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I’m nursing a two-day hangover and vowing never to drink something Haley’s made ever again. I like a few glasses of a nice Meritage or Syrah, but I rarely allow myself to get drunk. It’s Trigger, I decide. I feel safe with him, enough so that I can let my guard down for maybe the first time since puberty.
It’s Monday, which means Sweet Tidings is open. I’m sitting behind the reception desk fiddling with a pen because Wendy is on a longer-than-usual lunch break. We had a couple of appointments this morning. Both were dogs, one for a check-up, and the other needed deworming. There’s nothing blocked off for the afternoon, but I’m hoping we get one or two walk-ins.
I glance down at the accounts book and circle the final figure. Still red, no matter how many times I look at. I need to drum up some business and quick. This clinic can’t survive on good intentions.
I’m thinking about letting my darlings out of their pens and bringing Singalong back to the lobby, since there are no clients for her to insult, when the bell over the door tinkles. I slam the account book closed and look up, smiling warmly. It falters when I see my new clients.
Two men stand just inside the door, dressed in the typical biker get-up: boots, jeans, T-shirts and cuts. One is clean-cut, no whiskers, short hair and pretty in the conventional way some men are. The other has long hair and a beard. The problem is that they aren’t Hell’s Jury. By process of elimination, I’m guessing they’re Blackbeards.
Standing between them is a Rotti-Great Dane cross wearing a tactical harness. The dog probably weighs over 70 pounds and has teeth the size of a shark’s. It’s on alert, ready to attack and looking at me like it doesn’t realize I’m its best friend. It needs a bath, delousing, and a little TLC, all of which it will get if I don’t have to shoot it first.
“Hello.” I slide my hand towards the drawer that houses my .38. I decide to shelve Trigger’s no-seduction rule because my charms come in handy in certain situations. “Do you have an appointment?” I ask in a low inviting cadence.
“Get out from behind the counter, bitch,” the pretty Blackbeard says. He’s got the tag ‘Vice President’ sewn to his vest.
“I could, but why would I?” My insides are a quagmire of nerves, but my voice is steady.
“Because he fuckin’ told you to,” the bearded Blackbeard replies with a sneer. He’s wearing an enforcer tag.
I flash him a brilliant smile. “You’ll have to do better than that. As a rule, I don’t do what I’m told.” I bat my eyelashes at him.
It doesn’t seem to move him, and I wonder if I’m losing my touch.
“Today you do, or we’ll send Rip to come get you,” he threatens, his voice dead and cold.
Rip. How original.
The Enforcer loosens his hand on the Rotti-mix as it growls and raises its hackles.
I gingerly release the .38 I’m holding and slide the drawer shut. I might be moved to shoot these men, but I can’t shoot a dog just because someone trained it to be an asshole. “What can I do for you?” I ask, keeping my distance as I slide out from behind the counter.
The VP closes the gap, grabbing my arms and shoving me up against the counter. “Aren’t you a pretty cunt? Dressed up like you wanna be fucked.”
Pain races down my backbone, but his bruising grip distracts me from it. It’s like my arms are in a vise. His eyes are hard nuggets, and his face is twisted into an ugly mask that ruins his pretty-boy status.
“Take your hands off me, please,” I reply as pleasantly as I can. “You don’t have to manhandle me to get me to do what you want.” I look past him to the Rotti-mix. “If fact, I’m not busy this afternoon, so I could give Rip a check-up and the vaccinations he probably needs.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” the VP snarls as bangs me against the counter again.
I suck in a small breath, but that’s the only acknowledgement that he’s hurt me. “Rip will live a longer, healthier, more joyous life if he gets regular check-ups.” It’s not easy to resist kicking and scratching the bastard, but I dig my nails into my palms to keep from reacting.
“Bitch—,” he starts.
I don’t let him finish. “Perhaps we should talk about his diet.” I peer around the VP at the Rotti-mix. “His coat isn’t as shiny as it could be, and he’s more fat than muscle. If you want him to appear more menacing, you need to change his dog food.” I slide my eyes over the dog. “It would also be a good idea to neuter him.” And you too, you bastard.
He shakes me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “You think I’m playing a game?”
I grapple for composure. “Of course not. I’m giving you advice about your dog. It’s what I do. I’m a veterinarian.”
“You’re a fuckin’ headcase,” the enforcer says from behind us. “I say we let Rip take a run at her.”
The VP releases my arms, but presses his body against mine, grinding his pelvis into me. “Maybe I should take a run at her first.” He slides his hands up my sides and gropes my breasts.
I take a breath to quell the shake in my stomach. “If you aren’t here to have me tend to Rip, then why are you?”
“Your fuckin’ boyfriend and his asshole brothers have something of ours and we want it back.”
Okay. That I can work with. Trigger will know what’s he talking about. “I’m happy to send a message along to my boyfriend – well, actually fiancé – we’re getting married next spring,” I hold on to my anger as he pinches a nipple. There’s fear deep down, but if these guys think I’m intimidated by them, they’re idiots. I can shoot the nuts off a squirrel from fifty yards.
