in time to see a taxi coasting down the street. I step past Talent and wave it down.
“Why do you keep running away from me?” Talent asks with a hint of humor in his tone. “And is this your dog?”
Glancing down at the animal with its overgrown hair and eagerness to be played with, I say, “No.”
The taxi stops along the curb, and I can’t get in fast enough. My address doesn’t leave my lips before Talent opens the door and leans in to look at me. The ratted dog sits at his feet.
He reaches into his pocket and presents the phone I dropped in his office. “Do you want this back?”
“Not necessary, Talent,” I say, stretching for the door handle.
“Take it.” He tosses the phone to my lap, and the dog follows it in like it’s a toy.
“Wait—” I start, but Talent closes the door and steps back onto the curb. He waves as the taxi pulls away and watches until we turn the corner.
“Where to, Miss?” the driver asks.
“Is there an animal shelter open this late?” I ask. The dog sits on the seat beside me, panting with his little tongue sticking out of his mouth. He’s in dire need of a bath.
The driver chuckles. His shoulders shake. “No, there’s not.”
After reciting my home address, I whisper to the dog, “You can stay for one night.”
I make the dog a makeshift bed in the kitchen with a throw pillow and blanket, but when I wake up the next morning, I smell him in my bedroom before I open my eyes and see him sitting beside my bed. He whines when he notices I’m awake and barks when I reclose my eyes, hoping to trick the thing into thinking I’m asleep. Or dead.
Like some men, he doesn’t take no for an answer and starts scratching my bed until I sit up and groan. “Are you kidding me, dog? What do you want?”
He runs in circles, chasing his tail.
Kicking the blankets off my body, I check the time and side-eye the little intruder. Do dogs always wake up this early? Or is this one just an asshole? The clear asshole follows me down the short hallway, through the living room to the front door. It opens with a crack and a rush of cool air smacks me in the face.
“Go.” I motion with my hand for him to go out. “Go back where you came from.”
The dog just stares, wagging his ratted tail and waiting.
“There’s no way I’m going out there with you.”
I go outside with the dog.
Our apartments don’t come with a yard, but there’s a large grass area where I see other tenants walking their animals when I’m coming and going. The sun isn’t up yet, but apparently a lot of dogs don’t give a shit about the untimely hour and I have company. The only difference is they’re prepared for their early morning call, and I’m barefoot with bed head.
“What’s your puppy’s name?” a lady holding a tumbler with a Dog Mom sticker on the front asks. The scent of her coffee is offensive compared to coffee from the shop I sat at with Talent the night before.
“Dog,” I answer, watching him run among his kind.
Maybe he’ll go home with one of them, I ponder.
She scoffs. “Your dog is named Dog?”
“He’s not my dog.” I turn and walk away, uninterested in small talk with neighbors. The last thing I need is for them to think I want to be friends like the stray.
Dog notices my retreat and follows me back to my apartment. I close the door in his face and hope he’ll get the point and find someone else to wake up an hour before their alarm goes off. My schedule doesn’t allow time to take care of something else. And the pet deposit on this place is astronomical. I’m not paying it.
I’m not a dog person.
I’ve never owned a pet, and I’m not about to take on that responsibility now.
A small pang pricks my chest when he scratches on the door. It could be guilt or shame. But I need to be downtown in two hours, so I head to my room to get ready for my appointment with an investment banker who likes it when I tell him his cock is small.
Wondering if I have time to swing by the coffee shop to grab one of those drinks I had last night, I run the bathwater and sit on the edge as the tub