Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (11 page)

No way to know.

I think of Astrid a lot, actually, of her sense of purpose, and her thinly disguised disapproval of my privileged life of idle luxury and ridiculous excess. I didn’t
do
anything, and that was anathema to someone like her. She used me for a good time, and she wouldn’t have spared me another thought under any other circumstances. Surprisingly, it hurts more than I’d expect it to, knowing Astrid wouldn’t have bothered with me, except to get the O out of me. I was a night of feeling good for her and nothing more.
 

Funny how that feels, now that the tables are turned.

I thought we had a decent connection, had some good conversation throughout the evening. I may not have gone to college, but I am well read. Out on the high seas, there’s not much to do except read, so I read a lot, and I’ve always had varied interests. I’ve read biographies, histories, books on psychology and philosophy and anthropology, as well as fiction of all genres. It was a haphazard self-education, but it means I can converse on a wide range of topics with just about anyone.
 

But Astrid? She was highly educated, highly sophisticated. We only had a few hours together, but our conversation is still stuck in my head.
She
is stuck in my head. What she said, in that note she left. I mean, she didn’t even bother to say goodbye, or have breakfast, or some wake-up nookie. Nothing. Just a note left in the wee hours of the morning.
 

That’s all I was worth to her. Why?
 

Because to her, your calling, or whatever it was that you did, defined who you were. But me? I didn’t really do anything but party and do dangerous and irresponsible shit, so I wasn’t really anyone in her eyes.

Fuck of it all is, she was right.

And these are the things I think about on the long drive southeast to Oklahoma.
 

*
 
*
 
*

The first hint of change for Lachlan Montgomery comes in the form of a near miss on the highway.
 

I’m tired, still driving after a good thirteen hours non-stop. Hungry, seeing double. Past midnight, windows down, blasting heavy metal on the XM radio to try to stay awake.
 

It’s a two-lane highway through a whole lot of wild nowhere, miles of emptiness on every side, miles of farm fields, nothing to see but hints of corn or wheat or soy or whatever reflected in the headlights through the pitch dark. Occasionally, I’d cross another smaller highway or dirt road, or see a farmhouse in the distance with the light over the barn shining white-yellow.
 

I blink, and the road is empty.

Blink again, and there’s a huge brown shape in the middle of the road, eyes illuminated by my headlights. I shout a curse and jam on the brake pedal, fishtail, swerve, and narrowly miss whatever it is in the road. A small deer, or a large dog. Coyote, maybe? I don’t know. It all happened in an instant.

I’m sideways in the middle of the road, my headlights blazing, a pool of light spearing across the road.
 

Something large and dark cowers in the shadows just outside the smear of light from my headlights. I get out of the truck and approach cautiously.
 

There’s a growl, low and vicious.

I back up, crouch, ready to run for my open truck door.

But then the shape slinks forward, into the light…

It’s a dog, all right. An Irish wolfhound, unless I miss my guess. Huge, and I mean absolutely massive. Shaggy gray-brown fur that looks matted and dirty. It’s thin, though. A stray?

I kneel down, click my tongue. “Come here, boy. It’s all right.”

Is it a boy, though? I can’t tell, yet. The dog crouches down, head between its paws, tail tucked, slinking fearfully toward me, whimpering.

I pat my thigh, try to sound soothing. “Come on, now. I won’t hurt you. Come on. That’s good.”
 

It takes a lot of cajoling to get the gargantuan yet timid beast to finally reach me, and then it immediately rolls over, paws in the air, tail wiggling crazily; it’s a female.

“Hey, girl.” I pat her belly, gently, and then her chin, her ears.
 

She rolls over, sits on her haunches, and god, she’s
huge
; sitting on her haunches she’s taller than I am kneeling on my knees. She’d be taller than me, standing on her hind legs. Standing on all fours, her shoulders will easily reach my hips, if not higher. I search her neck for a collar, and that’s when my heart clenches. No collar, just an old length of rope with a torn, frayed end where it looks as though she broke free; the rope is so tight around her throat it’s a wonder she can even breathe. Jesus.

I have a multi-tool in my pocket so I take it out, and carefully unfold the blade, murmuring to the dog in low, comforting tones as I slide the blade between her skin and the rope, sawing gently until the rope pops apart. I have to sort of peel it off of her, which gets me a whimper and a growl, but then the rope is off, and she shakes herself vigorously, gives me a doggy grin and a yip.

“Well, girl. Now what?” I look around, but obviously there’s nothing and no one anywhere. “Want to come with me? I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

She cocks her head as if she’s listening, and then trots over to the truck, sits again. Smart pup, huh? I’ve got an old wool blanket in the backseat, which I unfold onto the rear bench for her, then pat the blanket. She hops in easily, lies down on the blanket, chin on paws. Her tail thumps slowly as she watches me climb up into the driver’s seat.

I glance back at her. “Guess we’re friends now, huh, girl? What should I call you?”

A soft little whine, wide brown eyes staring at me.
 

I glance at the GPS; I’m in Utah, so… “Hey girl, whassup?” I laugh at my own stupid joke—quoting a country song to a dog, and I don’t even really like country music all that much. I’m slap-happy, is what I am. “How ’bout I call you Utah?”

This gets me a full-on bark, ears perking, head tipping to one side.
 

“Utah?”
 

Another yip.

Either this dog understands me, or I’m crazy.
 

Probably both are true.

“All right then, Utah it is. Howdy, Utah. My name is Lock. Ready to go?”
 

She lays her head down on her front paws again, and her eyes flutter and close. Guess she’s ready, huh?

I drive until I find one of those tiny highway towns, the kind of place that has a couple of fast food restaurants, a Quality Inn or something like that, a ratty supermarket, two or three gas stations, and a strip mall.
 

It’s very late, but I manage to find a motel and pay cash for a first-floor room. I park in front of my room’s door, crack a truck window for Utah, go inside and fill the ice bucket with some water and let her drink some. Once she’s settled I go inside and catch a couple hours of sleep. In the morning, I head to the nearest store to buy some supplies for my new buddy.
 

I question, as I peruse the pet supplies section, what I am doing? Why am I taking on the responsibility of a dog? It’s stupid. A dog is the last thing I need.
 

But, somehow, it feels like Utah is
exactly
what I need.
 

I buy a leash, collar, a bag of large breed dog food, a couple of bowls for food and water, a couple gallons of water, a couple toys, a ball, doggie snacks, and a brush. I take Utah back to the motel and sneak her inside. Technically, the place doesn’t allow pets, but I’m guessing they probably don’t allow hookers either, and there’s one turning tricks a couple doors down, so I figure I’m fine. I lead Utah into the bathroom and into the tub with the promise of a treat.
 

Fortunately, the shower has one of those removable head things, so I can give her a decent bath. I expect trouble, shaking, running, a freak-out of some kind. But sweet old Utah? She just stands there, massive and wet, a doggy grin on her face as I massage glob after glob of the complimentary shampoo into her thick, matted, shaggy fur. It takes the entire bottle to get her clean. Even when I’ve got the worst of the dirt and twigs and leaves washed away there are still several mats in her coat, so I dry her off—using all the towels in the bathroom—and then I use the brush on her. After a good twenty minutes of brushing, and judicious use of the scissors on my multi-tool, I manage to get most of the mats out of her fur.
 

Okay, so I’m not gonna be a professional dog groomer, but she’s clean and mat-free. It’s a step in the right direction, and she looks a hundred percent less like a stray.

She eats two full bowls of food and slurps more water, and then indicates she’s done by going over to the front door and sitting down, swiveling her head to look at me. I swear she’s got a look on her face that says, “You coming or what?”

“All right, all right,” I say, gathering up my stuff, “I’m coming. You’re ready to get out of here, huh?”

She gives that yip again, her tail thumping the floor.
 

I let her out, and she hauls across the parking lot to the scrub vegetation taking over the vacant lot next door. She trots around, sniffing erratically while I pack up the gear under the tonneau cover. Eventually she does her business—both kinds—and trots back on her own to sit by the rear passenger door.

I stare at her, amazed. “You are, like, the smartest dog there is, aint’cha?”
 

YIP
!

I laugh, and open the door for her. As this is happening, though, the day clerk is watching as he checks the room next to mine. “Was she in the room with you?”
 

I see no point in lying—especially since I could probably buy this place with a couple of phone calls. “I gave her a bath.”

“There’s a strict no-pets policy, sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you a room-cleaning fine.”

Two doors down, a door opens. An older guy with a belly stretching the confines of a stained wife-beater and greasy, baggy khakis leaves the motel room, digging in his hip pocket. He peels a few bills off a roll, and extends it. A woman of indeterminate age—probably middle to late thirties, if I was forced to guess—accepts the cash. She doesn’t stuff it into a pocket or a bra, because she doesn’t have either. She’s got a thin silk robe on, hanging from her shoulders, loosely tied, which means it’s sagging open and thus covering precisely zero percent of her naughty bits.

I look at her, she looks at me, and the day clerk looks from her to me and back again.

I smirk at him. “I assume there’s a strict no-hookers policy, too?”

The woman just glares. “Fuck you.”
 

“
You’d
have to pay
me
, sweetheart,” I say.

She turns a little, facing us both, and lets the robe fall open even more, lifting a knee in a pose meant to be provocative, probably. “There’s a policy, all right.” A wink. “But Ricky likes to live on the wild side, don’t you Ricky?”
 

I laugh. “Ah, I see.” I punch good old Ricky in the arm, not exactly gently. “She gives it to you for free, and you turn a blind eye to the tricks.”

“She pays rent,” Ricky mumbles, rubbing his arm.

“I bet she does.” I jerk open the door of my truck. “You won’t be charging me cleaning fees or anything else.”

Ricky turns away, but I can tell his attention is on the hooker. Anticipating the turn-a-blind-eye BJ he’s probably about to get. “No…nothing extra.”
 

“Didn’t think so.”
 

I drive away, but in the rearview mirror I can see the hooker dragging the clerk into her room while undoing his belt. Not a bad gig, if you don’t mind stinky hooker-poon.

Not my thing, personally. I like it fresh and wild, not…
that
. Whatever the hell that is.

I don’t have any nice words to describe it, and in the name of turning over a new leaf, I’ll keep the unkind ones to myself.
 

Just…yuck. I’ll leave it at that.

 
*
 
*
 
*

I’ve never owned a dog before, and I have to admit that having a dog is fun.
 

She sleeps for a while as I drive, and then hops into the front seat beside me. I lower the window for her and she sticks her head out, enjoying the wind in her face. I like watching her have fun, shaking her head, drool spattering the side of the truck and the back window.
 

When I feel like stopping, I pull over onto the shoulder. There’s nothing but brown in every direction, so I let Utah hop down and I toss the ball for her, hurling it as far as I can. She hauls after it, finds it, and brings it to me, dropping the slobbery tennis ball at my feet, barking for me to throw it again. So I do, and thus I spend a good half an hour, throwing a damp, gritty tennis ball for a big wolfhound, and having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. Feeling good. Feeling…okay.
 

She accepts me without question. Doesn’t need to know anything about me, doesn’t care about anything except that I’ve taken care of her, fed her, cleaned her, and I give her attention.
 

Back on the road, she somehow curls her absurdly mammoth body onto the front bucket seat, her head on the console between us, and I get to rest my hand on her head and scratch her ears while I drive.
 

Windows down, music up, sun in my face, a dog beside me.
 

I’ll take this.

*
 
*
 
*

GPS says I should make it from Humboldt County, California to Ardmore, Oklahoma in around thirty-two, thirty-three hours. But I’m in no hurry, so I make it in just shy of three days.
 

Ardmore, Oklahoma is flat, dry, and hot. The downtown area, though, is cute and quaint, a throwback to when this area was the real-deal Wild West. You can see it in the layout, the way the downtown streets are narrow with the buildings fronting right up to the street and cars parked in an angled row. Most of the buildings still have the original brick façade, actually, and they’re all connected, one to the other.