Susan Andersen - Just For Kicks

He didn’t take umbrage to the implied subtext that he was a dullard. Buying something as flashy as the converted street rod had been uncharacteristic. Still, giving in to his desire for the classic muscle car was the one time he’d let the cursed family wild streak run free. He’d figured it was a safe-enough outlet—especially if it saved him from freeing other, more destructive urges as was the usual Jones way. He ran his fingers over one of the graduated-color flames that flared from burgundy to red to orange to gold across the glossy black paint job, then opened the door for her. “Get in.”

Peering into its immaculate interior, she looked down at the melting ice bag in her hand and hesitated. “I’m afraid I’ll muss it up.”

That was the most intelligent thing he’d yet to hear her say, and for just a moment he felt almost warm toward her. He studied her closely for the first time since they’d begun their tortoise-paced trek from the casino and saw that not only was she pale again, but now sweat beaded her upper lip and brow, as well. She clearly was not feeling her best, and with unaccustomed gentleness he reiterated, “Get in.”

She did and had her head braced wearily against the seat back when he got in the driver’s side. She ran her hand over the gray leather of the bench seat. “What is this? A Ford?”

“Yes.” Turning over the engine, he listened to its throaty growl with satisfaction. His smile lingered as he turned to look at her. “A 1940 Ford coupe.”

“It’s very cool.” Lifting her head slowly, as if it weighed more than her slender neck could bear, she pulled off the swingy brown wig. “Oh, that’s better,” she murmured. Her short blond hair was matted to her head, but she ruffled it with her long fingers and soft spikes began popping up until she once again looked like what she was: a careless, carefree showgirl.

But one with shadows beneath her eyes.

They traveled the short distance to the condominium complex in surprisingly companionable silence. Wolf began to think that perhaps a miracle might occur and they’d actually end this night in a civilized manner.

Dropping Carly off in front of their building, he went to park the car in the garage he rented. She moved so slowly that she was still waiting for the elevator when he caught up with her. They’d barely stepped off it on the second floor a moment later when barking erupted from her apartment down the hall. A grunt of disgust escaped him.

Immediately, the momentary cease-fire in their adversarial relationship came to a halt. Carly turned and subjected him to a slow, unfriendly up-and-down, and he watched her grow a good inch taller as her back stretched straight. Her blue eyes grew dark with the screw you expression he was accustomed to seeing in them as her dog continued to yap hysterically in the background.

And his fragile hope for just one lousy night of peace turned to dust.

SHE’D FORGOTTEN. For a few moments there, Carly had actually let down her guard and forgotten that Wolfgang Jones was nothing but a judgmental, dog-hating jerk.

Okay, sure, Rufus was a trial, more so than any other pet she’d ever owned. But if Jones would just give her some breathing room, she knew she’d find the breakthrough she was seeking in her pup’s training. She always had with the other animals she’d rescued.

She was terrified, though, that she wouldn’t find this one quickly enough. She’d been lucky up until now that everyone in her building had turned a blind eye to the covenant stating that each unit in the condo was only allowed one pet.

Jones could change that in the blink of an eye. He had the power of the rules on his side, and he was such an obvious letter-of-the-law freak that it wasn’t even funny. All he needed was to lodge one formal complaint and she could lose not only Rufus, but two of her other babies, as well.

The idea made her sick to her soul and her hand shook slightly as she fit her key into the lock. Furious that Mr. Grim-and-Grimmer could bring her to this, she couldn’t prevent shooting him a dark look. He was so unyielding, both physically and mentally. And as much as she hated having to explain herself, she choked down her pride and did so, keeping her tone neutral when she said, “It’s not Rufus’s fault, you know. He’s a good dog at heart. I found him abandoned on the side of I-15 and I’m guessing he had a pretty rough puppyhood, so it’s taking him a little longer than usual to settle in.” The tumblers disengaged and she opened the door.

As she stepped over the threshold, her dogs greeted her with a rendition of their nightly frenzied, glad-to-see-ya dance. Rufus continued barking as he leaped up on her. And while Buster was older, quieter and more restrained, he still insisted on getting close enough to lean heavily against her uninjured leg, his tail wagging enthusiastically. Her cats jumped down from their respective perches and flowed across the room to weave in and out of her feet, meowing for their dinner. It was loud and messy and her favorite part of the day.

Wolfgang clearly wasn’t as enchanted. She caught the expression on his face when Rufus jumped with joyous abandon all over his beautiful suit.

Predictably, Jones was not amused.

She swallowed a snort. As if she’d ever seen that particular emotion on his face, anyway.

“Sitz!” Wolfgang snapped.

“Zits?” she repeated in confusion. But Rufus abruptly quit barking, and when she turned to look at her suddenly still dogs, she saw an almost human look of discombobulation on their furry faces. Then, as if it were a synchronized event, they both plopped their butts on the floor and stared up at the tall blond man with rapt attention. Even the cats paused for a nanosecond before resuming their demand for dinner.

Wolfgang turned to her, his posture erect, his face a blank canvas that somehow still managed to project disapproval. “You’re right, it is not your dog’s fault,” he agreed. “It’s yours. Exert some damn control.” And picking a brown dog hair from his slacks with one hand, he reached out with his other to grasp the knob on the door. Gently he pulled it shut.

She stared at the blank panel that had been firmly closed in her face and felt her blood pressure spike from normal to stroke level in two seconds flat. If there’d been a mirror handy she wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam blowing out her ears like cartoon factory whistles. Gasping for oxygen that seemed to have been sucked clean out of the foyer, she gritted her teeth against her choler.

To no avail. “You. Fascist. Son of a. Bitch!” Furiously she swung her bag of melting ice at the door.

Her animals scattered and she limped around to face the suddenly empty entryway. “Sorry, you guys,” she said guiltily. “I’m sorry. But, God, have you ever met such a miserable human being?” What a lousy time for Treena to be gone. Ordinarily she’d be heading down to her friend’s apartment to vent and spend a comforting twenty minutes assassinating Jones’s character. Instead, she sucked it up, shoved down her self-pity and limped into the kitchen to start opening cans and bags.

Hearing the sound of kibble being poured and the can opener whipping lids from tins brought the babies out of their various hiding places. And the familiarity of having Buster and Rufus do their doggy dinner jig while Rags and Tripod rubbed up against every available surface as they waited for her to put their bowls on the floor soothed Carly’s ragged nerves.

She got them situated, then found a corked bottle of wine in the fridge and poured herself a glass. Her ankle was throbbing again, so she tossed back a couple of aspirin. Then, noticing the trail of water where her bag of ice had sprung a leak from its unscheduled bash against the door, she grabbed a Ziploc bag and transferred the dripping contents into it. Deciding that the water on the floor would dry just fine without her help—and that she had been pushed quite far enough for one night—she hobbled into the living room.