Becoming Rain
Page 19
Accidental run-in sounded like the right next move, once enough time passed. What better way to do that than on the park trail he runs every day after work with his bulldog? Fellow dog lovers, unite.
So, Warner took a trip to an animal shelter and picked out Stanley.
“If this doesn’t work . . .” I toss the ball across the way. Stanley tears after it like it’s a steak, struggling for speed on those stubby legs that are too short for his body.
“Who knows what happened. Remember, we lost him for an entire night. Maybe he’s distracted by something.”
I remember, all right. While the surveillance team can’t be on him twenty-four hours a day, they haven’t had a hard time tracking him down whenever they check in. So, when they couldn’t find him, we were all on high alert. I held a silent vigil by my window, reporting in when he finally stumbled through the door just after seven a.m., his clothes rumpled and stained.
Very unlike him.
“Maybe.” Hopefully not too distracted to notice me out here in my second-skin yoga pants and a low-cut V-neck sweater. I huddle against the chill and glance down at my watch—he’s late; he should have been out for his run two hours ago—and then back up at the path to see the sleek body in light gray pants and a navy-blue shirt jogging toward me, his bulldog somehow managing to keep up.
A nervous burn ignites in my stomach. It’s the one I always get when I’m about to jump into character. This time it’s worse, though, because it’s coupled with the fear of another failure. “He’s coming. Gotta go.” I hang up and drop my phone into my pocket.
And wait, continuing my game with Stanley. He fetches well, at least. I hold back, timing my next throw with Luke’s proximity, and then toss the tennis ball along the path. As expected, Stanley goes after it like it’s his last meal.
He’s going to form an adequate obstacle for Luke, forcing him to turn toward me, see me . . . All’s going as planned . . .
And then for some reason, Stanley morphs.
Positioning all four paws squarely, he lets out a howl that only a seal caught in a trap would be capable of making. It works, bringing Luke’s feet, pounding against the asphalt, to a halt.
A little too obvious, but . . . good job, Stanley, I silently praise him. You’ll get a bone for—
Stanley charges toward Luke’s dog—easily three times the size of him—and lets out a frenzy of high-pitched barks before he lunges, his little mouth seizing the dog’s front leg and attacking it like it’s a rag doll.
Crap. I leap off the bench and run forward, intent on getting there before Luke’s dog decides to retaliate and maims the little mongrel. Luke’s doing his part, shoving against Stanley with his leg, attempting to break up the attack. That’s when Stanley releases his grip and latches onto Luke’s calf.
Luke hollers in pain.
“Bad Stanley!” I yell, grabbing hold of his stocky body. He relents surprisingly easily, allowing me to scoop him up into my arms. Whatever Jekyll-and-Hyde moment he had instantly vanishes, his little sandpaper tongue darting out to scratch my cheek.
As covertly as possible, I scan our surroundings. Even though I didn’t drop my safety word, the commotion that the wire picked up was obviously enough to get them running because Bill is casually leaning up against a lamppost some forty yards away, a smoke in hand.
No doubt his gun is hidden inside the folded magazine under his arm.
“Everything’s fine, Stanley,” I say slowly and clearly, for the surveillance team’s benefit. The last thing I need is them blowing the case by charging in here.
“Jesus! You need to keep that thing on a leash!” Luke snaps, checking his dog’s leg.
This can’t be good for our relationship. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. He’s never done that before.” Maybe this is why Stanley’s owners abandoned him.
Luke looks up. And frowns. “Hey . . . Rain, isn’t it?”
At least he remembers that much. I feign surprise to match his. “Yeah. And you’re . . . Luke, right?”
He sighs, and it’s like all the anger lifts from him in that one act. “Yeah.” I can’t help my eyes from wandering to his damp shirt. It’s clinging to every contour of his chest. Trying to attract a guy like this is an easier pill to swallow than, say, a forty-year-old pimp with plated teeth and extreme body odor. Even drenched in sweat, Luke Boone is easy on the eyes.
He smiles, and I find myself doing the same. Genuinely. “I’m sorry about my dog.”
“Yeah . . .” His hand pushes through his soaked hair, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. “So, you named your dog Stanley?”
“He’s adopted.” Like that explains everything. There’s a long pause, this one awkward. “We should probably get that bite looked at. Let me take you to the hospital. I’ll pay the bill.” I wonder if the FBI budget covers being sued by the target.
His easygoing demeanor slides back in with a chuckle. “It’s just a scratch. But it’s good to see how loyal Licks is.” Uncapping his water bottle, he gestures at the panting bulldog sitting next to him, which is sounding ready to keel over from exertion. Taking a long chug of his water bottle, he mutters, “Here you go, traitor,” and begins pouring the rest into his dog’s mouth. It happily laps it up. “So, you’re just hanging out at the park on a Friday night?”
“Stanley loves it here.” My gaze drifts past the spot where Bill was standing only a moment ago—now empty—and over the line of cherry trees in full bloom, fallen pink and white petals forming a romantic carpet over the surrounding grass. “It’s beautiful.”
So, Warner took a trip to an animal shelter and picked out Stanley.
“If this doesn’t work . . .” I toss the ball across the way. Stanley tears after it like it’s a steak, struggling for speed on those stubby legs that are too short for his body.
“Who knows what happened. Remember, we lost him for an entire night. Maybe he’s distracted by something.”
I remember, all right. While the surveillance team can’t be on him twenty-four hours a day, they haven’t had a hard time tracking him down whenever they check in. So, when they couldn’t find him, we were all on high alert. I held a silent vigil by my window, reporting in when he finally stumbled through the door just after seven a.m., his clothes rumpled and stained.
Very unlike him.
“Maybe.” Hopefully not too distracted to notice me out here in my second-skin yoga pants and a low-cut V-neck sweater. I huddle against the chill and glance down at my watch—he’s late; he should have been out for his run two hours ago—and then back up at the path to see the sleek body in light gray pants and a navy-blue shirt jogging toward me, his bulldog somehow managing to keep up.
A nervous burn ignites in my stomach. It’s the one I always get when I’m about to jump into character. This time it’s worse, though, because it’s coupled with the fear of another failure. “He’s coming. Gotta go.” I hang up and drop my phone into my pocket.
And wait, continuing my game with Stanley. He fetches well, at least. I hold back, timing my next throw with Luke’s proximity, and then toss the tennis ball along the path. As expected, Stanley goes after it like it’s his last meal.
He’s going to form an adequate obstacle for Luke, forcing him to turn toward me, see me . . . All’s going as planned . . .
And then for some reason, Stanley morphs.
Positioning all four paws squarely, he lets out a howl that only a seal caught in a trap would be capable of making. It works, bringing Luke’s feet, pounding against the asphalt, to a halt.
A little too obvious, but . . . good job, Stanley, I silently praise him. You’ll get a bone for—
Stanley charges toward Luke’s dog—easily three times the size of him—and lets out a frenzy of high-pitched barks before he lunges, his little mouth seizing the dog’s front leg and attacking it like it’s a rag doll.
Crap. I leap off the bench and run forward, intent on getting there before Luke’s dog decides to retaliate and maims the little mongrel. Luke’s doing his part, shoving against Stanley with his leg, attempting to break up the attack. That’s when Stanley releases his grip and latches onto Luke’s calf.
Luke hollers in pain.
“Bad Stanley!” I yell, grabbing hold of his stocky body. He relents surprisingly easily, allowing me to scoop him up into my arms. Whatever Jekyll-and-Hyde moment he had instantly vanishes, his little sandpaper tongue darting out to scratch my cheek.
As covertly as possible, I scan our surroundings. Even though I didn’t drop my safety word, the commotion that the wire picked up was obviously enough to get them running because Bill is casually leaning up against a lamppost some forty yards away, a smoke in hand.
No doubt his gun is hidden inside the folded magazine under his arm.
“Everything’s fine, Stanley,” I say slowly and clearly, for the surveillance team’s benefit. The last thing I need is them blowing the case by charging in here.
“Jesus! You need to keep that thing on a leash!” Luke snaps, checking his dog’s leg.
This can’t be good for our relationship. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. He’s never done that before.” Maybe this is why Stanley’s owners abandoned him.
Luke looks up. And frowns. “Hey . . . Rain, isn’t it?”
At least he remembers that much. I feign surprise to match his. “Yeah. And you’re . . . Luke, right?”
He sighs, and it’s like all the anger lifts from him in that one act. “Yeah.” I can’t help my eyes from wandering to his damp shirt. It’s clinging to every contour of his chest. Trying to attract a guy like this is an easier pill to swallow than, say, a forty-year-old pimp with plated teeth and extreme body odor. Even drenched in sweat, Luke Boone is easy on the eyes.
He smiles, and I find myself doing the same. Genuinely. “I’m sorry about my dog.”
“Yeah . . .” His hand pushes through his soaked hair, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. “So, you named your dog Stanley?”
“He’s adopted.” Like that explains everything. There’s a long pause, this one awkward. “We should probably get that bite looked at. Let me take you to the hospital. I’ll pay the bill.” I wonder if the FBI budget covers being sued by the target.
His easygoing demeanor slides back in with a chuckle. “It’s just a scratch. But it’s good to see how loyal Licks is.” Uncapping his water bottle, he gestures at the panting bulldog sitting next to him, which is sounding ready to keel over from exertion. Taking a long chug of his water bottle, he mutters, “Here you go, traitor,” and begins pouring the rest into his dog’s mouth. It happily laps it up. “So, you’re just hanging out at the park on a Friday night?”
“Stanley loves it here.” My gaze drifts past the spot where Bill was standing only a moment ago—now empty—and over the line of cherry trees in full bloom, fallen pink and white petals forming a romantic carpet over the surrounding grass. “It’s beautiful.”
