BOONE - Part 1 of the HMB Doggie Series

CHAPTER 10

I wake up to a snoring dog in my bed and an even louder snoring man in one of my guest bedrooms. I glance at the clock and see that it’s already eight in the morning. Thank God it’s Saturday otherwise John would be seriously late for work with a pretty serious headache to contend with.

I throw on a robe and Boone stretches languidly in bed, grumbling like a petulant child who doesn’t want to get up. I can only smile. He’ll rise when he wants to. His eyes follow me as I head for the door, “It so early! Why you do this to me? I’s good dog!”

“You stay in bed as long as you like, Boone. I’m going down to wake the sleeping dragon.”

He buries his head between the pillows and sighs heavily. Point taken.

I pad quietly down the stairs and even more quietly past the bears den. If John is grumpy at two in the afternoon, I can only imagine what lays in wake when that man rises from his lair.

I busy myself with making a huge pot of coffee. Something tells me it will be needed.

I’ve just flicked the switch to “on” when my eyes pass over the living room. A frown furrows my brow because something doesn’t look right. The mantel is my shrine to everything I love: Megan and James, me and Eric, my parents and more recently numerous pictures of me and Boone.

But one picture is facing the wall. I walk slowly and reach out to turn it around. It’s a picture of me and Eric from our first trip to Disneyland. I have those ridiculous ears on and we are kissing in front of a fake waterfall.

“Why are we facing the wall?” I whisper to no one in particular.

And then I feel it: That familiar tingle runs up my spine and spreads down the length of my arms. He’s here. I righten the picture and turn to face the living room. No windows are open. Disappointment starts to mount. Why aren’t any windows open? That’s his signature move.

But then I notice it isn’t just the Disney picture that’s been messed with. Any standing frame I have of me and Eric are either facing the wall or turned down. I unhurriedly go and straighten all of them.

“Don’t you go getting jealous on me,” I whisper, “You don’t have anything to worry about. It’s John, for crying out loud.” Once I have all the pictures back in their original positions I stand like a sentinel in the middle of the room. “He was drunk, Eric. I couldn’t let him drive home. You should understand that.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?”

I gasp and swirl around to find a very disheveled John standing in the guest room doorway, leaning heavily on the wall and looking like shit run over twice.

“Oh…uh…sometimes I talk to myself,” I fight the blush that wants to creep up into my cheeks so I try and turn the tables. “You look like shit, John.”

He runs a hand down his face and says, “That’s probably because I feel like shit.”

“I made coffee. I assume you want some?” I start to walk to the kitchen.

“Please, God, yes.” He trails after me and plops down onto one of the kitchen island stools, sagging like a limp doll. I can’t help but bark out a laugh. Boone ambles in as well and goes to sit beside John, who absently reaches down and starts scratching his head.

The coffee is ready so I take the liberty of pulling down two mugs, grab the jar of sugar and retrieve the cream from the fridge. I feed Boone his breakfast and set to doctoring my coffee while John fills his cup to the rim and takes a loud slurp. Figures he’d be a black coffee kind of guy.

“Good coffee,” he grates out, “Hey, um, Sal?”

I look at him and wait for him to continue.

“Thanks for not letting me drive last night.”

I give him a small smile, “Thanks for not being the stubborn bastard you always are.”

This gets a chuckle. “Touché.”

~~~

After I made John a hearty breakfast of eggs, frozen tater tots and bacon I drove him to his car back at Sam’s. He even sat in the backseat since Boone is a front seat dog. He didn’t say much all morning and I’m guessing that he was feeling a little embarrassed. I can’t really blame him. Who hasn’t said or done something stupid when drunk?

I get home and decide a little workout is in order. Boone and I run sprints in the backyard and then retreat to the garage for some strength training. I’ve got a good sweat going and Boone is lounging in his bed, only occasionally raising his head when I let a grunt escape with a particularly heavy lift.

My mind constantly drifts back to the tampered-with pictures. Surely Eric would know that I have no inclination to start dating John. Sure, John is a good-looking man, but he’s so surly. He’s like a menopausal woman with his mood swings. I couldn’t imagine coming home to that every night. I’m used to Eric’s easy-breezy personality, not the harsh, jagged lines of John’s rampages and sarcastic jokes.

I finish my last set of pull-ups and stand with my hands on my hips.

“I mean, really, Eric? John?” I say to the empty room. “He’s a bastard. I don’t date bastards.” For whatever reason I know Eric can hear me and I want to say everything in my power so he believes me. “He’s grumpy, he’s grouchy, he’s high-maintenance and I can only assume he’s a bit of a diva…he ordered the most expensive dish on the menu last night just because he wasn’t paying! I mean, come on!”

I think I see something flicker to my right. I turn but am only greeted with a branch waving in the breeze through the garage window. I grumble and stomp towards the door attached to the house, giving up the fight…for now. Boone follows behind me and we head to the bathroom for a nice hot shower. I stink.

“You smells awesome!”

“Thanks, buddy.” My hand rests on his head as we walk up the stairs. It still amazes me how big my little Boone has gotten.

~~~

I’m sitting in my chaise with my computer on my lap, dutifully typing away on my new book. Boone is on the floor next to me and for inspiration I periodically reach down to scratch his drunken ear. I love where this new tale is going: It’s a story about an owner and his new dog, only it’s written through the eyes of the dog. I’ve read books like this before but never understood how you can write from a dogs perspective. Since I’ve gotten Boone I now see it’s not that hard. PJ, the dog in the book, is loosely based around Boone, only I’ve made him a special breed of Yorkie instead of a German Shepard.

I’ve been at this all day and have no intention of stopping until I get hungry enough. So of course the doorbell would have to ring.

Go figure.

I’m debating putting up an “At Work, Fuck Off” sign as I fling open the door and find a handsome-as-ever John standing on my porch.

Shock clearly mars my face as I stare at him because he shuffles from foot to foot, not quite looking me in the eye.

“Uh, hi, John,” I say, “What are you doing here?” Boone trots out onto the porch and sits on John’s shoe, awaiting the inevitable scratches.

“I, uh,” he pauses to clear his throat, “I wanted to say thank you again.”

Confusion furrows my brow. “Say thank you for what? For not letting you drive home?”

He nods his head and finally looks me in the eye. “What you said…about Eric? It’s kinda stuck with me all day and I wanted to say thank you. Again.”

He sounds like a broken record, but I attribute that to his bizarre behavior and clear discomfort with the whole situation.

“You’re welcome. Again.” I don’t really want to invite him in but I would feel rude if I didn’t since he drove from the city for this. “Do you want to come in? I was just working on the new book.” Maybe if I add that he’ll head out.

“Yes, thank you,” he turns his tree trunk of a body to get past me. I sigh in resignation and close the door.

Oh well. Can’t write forever.

I turn and see him holding a bottle of wine with a pink bow tied around the neck. He clears his throat again and says, “I got this for you as a thank you.”

I can’t help but smile as I voice my opinion, “John, you’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

He gives a half laugh, “That’s because this kinda shit makes me uncomfortable.”

“Clearly,” I accept the bottle and head into the kitchen, “Although I appreciate the irony…bringing me a bottle of wine after I convinced you to not drive drunk.”

He settles onto a barstool as he says, “You know I have a warped sense of humor.”

“That you do,” I glance a the clock and just now realize how much later it is then I thought. I should have considered dinner. I decide to feed Boone instead.

“So, John. What are you really doing here?”

He gives me a wry smile, “You know me so well. I wanted to talk about the Starlight project. We covered a lot of ground last night but I had more ideas come up today as I was working.”

“It’s Saturday. Why the hell were you working? At the office?”

“It’s all I ever do, Sal.” The way he says this makes me believe there’s more to that story but I keep my mouth shut. “And besides you were apparently working today too. Why the hypocrisy?”

“Writing isn’t work for me when I have a good idea flowing…which I do.”

“Whatever. We can talk about your new book later.” I open the bottle of wine he brought and offer him a glass, which is gruffly refuses. Lesson learned.

Without preamble John launches into his ideas. I have to say they are brilliant. I had no idea he was such a movie buff because the images and graphics he describes for some of the scenes are wonderful. It’s hard for me to get a word in edge-wise but when I do, John listens and agrees with me. Flabbergasted yet again.

We’ve been talking for maybe an hour when John does a 180 with, “I’m starving…do you have any food?”

“You want me to cook you dinner? Like a damn housewife?” I laugh heartily as I add, “I don’t think so, buddy.”

“But I’m hungry.” It’s the closest I’ve ever heard to a whine from this man and it only fuels my laughter. “Stop laughing. Do you have any more of those tater tots. Those were fucking delicious.”

Between snorts I say, “If you want tots make them yourself. I’m not your wife.”

He gives me an odd look, pushes from the stool and strolls to my freezer like he owns the place. He starts prepping the oven and I watch with unabashed amusement. Of course he would turn into a child when he’s hungry.

I guess my house has become grand central station because as he’s sliding the tots into the oven my doorbell rings.

“Freaking unreal. Why can’t I get any peace?” I grumble as I leave John to his duties.

“Probably because…” I don’t catch the last of his sentence because he turns his voice down to practically zero.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“I heard something.” The doorbell rings again.

“Answer your goddamn door. Do you have any whiskey?”

I roll my eyes and point to the cupboard in the island next to the wine fridge. “One drink. That’s all you get.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Fucking child.”

I stomp to the door with Boone dutifully at my side. I toss it open to see James standing shrouded in darkness since I’m too unobservant to turn on the porch light. He has a white bag in his hand and he smiles when he sees me. I can’t help but smile back, even if company is the last thing I want right now. Boone is sniffing the bag like he’s ready to eat it. Which he would.

“Hey there, darlin’. I have provisions from Megan. She’s home with a cold but she ordered me to bring this over.” He extends the bag to me. Scents that make my stomach grumble and my mouth water waft from it and with greedy hands I reach for it and peek inside. Pesto pasta, breadsticks and salad…God bless the Italians.

“What made her order you to bring me dinner?” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice.

He shrugs, “Sixth sense would be my guess,” he chuckles.

“Well, jeez. Thank you. This is exactly what I need.” I go to give him a hug as John’s booming voice vibrates through the house.

“Who is it? Do I smell Italian?”

“For Christ’s sake,” I mumble.

James gives me a mocking smile as John walks towards us. James extends his hand as he says, “Good to see you, John. You keeping this little lady out of trouble?”

“Hardly. She’s a pain in my ass but she’s brilliant.”

“A pain she is.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“So…Italian?” John says to me.

“This is for me, you bottomless pit. You have tater tots.”

“Sure smells good.”

“No,” I practically stomp my foot.

An awkward silence follows that is only bearable because Boone is making a fort with the couch pillows, food and guests forgotten.

“Well…I’m gonna get going. Megan needs some TLC,” James stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, clearly ready to abandon me. But what can I do?

“Yeah, okay. Give Megan a hug and kiss for me,” I give James a one-armed hug and John gives him a nod as he makes his way down my porch steps. I close the door and hug the bag to my chest. “Mine.”

“Seriously? You won’t share?”

“I’ll share if you tell me what you mumbled back there,” I give him a defiant look.

A muscle twitches in his jaw, a sign that he’s supremely irritated with me. I relish in it. I walk past him back into the kitchen. I grab a plate and some silverware and start unloading cartons, opening each one as I do so the smell can permeate the air.

“You really are a pain in the ass,” he grumbles from behind me.

I turn around, smile and bat my eyelashes for effect. I unload the food onto my plate, the scent so delectable I’m practically slobbering. Boone is at attention at my side, the couch now forgotten, giving me the full-on “puppy eye.” I grab a crouton and toss it to him, which he catches cleanly from the air.

“You share with the dog but not your agent?” John checks his tots, which look to be almost done.

“I laid out the conditions.” I plant my butt on a stool and start digging into the pasta with gusto. The pesto is creamy and oh-so delicious I could weep.

John takes a gulp from his whiskey glass and belches loudly.

“Charming,” I murmur around a mouthful of bread.

“Have you always treated your guests with such disrespect?”

“Have you always dropped in on your clients and demanded dinner?”

We stand off for about ten seconds before he breaks eye contact and mumbles more unintelligible grumbles under his breath. He pulls the tots out of the oven and dumps them into a bowl. Grabbing some ketchup from the fridge and a fork, he plunks down next to me and starts in on the tots. They must be hot as hell but he doesn’t complain as he starts shoveling one after another into his mouth.

The silence that surrounds us may as well have a life of it’s own because it’s breathing down the back of my neck. So. Awkward. I gulp some wine to try and ease the unease.

When I finish my plate I give it a rinse and put it in the dishwasher. John does the same.

“Do you want the leftovers?” My peace offering.

John actually smiles. “Yes, thank you.” He grabs the carton of pasta and starts an inhalation like I’ve never seen. How can he eat so much and still have that killer body? Lucky bastard.

I refill my wine glass and go to sit on the couch. I turn on some jazz and settle in with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The air has become unnaturally cold and I’m temped to make a fire but I don’t want to “set a mood,” if you know what I mean.

John has followed me into the living room as well, pasta in one hand and whiskey in the other.

“What makes you think you can eat in the living room?”

“Bite me.”

“Very mature.” I mock clap in his face. I think the wine has given me valor because the next question just falls out of my mouth like diarrhea, “Why are you the way you are?”

“Excuse me?” Surprise flashes in his eyes.

“Why are you the way you are?” I repeat, “Like, why are you so grumpy and surly all the time?”

He cocks an eyebrow at me, “My, my, my. Aren’t we feisty.”

“I’ve known you for years. You’ve always been this way. I’m just curious.”

“You just answered your own question.”

He says nothing more. I gesture with my hand for him to continue, clearly not getting it.

“Jesus Christ. Thick as molasses,” he enunciates each word like he’s talking to a four year old, “I’ve always been this way.”

“Bull. I don’t buy it. I hardly imagine you as a young kid being so pissy.” Although, now that the words are out of my mouth I can actually see it.

“I’m not gonna write you a goddamn autobiography.”

“Fine. Cliffs Notes.”

He grumbles some more and drinks from his glass. Liquid courage?

He doesn’t say anything for several minutes. I guess he’s just going to ignore me while he eats my food. What a gentlemen.

I’m staring into the unlit fireplace when he says, “You’re right. I haven’t always been this way. But the world is a fucking nasty place and to get by sometimes you have to be just as nasty. I didn’t make my way to the top by making friends, Sal.”

I wait for him to continue, which I hope he does.

He sighs, puts his carton of food on the coffee table and sits back, resting his head on the back of the couch like he suddenly can’t hold it up anymore. He looks tired. My heart softens towards him.

“I’ve worked my entire life. From high school until now, not a day has gone by that I haven’t worked my ass off. When you grow up with deadbeat parents you have two options: Become them or defy them. I knew what I had to do.”

Boone comes and hops onto the couch, resting his giant head in my lap. I stroke him gently and wait patiently. His calming effect seems to spur John on.

“I was already pretty hard when I got to college. But I managed to make a few friends and even get laid a few times,” charming, “But then Robin came along.” His face clouds over, either with rage or regret I can’t tell. “She was perfect in every fucking way I could imagine. And what’s more unbelievable is that she actually loved me. We dated throughout college and got married a few years after we graduated.”

I can’t keep the surprise off my face. John? In love?

“Shocking, I know,” he says with a glance at my face, “But whatever. It happened. We moved to San Fransisco when I got the job at the publishing firm. Some lowly position that didn’t pay shit, but hey, at least I was in a position to work up,” he takes another sip, “I was working. She was working. We were happy.” He pauses again, the cloud getting darker on his face. “About seven years ago I was working late at the office and didn’t think I was going to make it home. She seemed okay with it.”

I know where the story is going but I stay quiet all the same, knowing this is John’s chance to unload his grief.

“I made it home, however, and found her in bed with one of her coworkers. She was riding him like a goddamn horse and all I could do was stand in the doorway and stare like some fucking chump,” his voice hitches, “She was fucking around behind my back while I was working my ass off to give us the lifestyle we deserved.”

He looks at me then, the rage, the hurt, the betrayal so clear on his face that it kinda takes my breath away. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get over it.” His voice is so hard it reminds me of steel.

“Nor should you,” I say softly.

“Excuse me?”

“I said nor should you. Adultery is unforgivable. If that had happened to me…well…I guess I would have turned out the same way as you.”

He squints at me. “Aren’t all you skirts supposed to be about forgiveness and understanding and all that crap?” I should be offended by this question but he’s smiling as he says it.

So I laugh as I say, “I’m not just any skirt. If Eric had done that to me I would have castrated him.”

I get a laugh with that one. “You are something else, Sal. Never what I expect.” There’s that flicker of something in his eyes again.

“That’s because I’m a brilliant pain in the ass.”

“I’ll toast to that.”