the truth, bro. They are covering their asses, and it’s a bunch of red-tape bullshit, but you’ve just got to play along until you’re cleared. There’s no way around it, sorry to say.”
