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“Alright, alright. Give me a minute,” I say to the huge face smiling down at me. “You went out at two. Why are you awake now?”
His tail goes faster as I stand and toss on some sleep pants and head for the porch.
When I open the door, all hell breaks loose.
Kyle tears through the screen door toward the white picket fence, sending half the people on the other side scrambling or toppling, cameras and equipment flying. The sounds of plastic and metal hitting concrete tangle with shouts of expletives and fear.
His booming bark isn’t playful. He is on full alert and reacts like I’ve never seen before.
Then again, so do I.
I stand on my porch in a tank and slouchy sleep pants, jaw slack, blinded by camera flashes and deafened by yelling. After a moment of sheer bewilderment, I call, “Kyle. Let’s go, boy.”
My previously well-behaved pup ignores me, and much to my horror, I have to venture to wrangle him in. I march to the short fence that borders my yard to shouts of:How long have you been dating Layton Ranger? Was it a one-night stand? Is he still inside? Is this a workplace romance? Are you pregnant?
My blood runs cold. Their hurled insults and the whites of the flashes are my undoing. I run inside, calling for Bean. I fight the onset of a panic attack.
She pushes into my room to find me on my bed curled in a ball. “What’s going on?”
“Please get Kyle. Please go save Kyle. I need him.”
“Okay, honey. What’s—”
“I need Kyle. Please go save him.”
She leaves, and the sob that tears from my chest is so strong that I can’t stand in time before I vomit. I vomit until my stomach is empty and my throat is raw with scratches.
Fear claws at me. Nothing can happen to Kyle. He’s not a therapy dog, but he’s my therapist. He’s my rock, my good boy. He’s mine to protect and mine to love. And if I were to fail him… I heave again, but there’s nothing left in my stomach. He’s never left me or been anything other than my savior. He deserves the same from me.
I’ve stripped my bed by the time my best friend returns to the room, which is to say, way too darn long for my taste. Kyle looks at me, head aloft, and turns in a circle, sitting sentry in front of me, blocking my view of my best friend.
I lean around him, looking up at her as her fingers fly over her phone. Her brow furrows, and she looks at me before dropping her eyes back to her screen. When her gaze hits mine again, she folds to sit in my doorway and extends a hand as if to saystop.
Kyle assumes his down command, and with nothing between us but my prone dog, she starts. “It’s not good. I don’t know how not good because it’s happening too fast.”
I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to speak, but before I can, she continues.
“Pictures from last night at the club. One of you with your back to Layton, him rubbing your arms. The police report. An official team statement.” Her head pops up. “How did they get a statement in the last—” She looks at her watch. “What, five hours maybe? They’ve got this playing out like a lover’s triangle. You, Layton, and the douche.”
“What? How?” Those are stupid questions. Thehowis every cell phone in the place. Thewhyis because famous people were there. The other reason is that these sites are in the business of selling stories to keep advertising revenue rolling in, so the truth doesn’t matter when lies sell.
I rub Kyle’s flanks, calming myself, until I drop my face into my palms and groan.
“What?”
“The pictures… I’m sure I look like a stripper or a freaking escort. No wonder they’re climbing the fence to get my picture.” I fling my hand in the general direction of the door.
“Yeah. It’s not the best presentation. The upside is you look fit as fuck. Florida agrees with you, my friend, but this isn’t the shot you want on your LinkedIn as a profile pic.”
“Shit. My job. My career. What the heck have I done?” It’s a rhetorical question. There’s no answer from Sabine.
I fold over Kyle, connected as much as I can to his warm, solid body, taking strength from him. When I do, he shuffles one paw and lays his head down on it, finally at rest.
When I can breathe deeply again, I ask for her phone, which she declines with a shake of her head and sorrow in her eyes.
“I need to call my boss.” It’s quiet and firm. I’ve mitigated the panic just enough. She stands, allowing me to keep my position with Kyle. Of all people, she knows what he means to me and does for me.
Upon seeing my phone, her face briefly registers horror. She quickly rearranges her features, swipes, and hands it to me. The red notification alert is on every app on my phone. From the native ones to the social ones, the numbers keep flipping higher and higher and the notification bar just keeps dropping, covering what I need.
