Hound Dog & Bean E-Book

B.G. Thomas

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 432

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

There's been little love in H.D. "Hound Dog" Fisher's life since the death of his beloved mom when he was a boy. Bounced around the foster care system, he ran away as soon as he could… and took the foster dog with him. As far as he's concerned, only dogs have no ulterior motive, never hold a grudge, and offer unconditional love. Now he helps run a no-kill shelter and leaves relationships where they belong: in the back room. "Bean" Alexander settled in Kansas City to open his coffee shop after years of traveling. He never expected to open his heart too. When a man with a grudge takes a swing at H.D. while in line at Bean's shop, Bean jumps to intervene. So taking a hit for H.D. gets Bean noticed, and H.D. feels obligated to pay a debt. But then the unexpected happens. A series of misadventures causes H.D. to open up—but falling in love makes him turn tail and run. Trust is a tough road to travel. Will good friends, a dog named Sarah Jane, and a bit of folk magic be enough to bring Hound Dog and Bean a happy ending?

Leseprobe

Readers love

B.G. THOMAS

Anything Could Happen

“…a powerful and moving story that pulls you in and doesn’t let you go.”

—Top 2 Bottom Reviews

“This is a well-rounded and very well written story.”

—The Novel Approach

Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf

“This story is so perfect.”

—Joyfully Jay

“I absolutely loved this story! In fact, I did something I rarely do with a book: I read it twice!”

—The Novel Approach

The Boy Who Came in From the Cold

“This was such a sweet and heartwarming love story and I greatly enjoyed it.”

—Rainbow Book Reviews

“This was the perfect read to brighten my rainy day mood. I was swept off my feet with this sweet, feel good read.”

—World of Diversity Fiction

“I was totally unprepared for this novel… It was far from tired, and certainly no fulfilled cliche. Instead, it was poetry. A lyrical dance that carried me far beyond the story into the heart and mind of its heroes.”

—Reviews by Jessewave

By B.G. THOMAS

NOVELS

All Alone in a Sea of Romance

Anything Could Happen

The Boy Who Came In From the Cold

Hound Dog & Bean

NOVELLAS

All Snug

Bianca’s Plan

Christmas Cole

Christmas Wish

Desert Crossing

Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf

How Could Love Be Wrong?

It Had to Be You

Soul of the Mummy

Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SWSuite 2, PMB# 279Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Hound Dog & Bean

© 2014 B.G. Thomas.

Cover Art

© 2014 Paul Richmond.

http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

Dancing Goat designed by PJ Morvant-Alexander ©2014

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-62798-348-8

Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-349-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January 2014

This one is for my very dear friend PJ Morvant-Alexander.We have known each other for ages and our love just grows and grows,even when we drive each other crazy.

~~ And girl! Thanks for the title of this book! ~~These guys are your godchildren!

And special thanks to my miracle workers, Rowan Speedwell, Andi Byassee, and Sal Davis.

Once more you made me better—thank you!(And special thanks for a great idea from Sal.)

And I must NOT forget to thank Great Plains SPCA,

 without whom I would not have my own bundle of joy

 and the light of my heart,

Sarah Jane.

Dogs never bite me—just humans.

~ Marilyn Monroe

Coffee—the favorite drink of the civilized world.

~ Thomas Jefferson

These are the stories the Dogs tell, when the fires burn high and the wind is from the north.

~ Clifford D. Simak, City

As long as there was coffee in the world, how bad could things be?

~ Cassandra Clare, City of Ashes

… ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.

~ George Washington

CHAPTER ONE

“NOPE,” SAIDH.D., and plucked the trembling little mutt right out of the burly man’s arms and walked away.

“What the hell?” said the man, and the girl at his side—about eight with brown pigtails and wearing OshKosh B'Gosh overalls—burst into tears.

That’s when Elaine should have seen the trouble coming, but she was just finishing up a phone call with a woman who had found a motherless litter of kittens. All she could do was watch as H.D. ignored both the big man and the crying little girl and headed under the carport tent, his mass of dark-blond dreadlocks bouncing around his shoulders. It was spring in Kansas City, and that meant a clear sky could fill with clouds in an instant. They had set up the area in the grass at the edge of the grocery store parking lot that morning for their rescue service—Four-Footed Friends. The tent was to give the hopeful adoptees protection from sun or rain. These adoption events were a lot of work, but had become old hat to Elaine by now. It was an important part of giving their beloved charges an extra shot at finding a forever home.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man shouted. “Come back here!”

“Nope,” H.D. repeated and stepped over and into the pen where the dog had been waiting patiently all morning. He folded gracefully into a lotus position and settled the dog into his lap. The little Yorkie-dachshund mix climbed up into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, still shaking. “Sorry, baby girl, he’s no good for you.”

The man meanwhile ordered his daughter to “Be quiet!” and stomped into the tent. Immediately, about half the dogs started barking in their pens

H.D. fixed the man with a gaze that froze him in his tracks. A half-dozen people were watching now as the man puffed up, obviously steeling himself for a confrontation. H.D. appeared to be ignoring him and returned his attention to the dog.

“Give me that freaking dog back!” More dogs began to bark.

“Nope,” said H.D. for a third time.

Elaine, now off the phone, stepped in between them. She had been watching where this was going and knew she’d better act quickly before things got out of control. It was part of her job, after all—plus she knew despite H.D.’s sometimes acerbic behavior, she could trust him to have a good reason for whatever it was he’d so suddenly decided to do.

“Listen, you little son of a—”

“Hello.” Elaine smiled broadly. “What seems to be the problem?” She was careful to stand sideways, facing neither her colleague nor the angry man so she appeared neither weak nor confrontational.

“Who the hell are you?” snapped the large man.

“I’m Elaine Arehart—codirector of Four-Footed Friends.”

“Well, ‘Elaine,’ you can tell that little fucker”—he stabbed a finger in H.D.’s direction—“to give me that dog back before I take it from him.”

Now all the dogs were barking, and half the cats were adding their disapproval.

Whoa, Elaine thought. This was turning ugly quickly. “Sir, please. There’s no need for that kind of language. There are children around.” She nodded toward what was surely his own daughter.

The man glanced over his shoulder and, after a pause, seemed to at least unclench himself. He took a deep breath, expanding an already considerable chest. “Your employee there took my dog.”

Elaine turned to H.D., who looked back through his mop of dreads, resembling ever so much a sheepdog that had somehow metamorphosed into a human being. Thankfully, he wasn’t rising to the term “employee.” They were peers in every sense of the word. H.D. could only legally be considered an employee. He made shit for wages and worked far more for the animals than her. “H.D.,” she said. “Has this man paid for that dog?”

“Nope.”

Dammit, is that the only word H.D. knows today?

“He started to write a check,” H.D. continued as if reading her thoughts. “But he didn’t finish.”

She turned back to the man, who quickly responded with, “I was about to. I filled out the paperwork and everything.”

Now she shifted back to H.D. She felt like she was watching a tennis match.

“I discovered that Mr. Brubaker and Sarah Jane are not compatible.”

Well, at least she had a name for the man now.

“Why aren’t we fucking compatible?” Brubaker snarled.

“Mr. Brubaker!” Elaine nodded once more toward his daughter. “H.D? Why aren’t Sarah Jane and Mr. Brubaker compatible?”

“Because he just let slip that he would make Sarah Jane an outside dog.”

“I told him that from the beginning. Why’d you even let me fill out all that paperwork and make my little girl all excited?”

“Sorry about your daughter. I really am. But you gave me the impression you were only going to let Sarah Jane outside to potty.” H.D. turned back to Elaine. “But no. He’s going to make Sarah Jane stay outside all day long while he’s at work. Ten hours at least.”

Elaine nodded, waiting for more.

“Elaine? Remember how we found Sarah Jane?” He snuggled the shaggy little red-and-silver dog even closer.

The light dawned. “Oh, poop.” She turned once more to Mr. Brubaker. “Sir. Now I get it. I’m sorry. But Sarah Jane was found in the backyard of a house that had been abandoned for days. The tenants apparently skipped out on their rent. Poor Sarah Jane was dehydrated and near starved to death. H.D. is right. We decided as a group that she wouldn’t be put through that kind of emotional and spiritual distress again.”

“Emotional…?” Brubaker’s brow shot up. “What the…? Emotional and spiritual distress? She’s a fucking dog, not a human being.”

That was the wrong thing to say, and H.D. gave a smug little smile as Elaine realized with a snap that the dog and human incompatibility went a lot deeper than an inside/outside dog issue. Mr. Brubaker was obviously someone who had no real regard for the animal he’d been about to adopt. To him, Sarah Jane wasn’t even a living being that deserved respect, let alone a person in her own right.

Elaine drew her brows together into a single dark slash. She pursed her lips, then counted to ten. “I am sorry, Mr. Brubaker, but now I can see clearly what my colleague saw much faster than I. You obviously don’t see the sacred in our little Sarah Jane. You see her only as a living teddy bear. Sarah Jane is not a teddy bear.”

The shock on Brubaker’s face was almost comical and would have been had he not so thoroughly offended both Elaine and H.D. “I’ll sue!”

“You can sue my little pink pucker,” H.D. replied casually and flopped back onto the grass, his hair forming a crazy halo around his head. Sarah Jane was now on top of him and began licking his face. “Yeah, baby girl. Give me kisses.”

Behaving less crassly than her compatriot, Elaine simply shrugged. “Not sure what you’ll sue us for, Mr. Brubaker. But you’re free to do as you see fit.”

“You bitch,” Brubaker said with a hiss. “You realize I could have lied, right? You wouldn’t have known what I was doing with that little mutt, and now you won’t ever find somebody to take that mangy rat—”

“Sarah Jane is not a rat,” wailed the little girl.

Elaine took a step toward Brubaker. “We won’t have any trouble finding a home for our sweet little baby, and if you don’t just cut your losses now, I will call—” She pulled out her cell phone. “—every single pet rescue service in the greater Kansas City area and give them your name and address. I’ll warn them about you. I think you need to decide if you really want a four-footed friend. Or if Sarah Jane was just an impulse item.”

Brubaker’s eyes popped for an instant. Then his expression turned stony, although there was a flash of danger in his eyes. Finally, he grabbed his sobbing child’s hand and stomped away.

H.D.—HOUNDDog to some—Hillary Dameron Fisher to relatives long gone and a foster care system that couldn’t have cared less—realized he should apologize to Elaine. He knew there had probably been a better way to handle the situation, but dammit, he didn’t like most people in the first place, let alone people like Brubaker. His kind were assholes, and they got under his skin fast and in a big way.

But by then he realized that Elaine—a stocky woman with shoulder-length graying hair and a fierce love for the animals under her care—was standing over him, hands on hips, waiting. The dogs were still barking, although they were calming down. He sighed, thinking of their distress. Sitting up, H.D. shook his mane of dreads from his face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” she asked and crossed her arms over her considerable bosom.

“For being such a jerk,” he mumbled, cuddling Sarah Jane close. She had finally stopped trembling.

“What? I can’t hear you H.D.”

“For all that,” he said, gesturing toward the retreating Brubaker.

Elaine shook her head.

“Dammit, that guy was a fuckhead,” H.D. cried. “He was totally wrong for Sarah Jane.” He scratched said dog down her shoulders and back until he found her spot and her hind leg began to twitch.

“I don’t deny for one second that he was a ‘fuckhead,’” she replied. “It was the way you did it. I’m curious, did you notice the nice young couple that turned around and high-tailed it out of here when you and Brubaker had your little tiff?”

H.D. opened his mouth to respond, but any witty repartee he might have come up with died on his lips. His mouth snapped shut.

“That’s what I thought. I’m glad Sarah Jane didn’t go home with that man. I don’t know how you do it—read people the way you do. At best we might have gotten Sarah Jane back and probably worse for wear. But that couple? They radiated good will. We have to find homes for our friends here.” She spread her arms to indicate the pens and kennels, each with at least one cat or dog. There were a rabbit and a tortoise as well. “Listen, H.D., I don’t like the average Joe any more than you do. Give me a puddy tat any day, but people are—”

“A necessary evil,” H.D. finished with an exaggerated sigh. “I know. I know.” He’d heard her say it before, and the fact that she was right didn’t make him any happier.

“You’ve got to stop acting like a big baby,” she said.

“Then stop treating me like one,” he snapped.

“Then stop acting like one,” she shot right back.

Neither said anything for a long moment. Finally, Elaine broke the silence. “You know I love you with every ounce of my four-footed heart, right?”

H.D. admitted that he did know that. “You mean a lot to me too,” he replied, carefully expressing his feelings and equally carefully not using the L-word.

He could see she hadn’t missed it.

“I suppose that’ll have to do,” she replied. Then: “Come here and give me a hug, you ol’ hound dog, you.”

H.D. unfolded himself and rose elegantly to his feet. He set Sarah Jane down, then went to Elaine and hugged her. “You do know you mean a lot to me, right?” he asked her.

“I hope so,” she answered.

On impulse, he gave her a peck on the cheek, and when he pulled back, he saw she was blushing. “Forgiven?”

“Of course,” she replied, touching the cheek he had kissed.

Good, he thought. Because there weren’t many people he’d consider calling friends. They weren’t something he squandered.

Of course, he didn’t expect them to stick around either. People rarely did.

Elaine smiled and headed over to an elderly couple who had just stepped in and were bending over a pen with a small German shepherd mix. “Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully. “I see you’ve noticed Dora, then. Excellent choice. Excellent choice.”

Meanwhile, H.D. bent over, picked up Sarah Jane again, and kissed her on her strangely blonde forehead. She didn’t mind. She kissed him back, her love completely unconditional. After all, she was a dog.

And give me a dog over a human any day, he thought to himself.

CHAPTER TWO

MARA POINDEXTERwatched Dean—better known to patrons and friends alike as “Bean”—from across the room. He was doing something he didn’t get to do all that often anymore: help a customer. Ever since The Shepherd’s Bean had expanded into the failed scrapbooking shop next door, he’d just gotten too busy.

She adjusted her large, round, black plastic glasses and watched the encounter. The customer was very handsome, she thought. And was obviously flirting—leaning over the counter, smiling, and shamelessly eyeing Bean up and down. But as she watched, she saw that her boss was oblivious.

“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath and shook her head. The dude is a stud, she tried to mentally beam to her Bean. Can’t you see that?

Her telepathy must have failed, though, for as soon as Bean was done making the man’s coffee, he smiled politely and headed to the back room.

“Dummy,” she said as Bean passed her.

He stopped. “What?”

“Are you blind?” she asked, looking up at him. She was a short woman, barely reaching five foot three.

“No. Why would you ask me that?”

“That guy was hitting on you.”

“What guy?” Bean glanced behind him.

“That guy you were just helping. He was flippin’ drooling over you.”

“He was?” Bean asked, apparently surprised.

“And he was studly,” she elucidated, hand on her hip.

“He was?” Bean looked again, but of course the man was long gone. “I didn’t notice.”

“Ugh,” Poindexter groaned in frustration.

“Ugh, yourself,” he replied. “I think you were imagining things.”

“The only thing I’m imagining is that one day you’ll pull your head outta your butt and notice what’s going on around you. Like a hot man hitting on you.”

Bean waved the comment away. “He wasn’t my type.”

“So you did notice him?” she asked.

“I guess. But I don’t like aggressive men. That’s not my style.” With that, he went to the back room.

Poindexter sighed. She worried about Bean. He was a lonely man, she could tell. He needed someone to ease that. As far as she’d been able to piece together in the seven months she’d worked for him, that and chatting with her coworkers—some who’d known him for years—Bean had never had a boyfriend. At least, not a serious one.

“No time,” she had heard him say on a few occasions.

“Make time,” she would insist. “All work and no lovin’ makes Bean a dull boy.”

“The rhyme is ‘all work and no play,’ not ‘lovin,’” Bean said.

“Yes, but play doesn’t rhyme with boy any more than lovin’ does,” she countered. “And lovin’ is what you need.”

The “no time” excuse might have been true once. Not all that long ago, Bean had worked for at least one of the “giants”—coffee companies that manufactured shit for java as far as Poindexter was concerned. During that time, Bean had traveled all over a significant part of the world. He’d never been home long enough to meet someone, let alone try to have a relationship. He’d even lived with his parents in those days. What was the point of having his own home if he was never there? But now that he’d finally retired from the traveling life and opened The Shepherd’s Bean? Well, he needed to find someone. Husband, lover, or at the very least, a fuck buddy.

It would also help with the absolutely ludicrous crush she had on Bean. Sure, he was a damned fine-looking man—tall, with those golden-brown eyes and that big, beautiful wide smile. His hair had been cut beyond military protocol because he was so conscious of his receding hairline, he’d decided to just get rid of it all. Even that suited him, though, and somehow added to his sexiness. But Poindexter had realized she liked girls when she was eleven years old and had gotten a glimpse of Elenora Bergamini in her confirmation dress. The pretty girl looked just like a bride in all that white, frilly lace and Poindexter had been completely smitten. Hell, she’d been in love. When she’d asked Elenora to marry her, while the girl’s answer had been “no,” she did say she would kiss Poindexter. And—golly!—hadn’t that been exciting?

They did a lot of kissing that year, especially in the tree house Elenora’s brother and father had built, and who knows how long the kissing would have gone on if said brother hadn’t caught them, faces locked together like a plug and outlet? That was the end of that. Poindexter was exiled from the Bergamini home, never to be welcomed back. Whatever her parents had said or done to Elenora, the girl wouldn’t even be her friend at school. Poindexter had often wondered through the years if her first crush had grown up to be a lesbian, or if that had just been a case of youthful experimentation.

“You need to get over that guy, Dexter,” her pseudo-friend Tiff would tell her. Poindexter didn’t care for the nickname, but it was better than the two previous ones Tiff had come up with: Poondykster and just plain Dykster. Given that most lesbian nicknames stuck forever, Poindexter was lucky to get three tries, and number three was the best of the lot. Her friend Stacy was called Face, all because at some point in the past, she’d been called “Staceface.” Far worse, though, was a girl she knew who had gotten the nickname “Crotch,” all because in college she’d had a wild afro. That had been years ago. But in the world of lesbian nicknames, it made no difference. Once a “Crotch,” always a “Crotch.”

“Maybe you should just fuck him,” Tiff suggested. “Find out if maybe you play for the other team after all.”

Poindexter had shuddered at the suggestion. That would mean having something to do with his… you know… and she really was a rubyfruit-jungle-lovin’, card-carrying fan of Rita Mae Brown all the way.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Tiff said.

“That’s because you don’t know how to read,” Poindexter replied.

“I know how to read, I simply choose not to.”

“Let’s just say I like girls and leave it at that,” Poindexter said. “I like them a lot.”

Yes, from the second Poindexter found out what the word “lesbian” meant, she knew what she was. She had even flirted with—only for a few months when she was a freshman in college—the idea of being a separatist. But having to spell “history” as “herstory” and “women” as “womyn” got her to giggling so uncontrollably during a meeting that she got kicked out. It was okay. She had six brothers, after all, and she adored them. She really liked men. Just not “that way.”

Which is why she needed to get Bean a boyfriend. Or at least “shepherd” him in that direction.

The bell over the front door tinkled, and she glanced to see if it someone was coming or leaving. It was a woman with bright-blue hair, spiked up in front. “Oh God,” she groaned.

“Hey, Dexter!”

Tiff. Great. Just great. Poindexter smiled. “Mornin’. And what can I get for you today?”

“AH, SWEETMara,” Dean Alexander, aka “Bean,” said to himself. “What would I do without you?”

Yes, of course he’d seen the man she was talking about. Yes, he’d known the man was hitting on him—and “hitting on” was the polite way of saying it. “Drooling,” on the other hand, was exactly what the man had been doing, and that just wasn’t Bean’s style. He liked at least a modicum of subtlety. Why be so bold? So obvious? Not just to Mara, but everyone in the shop. Did that kind of flirting really work for anyone?

Mara, Bean wondered. How desperate are you to get me a man? If you thought I’d go for someone like that? What was it with the matchmaking anyway? If it wasn’t Mara—he refused to use her nickname—then it was a friend, a customer, and of course, his mother. He was happy by himself. He didn’t need anyone to complete him. The very phrase put his teeth on edge. Not that he would mind having a man in his life, he just didn’t need one. And he was insanely busy with The Shepard’s Bean, anyway.

Bean headed back to his office. Six months ago, he’d never have thought he’d have his own office—at least not so soon. But what had started out to be little more than a hobby—roasting his own coffee beans out of his garage and selling them to friends and neighbors—had blossomed and grown and then grown more. First, when he’d agreed to roast for a local coffee shop called the Radiant Cup. Then a small restaurant wanted in, and then a second. At that point—at the urging of friends and family—he’d decided he might as well give it a shot and open his own place. Why the heck not?

Plus, it would allow him to show Kansas City how coffee should be made. By the individual cup. It took a while to serve a single customer, but there were few who thought it was a waste of time after trying one of his cups of coffee. The usual first time reaction was raised eyebrows and a surprised, “Wow!” It never got old, never ceased to please him.

The Kansas City Chronicle had done a little story about him just recently, and overnight his business had quadrupled. The newspaper article got people to try The Shepherd’s Bean; the coffee made them come back again and again.

Bean sat down at his small, old-fashioned rolltop desk and looked over his invoices. A shipment had come in this morning from Kenya. It was from the Rugento farmer co-op. Very nice people, with just enough land to support their family. Last year’s crop had been quite elegant, making a coffee that was complex and sweet, with a body that gave way to all kinds of plummy fruitiness, then revealed black-cherry and citrus flavors as the cup cooled. If this year’s crop was half as good, he and his customers were in for a treat. He’d roast a barrel this afternoon.

The phone rang, and since it was right there, he answered it so none of the baristas would have to stop what they were doing.

“Good morning. Thank you for calling The Shepherd’s Bean.”

“Dean” came the cheerful voice from the other end of the line. “I am so glad you answered.” Dean—not Bean.

“Hello, Mom,” he replied.

“How’s the coffee business?” she asked.

“Good. Very good.”

“I’m so sorry I’ve been in just the one time since you’ve expanded.”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s a bit of a drive from Terra’s Gate for a cup of coffee.”

“But not so far for you to bring some to me,” she purred.

“It’s the same distance, Mom.” He dated the invoice and put it away in the short two-drawer filing cabinet to the right of his desk.

“But when you come here, you get dinner besides. You free tomorrow night? Tell me you’re free tomorrow night, dear. Father and I so want you to come. It’s been forever.”

“Mom, it hasn’t been forever.” He glanced at his desk calendar. “Two and a half weeks.”

“And I should have to wait so long? Tell me you’re coming tomorrow. Big Dean is firing up the grill.” Big Dean was his father. Bean was a junior. “We’re going to have his famous chicken.”

In spite of himself, Bean felt his mouth water. “I don’t think I have anything planned. Let me look.” He checked his faithful calendar again, flipping over to the next day.

“Of course you don’t have anything planned,” his mother said. “You never do anything. Never go anywhere.”

“Mom. Enough.” He sighed. Why fight it? He really didn’t have anything planned, and his father’s chicken was amazing. “I’ll be there.”

“Oh, good. That’s good.” Then yelling, half in the phone: “Father! Dean’s going to be here… No… I didn’t tell him yet. No… Don’t worry, I’ll tell him.”

Bean felt a worrisome premonition.

“Honey, you remember Mrs. McKenna?”

“I-I’m not sure….”

“My friend Muriel? Sloan McKenna’s mother? He was one year behind you in school. You remember?”

Did he? High school was a good while ago. Fifteen years. Fifteen years? Whoa, time did fly the older you got. “I’m not sure, Mom.”

“Muriel had the most spectacular gardens. Her whole front yard was—”

Bang. That did it. “Oh, yeah.” The McKennas had lived the next block over when he was a kid. “Sure, I remember her. How’s she doing?”

“Not so good, I’m afraid. Brain tumor. Inoperable.”

“Jeez,” he replied, surprised. “That’s terrible.” Poor woman. Bean remembered her being a nice lady, always ready to offer Popsicles and Kool-Aid.

“She’s decided against chemo. Wants a shorter, better life. Her son isn’t too happy about it, I gather. But it’s her decision really. So far all is as good as it can be with a… you know… tumor and all. Every now and then, she’ll do something a little… off. Ask me to pick up a snowman for her when I go to the supermarket. Things like that.”

A snowman? “Gosh, Mom. That’s sad.” Really sad.

“It is. And I thought you being here tomorrow night would add some normalcy, you know?”

“Sure, Mom. I’ll be there. You want me to pick up some wine?”

“Just coffee, dear. That will be more than enough.”

CHAPTER THREE

HOUND DOGwaited until the man lying next to him began to snore (had in fact waited with agonizing patience ten minutes past that) before slipping out of the bed. He padded silently around the room, gathering his discarded clothes: a T-shirt here, his soft, form-fitting jeans over there, a sock hanging from an open desk drawer, the second under it, and…. His shoes. Where were his shoes?

Living room. That was it. He’d toed them off under the coffee table while he and… whatever his name was… made out on the couch. H.D. was halfway out the bedroom door when Whatever-his-name-was spoke.

“Hey, H.D., where you goin’? Don’t you want to spend the night?”

Dammit. The guy’s awake. And he can remember my name. Why can’t I remember his?

“Sorry, guy,” H.D. said. “I have a dog to let out.”

Which was true. He’d taken Sarah Jane home, not wanting her to spend the night in a kennel at Four-Footed Friends. Actually, not many animals stayed there overnight. Most were fostered out to homes throughout the city and the suburbs while they awaited their “forever home.” It really surprised him that Sarah Jane hadn’t found one yet. She was one of the most precious dogs they’d ever had, especially after she began to physically and emotionally heal from her abandonment. Which was another reason Hound Dog hadn’t wanted to cage her up for the night.

“Aw, come on,” said his bed partner. Bob? Or was it Rob? “A dog will be fine for one night. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. You can take some extra bacon home for it.”

It? Did he say “it”?

“I’m a vegetarian,” H.D. lied and headed into the other room.

Bob or Rob followed him. “Do you really have to go?” The man leaned against the bedroom doorframe, folded his arms over a hairy, muscular chest and crossed one leg over the other. Both were as well developed and hairy as the rest of him. Hound Dog’s type all the way.

He stood there, completely at ease in his nudity, and as H.D. dressed, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Dayum! I did myself proud tonight.

The man’s eyes were dark and sparkling in the light of the pole lamp, a dense shadow of new beard covered a strong jaw (and didn’t that feel good in my ass crack?), and all that wasn’t even to mention his thick endowment, draped over a set of low-hanging balls. In fact, it was those eyes and the talent of his tongue that had almost caused Hound Dog to break down and let the man top him. But finally, the answer had been, “No!”

“Oh, please, man. I gotta have this,” the guy had said. And oh, he’d looked so hot, peering up from between H.D.’s butt cheeks, head shaved all but bald, looking total man.

“No, dude. I don’t let anyone do that. It’s far too personal.”

“That’s what most guys say about kissing,” Bob or Rob had said.

“Which makes no friggin’ sense,” Hound Dog had replied. “You can kiss anybody—but fuckin’ is a whole different ballgame.”

The man had gone back to rimming again and—wow!—did Bob (or Rob) know what he was doing. After five minutes of that, and lots of moaning on both their parts, Hound Dog’s rimmer made his request again, and—dayum!—it had been tempting. But “Nope,” H.D. had said and flipping over, had presented his front instead. “But whatever else you want to do is okay with me.”

What Bob or Rob had decided to do was climb aboard, after H.D. had insisted on a condom, and then ride him like a champion broncobuster. It had been simply outstanding.

And now? Looking at that face, the devilish expression, the shifting down below—well it was all H.D. could do to look away and finish dressing.

Sarah Jane really was waiting. And the little girl truly was special. He couldn’t bear to think of her crying, wondering where all the people were.

And the simple truth was, Hound Dog had been in heat, and now he wasn’t anymore. He’d been scratched in the right spot, his itch had been relieved, he’d twitched his leg, and it was time to go home. The deed was done, and it was past time to skedaddle. It was the offer of Bob or Rob’s place that had made it utterly perfect. H.D. never asked anyone to his small apartment. That meant the guy might not leave. When you went to his place, you could leave—politely, graciously, or otherwise—anytime you wanted. You got out.

“Sorry… guy,” he said. He couldn’t say Bob or Rob now, could he? “I really need to go.”

“Well, let me give you my phone number,” the guy said.

Good. H.D. would write it down and then promptly lose it.

“I’ll put it in your cell phone,” the trick said and held out his hand.

And shit again. H.D. couldn’t even lie and say he didn’t have one. Elaine had called twice while he was at the bar, and this guy had seen it. H.D. sighed inwardly, pulled out his cell, and handed it over. A moment later it was back, and when he glanced down he saw the name. Mike. Mike? How had he gotten Bob or Rob out of that?

“Now give me yours,” Mike said.

“I just did,” H.D. said.

“Not your phone.” Mike rolled his eyes. Funny to see a macho man like him roll his eyes. It didn’t fit somehow. “I want your phone number.”

H.D. spit his phone number out so fast, he hoped Mike missed it. When the trick repeated it back, H.D. saw he wasn’t to be so lucky. But he smiled and pretended he was happy and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Mike stepped closer and bent to give him a kiss, and H.D. turned his head slightly at the last instant so it landed on his cheek and not his lips. Suddenly, kissing seemed very personal indeed.

And was that hurt he saw in the big hunk’s eyes? H.D. growled to himself. How do I get myself in messes like this? “See you, Baaa—Mike.” Jeez. He’d almost called the man Bob.

“See ya,” Mike replied, and Hound Dog quickly escaped out the door.

ONCEONthe street, H.D. felt so much better. Free. He could breathe.

God, what if he calls? His mind threatened to go into a whorl of thoughts.

No, he commanded himself. Don’t. Do not. Do not-not-not go there. If Bob or Mike calls, just ignore it. The thought made him pull out his phone and block Mike’s number. If the guy called, it would go straight to voicemail. H.D. wouldn’t even hear the phone ring. He breathed a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t that H.D. hadn’t had a good time with Mike. He had. The man had been great in bed. Hound Dog had cum twice. Mike kissed like an escort, sucked like a whore, and rode cock like his life depended on it. But that didn’t mean the evening called for a repeat performance. No evening (or morning or afternoon) sexual escapade called for repeat performances. In that direction lay danger. Seconds led to the potential for clinginess—and Mike had suddenly showed a potential for such behavior. H.D. did not do clingy.

What had happened? It really had seemed like nothing but sex when they’d connected at The Watering Hole. Lots of sucking face and grinding of crotches. They hadn’t discussed anything personal. No “What-do-you-do-for-a-living?” even. Just shots and making out in a dark corner and earlobe bites and whispers of what each wanted to do to the other. So when the man had asked him home, H.D. had answered with a resounding “Yes!”

They were making out as they climbed the stairs. They were all over each other in the living room. And—God!—Mike had tripped Hound Dog’s heat into overdrive. Brown eyes—what was it about brown eyes?—that thick, dark shadow of a beard not yet fully formed, the fact that he was taller, but not too tall…. And perfect teeth. For some reason, crooked teeth were a turnoff for H.D. The big dick had been a plus. He wasn’t a size queen, but on the other hand, he wanted something he could get all animal with.

Because—goddammit!—it was all about the sex. Why couldn’t people see that? Animals knew it. When a male tiger met a female in heat, they got to it. No courting. No wooing. And certainly no romance. They fucked, and then they went their own ways. Over and done with. Dogs too. One went into heat, the other was drawn in, and they fucked. Then it was done. No mating for life. Sex, pure and simple.

Why, oh why the hell couldn’t people be like that?

Because the last thing Hound Dog wanted was a mate.

He knew what that led to.

Hurt. Betrayal. Abandonment.

And that was never ever happening to him again.

Never. Ever. Again.

SARAH JANEwas thrilled to see H.D. home. She began to bark when he was about twenty feet from the door to his apartment, and he hoped it was because she recognized his step and didn’t react that way to everyone who climbed the steps. If so, he’d hear about it from the neighbors. But a dog’s ears were mind-bogglingly acute, and their sense of smell was a miracle. She could have easily figured out it was him.

As he put the key into the lock, her barking doubled—a high-pitched sound, but not irritating like some breeds—and when he opened the door, she began to dance in merry circles.

“Hello, Sarah, I’m home!”

She dashed to him and leapt back on her hind legs, front feet waving in the air. He marveled that such a long dog with such tiny legs and paws could do such a feat. He scooped her up into his arms, and she began to cover his face with kisses. I shouldn’t have left you for so long, he thought. But all it was supposed to have been was a couple of drinks. He didn’t know he would wind up going to Bob or Rob’s (Mike’s) place, and he certainly hadn’t planned on being so long.

“I know! I know! I’m happy to see you too.” He pulled Sarah Jane closer—feeling guilty—resting his face against her blonde head. It seemed so startlingly different from the rest of her red-brown coat. He loved it.

Sarah Jane began to wiggle, and he knew that sign and retrieved her leash. The sight of it brought her to near-hysterical joy, and moments later they hit the streets. She was practically prancing—like a tiny long-haired pony—as they walked down the block, and of course, she stopped often and sniffed where the other dogs had been.

H.D. had heard the so-called dog whisperer explain this, and the particular episode he’d watched advised that you not let a dog stop and sniff and pee over and over. That was the last time H.D. ever watched the show. In his opinion, the man was full of shit. Why would you do such a thing to a dog? It was cruel. Did the man know nothing about canis familiaris? Dogs “saw” the world through their noses. They actually didn’t see all that well. But their noses! A dog had 300 million olfactory receptors in their noses, compared to humans, who had about six million. They could detect a teaspoon of sugar in two Olympic-size pools worth of water. People thought dogs peed on things to mark their territory, but that wasn’t what was really going on. The places dogs peed were the equivalent of community bulletin boards.

When Sarah Jane left her urine, she was leaving a message that said something like, “Hi! I’m a dachshund and Yorkshire terrier mix! I am female, I’m three years old, and I have had puppies, but I am not in heat.” All that and more. So who was he to keep Sarah Jane from reading the community board? Or for leaving her message for other dogs? As far as H.D. was concerned, Sarah could piss as many times as she wanted.

It must be remarkable to have such a sense of smell, H.D. thought. It was said a dog could smell emotions. Even cancer. He was sure it was how dogs seemed to instantly like or dislike a person. It made him ashamed. While Sarah Jane had liked the little girl in the OshKosh B'Gosh overalls, she’d begun to shiver and quake around her father. I should have known. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.

A lot of people, including the so-called dog whisperer, thought of dogs as wolves. They weren’t wolves. Dogs were what mankind had bred them to be for over a hundred thousand years. The perfect companion for man.

And yes, H.D. liked them a whole lot more than people.

Maybe I should adopt Sarah Jane.

He hadn’t had a dog since Ramses died. His passing had so broken H.D.’s heart, he hadn’t thought he could take in another dog for a while. But Sarah Jane? She was pretty special. Maybe that’s why nobody had adopted her yet. Maybe she was supposed to be with him. The corners of his mouth flicked upward.

It was a nice idea.

But….

Maybe he should wait a little longer, a few more days.

He never knew who might show up, and it might be just the right person. Who was H.D. to stand in the way of destiny?

CHAPTER FOUR

ITSHOULDhave come as no surprise to Bean to find out he and Mrs. McKenna weren’t the only guests at his parent’s house. Sloan, her son, was there as well. Big surprise.

“Dean?” said Bean’s mother cheerfully. “You remember Sloan? He was one year behind you in school.”

Yes, Mom, he thought to himself. Just like you said yesterday. What you didn’t say was that he was coming to dinner.

Bean smiled and took Sloan’s offered hand and gave it a shake. “Sure,” he said. “I remember.”

Sloan smiled a clearly uncomfortable smile.

So you didn’t know about this either.

“It’s nice to see you again,” Sloan said. “What’s it been? Like fifteen years?”

“Something like that,” Bean replied and let go of Sloan’s hand.

“You’ve changed,” Sloan said. “You were short and skinny as hell if I remember.”

Bean nodded. “That was me.”

Bean’s mom jumped in. “Little Dean didn’t really come into his own until he was… was it around your twenty-first birthday?”

“Just before,” Bean answered.

“Well you’re certainly not little now,” Sloan commented.

Jeez, is he flirting? Bean hoped not. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the guy. There wasn’t. In fact, he was nice-looking, with creamy white skin, dazzling green eyes, a broad chest, and thick red hair (along with a few dozen freckles). But Bean had never been partial to gingers. He had no idea why. Somehow, he just always thought redheads should be women, not men. Julianne Moore, Amy Adams, and Nicole Kidman were beauty and sensuality personified. David Caruso, Ron Howard, and Conan O’Brien? Not so much. Stupid, and he knew it, but there you were.

“I brought beer,” Bean said. “Want one?”

A look of relief washed over Sloan’s face. “You have no idea.”

“No,” Bean said with a laugh. “I think I do.” He held up a brown paper bag. “Follow me.”

They passed through the living room on their way, and there sitting on the couch was Mrs. McKenna. Bean was relieved to see she looked pretty darn good. Not jaundiced, no deep circles under her eyes, and she had all of her hair, which was thick and red and obviously where Sloan got his. Bean stepped over and gave her a hug and asked how she was doing.

“It’s a good day,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” He grinned.

Eyes twinkling, she said, “Indeed you are.” And then winked at her son.

Bean glanced Sloan’s way and saw that his face was bright red. Embarrassed. At leastI’m not the only one.

“We’re going out on the deck to have a beer,” Bean said, holding the paper bag up once more.

“Or thirty,” he heard Sloan mumble, and Bean bit his tongue to keep from laughing.

“Have fun you two,” Mrs. McKenna called after them.

“But remember, your father is out there,” Bean’s mother added.

For God’s sake, Mom. Please shut up. What do you think we’re gonna do?

Bean’s dad wasn’t on the deck. The closed-top grill was, though, with smoke flowing out the vents and a wonderful aroma filling the air.

“Sorry about that,” said Sloan. “I think our moms were—”

“Playing matchmaker?” Bean offered.

“I could die. I am so sorry.” Any color that had left Sloan’s face was returning with a vengeance. He was redder than his hair.

“Don’t apologize,” Bean said. “My mother was in on it.”

“I guess I should just count my blessings and be happy Mom’s finally okay with me being gay. It took me long enough.”

“Oh?” Bean asked and pulled two bottles of beer from his bag.

“I always knew, mind you. But I was in college before I really had sex with a guy. Before that it had only been teenage-boy stuff. No big deal. But after Cooper I knew. But I had had all this pressure to continue the family line and all that bullshit, me an only child and Dad long gone. So there I was, a junior in college, engaged to be married, when her brother seduced me.”

“Wow,” Bean replied and tried not to laugh. He opened a beer and handed it over.

“Yup. And that was the end of any impending marriage.”

Bean opened his own beer. “Because you knew you couldn’t go through with it?”

Sloan sighed and closed his eyes. “’Cuz she caught us in bed.”

Bean shook his head. “Fuck me.”

“That’s exactly what he was doing when she walked in on us.” Sloan flinched. “Did I say that out loud? Holy-shit-oh-my-God….”

Bean did laugh this time.

“Can we rewind? Erase the last minute or so?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bean said, taking pity on Sloan. “You were saying you feel like you should count your blessings that your mom is okay with you being gay.”

“Thank you, and yes,” Sloan replied.

“My mom marches in parades,” said Bean. “She doesn’t even seem to be all that concerned about grandchildren, which I have no intention of giving her. She’s only asked me once or twice since I was, like, sixteen.” Not that she’d have any time for them, he thought. No. Don’t go there. “Give me a dog anytime.”

Sloan sighed sadly. “You’re lucky. That’s all my mom wants. She says, ‘They did it in The New Normal. Get a surrogate!’” Sloan shook his head. “Even if I got a girl pregnant today, chances are Mom wouldn’t live long enough to see any kids.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bean. His heart went out to the man. He opened his mouth to reply, and realized he had no idea what to say. Bean’s mother wasn’t dying. He hurt even thinking about it.

Sloan shrugged. “Life isn’t always fair. At least I have her for a while.”

Bean nodded and gave Sloan what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He raised his beer. “To having your mom around for a while.”

Sloan’s eyes filled with emotion. “To every single minute,” he replied, and they clinked bottles.

They both jumped at a not-so-subtle clearing of a throat, and when they turned, they found Bean’s father stepping through the sliding glass doors that let out onto the deck.

“Whoa, Dad,” Bean said. His eyes widened in surprise. His father, who was fastidious about his appearance, had several days’ growth of a graying beard. “What’s with the scruff?” he asked.

“Hmmmm?” his father said absently. He reached up and touched his face and seemed almost surprised to find the beginnings of a beard. He looked at Bean. “Well, hell. I’m retired. I don’t have to shave every day anymore if I don’t want to. What’s your excuse?”

Bean touched his own face—his thick but trimmed beard—then shrugged. “Part of the look of a barista? It’s a thing.”

His father snorted. He turned to Sloan. “Well, look at you! You’ve grown!”

“Some time ago, Mr. Alexander.”

“Call me Big Dean,” Bean’s father said. “You’ll really make me feel old otherwise.”

Sloan shrugged. “Ah…. Okay.”

“Hell! You’re a man now, right?”

Bean shook his head. “For some time now, Dad. Like he said.”

“Sure, sure….”

Big Dean walked to the grill and opened it. Inside the chicken sizzled, and if the air had smelled good before, now it was positively mouthwatering. He took tongs and flipped the various pieces. “Just about done,” he said and began brushing the chicken with melted butter from a tiny cast-iron skillet in the corner of the grill.

It’s good none of us are fat, Bean thought. And hopefully our cholesterol levels are all good!

“Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything when I came out here,” said Big Dean and gave them both a knowing look.

Bean held back a sigh. “No, Dad. We were just having a beer. Want one?”

“What are you drinking?”

Bean showed his father his bottle, an unfiltered wheat from Boulevard, a local brewery and one of the largest in the Midwest. The man frowned. “Don’t you have any real beer? Got a Bud in that bag?”

Bean grimaced. “No, Dad. And that’s not ‘real’ beer.”

His father shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Says Mr. Fancy Coffee himself. You two go ahead and drink that stuff. I’ll get me something out of the refrigerator.” He nodded, turned around, and left them on the deck.