You Dropped a Blonde on Me (7 page)

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Authors: Dakota Cassidy

Tags: #Romance, #Fiction

BOOK: You Dropped a Blonde on Me
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“So who says you’re old, Max?”
Everyone who owns a Ferrari and has a personal trainer.
The close quarters, the scent of Campbell’s clean shirt, and his hard good looks flushed her with sudden irritation. “No one has to say it. Where I’ve been you don’t say it. You just know it.
I
know it. And stop calling me Max. It’s
Maxine
.” Neener, neener, neener. Like high-handedly reminding him her name wasn’t shortened anymore was going to help her retain some of her wayward pride.
“Were all the people blind where you’ve been?”
No. They were young, tight of skin, free of cellulite, with 20/20 vision. “Where I’ve been doesn’t matter. I’m here now.” Here. Here. Here. In her mother’s throwback-to-the-seventies bathroom with the brown swirly wallpaper and yellow vanity top.
“Yep. You sure are. And I’m here, too. I wouldn’t call you unlucky today,
Max
.”
Her knees went watery and soft when he said her name, and she couldn’t think. “I have to change.”
“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”
“Alone.”
“Damn. Maybe you’re not as much fun as Christmas after all.”
Slipping from his light but mind-bending grasp, Maxine snorted. “I’m nowhere near as fun as Christmas. I’m not even bordering the excitement of Groundhog Day. And now I have to go walk a dog. Really, Campbell, it was nice seeing you again. In my underwear.”
He laughed, backing away. “It won’t be the last time I see you.”
“In my underwear?”
“Not that a guy can’t hope, but I meant around. You know, the village. Because I work here now.”
No. It
would
be the last time he saw her if she had anything to say about it. The fluttery belly dances and weak knees were something she was never going to fall for again. They led to clenches of your intestines and irritable bowel syndrome. Add in the not-so-sweet fist up your ass, and she was so out.
Gliding past him, Maxine ignored the tingle the contact of their arms brought, hers smooth, his rough with dark hair.
Dog shit. That’s where her focus had to be. Scooping Jake’s shit. And money. Not Campbell Barker. “Yeah. Around. I’ll see you.” Maxine hurried down the hall to head to her mother’s room to change, closing the door and turning the lock.
Sitting on the edge of her mother’s green and burgundy floral bedspread, she gripped her knees to stop them from shaking before she changed.
Campbell Barker had scared the bejesus out of her. He looked at her in a way that was as distinctly unfamiliar to her as Hanes underwear. Like he’d consume her and spit out little pieces of Maxine when he was done, then pick his teeth with the fingernails from her very own hand. Finley had never looked at her like that—especially not in the last ten years or so.
And she’d been in her underwear.
The last pair of frilly, girlie panties she owned.
But brighter horizons were on the way. She had a job. A job scooping shit, but it was a job.
Throwing on her gray sweats, she piled her hair, unseen by her stylist Gerard in nine long months, up into a ponytail with a scrunchie, not bothering to look in the mirror before she left. There’d been a time if she’d gone out looking like this, half of the Jersey shore would’ve had apoplexy. There was a time she wouldn’t have dreamed of going to the mailbox without at least some makeup. Nowadays, there wasn’t much point to it.
She didn’t have a mailbox.
It dawned on her how utterly out of this realm her life had become. The day had come to pass when Maxine Cambridge couldn’t even summon the energy to care about what she looked like. Surely the Rapture was upon them.
But what was the point?
She’d never look in a mirror and see whatever it was Campbell Barker thought he saw, and what she used to see had become so distorted she didn’t want to chance even a mere glimpse at it.
 
“Mr. Hodge?”
“Yup.”
“I’m Maxine Cambridge.” She stuck out her hand, smiling at him through the small opening he’d made in his rather ratty screen door.
“So you’re Mona Henderson’s little girl.” Joe Hodge said it, rather than asked it, and he stated it with the hint of a knowing, yet wistful, smile.
“Yes, sir. That’s me.” All forty-one years, body parts heading for her southern locales.
His chuckle was deep and raspy, his bushy eyebrow rose in a sort of begrudging admiration. “That Mona, I like ’er. She’s a firecracker.”
Yeah. Mona was a real bad mamma jamma. If her mother was nothing else, she was definitely an exploding fire hazard, and apparently, she got around the village. “No doubt that’s my mother.”
He cocked his head, thick with sprouts of bushy gray and white hair, and squinted. “You know, you look a little bit like that girl who used to do commercials for that snazzy car dealership. Damn. Can’t remember the name—”
Jesus. Was there no one who didn’t remember those fucking commercials? Did everyone watch the Goddamned TV? It was like a knife in the gut every time someone pointed out her once local claim to fame.
“Cambridge Automobiles,” Maxine supplied with an almost smile. Take that, Finley Cambridge. When Fin had suggested that maybe she was tired of doing the dealership’s commercials and it was time to give her a break, Maxine had let herself believe he was nurturing her. She’d also wanted to believe it was because he was being generous of spirit and had finally realized she was tired of being the face of Cambridge Auto. She’d wanted to believe. End of.
Of course, now Maxine realized there was only so much soft lighting and Spanx to go around before you couldn’t hold it, suck it, or girdle it in anymore. Fin hadn’t been trying to spare her feelings at all. He’d been keeping the home fires burning until he found the next sacrificial, twentysomething, goo-goo-eyed over him blonde.
Joe nodded with an eager grunt and a shake of his finger. “Yeah, that’s it. But lookin’ at you up close, I see you’re too old.”
Smack. Down. Ouch. “Actually, you’re right, Mr. Hodge. I was that girl for fifteen years. Then I was put out to pasture because old cows make for some chewy, tough eye candy.”
“But they make right fine purses, if you’d asked my dearly departed Millie.” He rocked back on his heels with a cluck of his tongue.
Maxine’s chuckle was soft. Her eyes weary with gratitude. “Nice save.”
“I was married for forty-two years. I could save the government, if they’d let me.”
A “woof” in the octave of big and baritone came from somewhere in the back of the dark interior of Mr. Hodge’s ranch. “So anyways, nice to meet ya. C’mon in.” He took her hand in his and gave it a brisk up-and-down motion before curling his stubby fingers around the inside of his suspenders.
As she stepped into his screened-in porch, the distinct odor of mothballs and spaghetti sauce wafted to her nostrils.
As did the odor of big dog. Really big dog.
The dog bounded from the back of the house with the thump of immense paws and snorting gulps for air. He stopped when he reached Joe, standing almost to the top of his thigh. “And this is my Jake.”
Maxine bent at the waist to reach out and give a scratch to his long, floppy ear. Jake pulled back, showing her his teeth with a low growl. Snatching her hand back, Maxine looked to the elderly man with a question. “He’s not good with strangers?”
“He’s grumpy sometimes. But I figure, if he’s gotta take a shit, he won’t care who’s holding the other end of the leash.” He held up Jake’s black leash, palming it to her.
“Uh, does he bite?”
“Not hard.”
Money. Think money, Maxine. And the fact that you’re an animal lover. You need to make this work. Besides, it’s not like you don’t have bandages and Neosporin, candy-ass.
Taking the leash, she clutched it, lost for what to say next. Details for this gig hadn’t been high on her priority list when she’d fled her mother’s and Campbell.
“So I suppose you want to talk money?”
Oh, Jesus Christ and all twelve apostles. Yes! Yes. She wanted to talk money. “I think we better before I take Jake.”
“So whaddya charge?”
Duh. Money
. “Uh, well . . . Jake’s pretty big . . .”
“And he shits big, too.” Joe shrugged his burly shoulders, his craggy face sheepish. “I’m just bein’ honest.”
“How often do you want him walked?”
“Twice a day. You charge by the walk or the time it takes?”
Math. She sucked at it. “Um . . .”
“Suggestion?”
“Shoot.”
“I say you charge a flat fee. This way, you’re not obligated to spend any more time with the little bastards than it takes for them to shit, and you don’t have to keep track of minutes. And like I said, Jake—”
“Shits big,” Maxine finished, grinning at him. “Okay, so what do you think is fair? I mean, seeing as Jake’s not likely going to want to take me out for kibble and candlelight right now, maybe this should be a trial run?”
Joe gave Jake an affectionate slap on his backside. “Nah. He’ll warm up to ya. I’m on a fixed income, but I figure some money’s better than no money in your case. I’ll give you forty bucks a week to walk him twice a day. Oh, and clean up his—”
“Shit.”
Joe grinned, his dentures ultra white in the fading sun. “Yeah. You provide the baggies.”
“Baggies?”
“Yep, big ones, too. We got an ordinance around here. No dog crap just left layin’ around. Gotta clean it up. You got one of them shit scoopers?”
No. But wouldn’t that be helpful in light of the fact that she’d had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her lately. Maybe then she could shovel her way out. “No. I wasn’t thinking that far in advance.”
Joe reached over her shoulder and yanked a pooper-scooper from behind her. “You’d best invest in one then. You can use mine for now. So we got a deal?”
Maxine smiled at Joe, then down at Jake.
Who growled.
Perfect. But Maxine ignored that in light of the fact that forty bucks was riding on the line here. That was milk money, baby. Maybe a box of granola bars, too. The chocolate-covered ones. “Yes. It’s a deal. What time should I be here every day?”
“Nine and six. Jake here only shits twice a day.”
Alrighty. “Okay, then. We’re off.” Kneeling beside Jake, she hooked her finger under his collar, but he growled again, low and rumbly. “Help a girl out, would ya?” she whispered close to Jake’s ear. “I’m not going to let you eff up my first job, buddy. I need cash.” With a quick snap, Maxine latched the leash to his chain-link collar and rose.
Jake didn’t.
She gave him a hard tug. He dug his large paws into the porch floor and pulled back with a snarling grunt.
Maxine looked to Joe.
Joe winced. “C’mon now, Jake. Be nice to the lady.” He fished around in a brown paper bag he pulled out of his pants pocket, digging out a green bone before handing the sack to her. “Treats,” he said as way of explanation. “To get his carcass in gear. Now do yourself a favor. Hold on,” he said, just before throwing open the screen door and lobbing the bone out onto the grass.
Upon reflection, Maxine realized her right arm might always be just an inch shy of her left forever because Jake had launched himself out the door after that bone like the bichon frise of his pound-dog dreams was in heat and waiting just for him.
And she could live with that. Forty bucks
was
involved.
Huffing in ragged gulps of humid air from the back of Jake’s hindquarters, Maxine also noted there was no walking involved here. It was all about Jake darting willy-nilly in and out of the thorny bushes lining the sidewalk, stopping for a mere nanosecond to mark his territory, only to take off again with loping strides she couldn’t keep up with.
And still he had no interest in evacuating his bowels. “Jake! Stop yanking me around and do your thing already.” Was there a command for taking a shit she needed to use? Her hands and wrists were raw from being dragged, and her Pilates core was clearly out of order. “C’mon, dude. There’s a cookie in it for youuuu,” she cajoled. Yet Jake wasn’t having it. He continued to tear ass down the slight slope of the winding hill, dragging her along the sidewalk as they went.

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