Just For Kicks. Susan Andersen
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the sound of kibble being poured and the can opener whipping lids from tins brought the babies out of their various hiding places. And the familiarity of having Buster and Rufus do their doggy dinner jig while Rags and Tripod rubbed up against every available surface as they waited for her to put their bowls on the floor soothed Carly’s ragged nerves.
She got them situated, then found a corked bottle of wine in the fridge and poured herself a glass. Her ankle was throbbing again, so she tossed back a couple of aspirin. Then, noticing the trail of water where her bag of ice had sprung a leak from its unscheduled bash against the door, she grabbed a Ziploc bag and transferred the dripping contents into it. Deciding that the water on the floor would dry just fine without her help—and that she had been pushed quite far enough for one night—she hobbled into the living room.
Where she stopped dead. “Oh, crap.”
Several of her throw pillows were torn apart. An explosion of feathers, foam and shredded silk festooned her furniture and covered the hardwood floor. She didn’t know how she’d missed it on her way to the kitchen but could only assume her fury over Jones’s behavior had temporarily blinded her. “Rufus!” she yelled furiously.
The dog slunk out of the kitchen and crept past her, his belly close to the floor, to huddle in the foyer. Looking over his shoulder at her with big brown eyes, he started to crouch in a way Carly was much too familiar with.
“No!” she snapped. “Dammit, Rufe, if you pee on top of this, you are a dead dog.”
But when the pup got nervous, he piddled, and a puddle began to form on the Italian tile between his hind legs.
Of course. It had been that kind of night.
She clenched her teeth against her chin’s sudden desire to wobble. She would not cry, dammit. She wouldn’t!
But neither would she clean up the mess right now. Collapsing onto an overstuffed chair, she propped her foot on the mismatched footstool and gingerly arranged the ice over her swollen ankle. Then she knocked back her glass of wine in one long gulp.
Rags jumped up into her lap and circled twice before sprawling over her thighs in a warm bundle of long black fur. His purr kicked in with the first stroke of her hand down his back. Tripod leaped onto the arm of the chair and walked along it with surprising grace for a cat with only three legs. Sitting down close to her, he batted at a strand of beaded fringe on her costume, then ignored her in favor of licking himself clean.
His actions reminded her she was still wearing her costume. Swell. In addition to everything else, now she’d probably have the wardrobe mistress on her case. Hopefully the news of her injury would keep her off the woman’s shit list. Otherwise she’d have to make a special trip back to the casino tomorrow just to return the garment and wig—and never mind that it was her day off. Not to mention that she’d have to bum a ride or call a cab just to get there, since her freaking car was still in the casino garage.
Buster came and laid his brindled head on her knee. She raised the hand she’d been stroking Rags with to scratch between the tufts of fur that stuck up atop the dog’s head. Rufus remained in the entryway, but no longer did he look contrite. Instead, he was now seated in front of the door, staring at it expectantly. She realized with a sudden shock what was likely keeping him there.
“You little bugger! Are you looking for that cretin to come back?”
The dog’s ears suddenly perked up and he began to wriggle on the tiles. A sound Carly knew too well rumbled threateningly in his throat.
“Please, Rufus, no more,” she begged. “No more tonight, okay? Trust me on this, the last thing you want to do is to bring yourself to Jones’s attention again.”
But it was no use. The young dog danced in place as sharp, staccato yaps erupted from his throat like an automatic weapon laying down a line of fire.
The pain in Carly’s head and ankle pounded in rhythm with Rufus’s hysteria. “No speak,” she whispered, giving the command they’d learned in obedience school.
Which, of course, Rufus had failed.
“Dammit, Rufe, you’re going to get us all in trouble.” Infuriated that she was actually intimidated by the thought, she raised her voice. “No speak!”
The pup kept right on barking.
Of course Mr. Hotshot Know It All Jones had made him shut up with a single word. “Zits!” she snapped furiously, then felt like an idiot. Yeah, like that’s gonna work for you, Jacobsen. It was probably the deep voice that made it work in the first place.
But to her amazement the barking stopped and Rufus raced over to stare up at her eagerly.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, and a choked laugh escaped her. “Oh, my God! You respond to that, huh? I knew Jones spoke German! I mean, that’s gotta be German, right? He can’t have meant zits as in acne—that just wouldn’t make sense.” She gave her head an impatient shake. “Oh, who cares, who cares?” With her fingers splayed across Rags’s back to keep him from tumbling to the floor, she leaned forward and scrubbed her knuckles atop Rufus’s head. “Good dog! Good, good dog!”
Buster, whose chin had been bumped from her thigh, bumped Rufus in return and insinuated his head beneath her hand when the younger dog stumbled aside.
“Yes, you, too,” she agreed, amused at his way of getting his own despite Rufus’s more flamboyant attention-grabbing behavior. She scratched the older mutt between his ears. “All Carly’s chillen are good, good boys.”
She gently displaced the animals and struggled to her feet, feeling slightly rejuvenated. She could at least wipe up the piddle and pick up the worst of the pillow innards. She’d clean up the rest tomorrow.
Then a sudden thought struck her, and looking at her assemblage of pets, she laughed out loud. “Whataya know, kids? It looks like we have a breakthrough, and it’s all thanks to the bastard next door. Maybe the guy isn’t completely useless, after all.”
THE PHONE WAS RINGING as Wolf let himself into his apartment. Restless, he ignored it to pace from room to room, stripping off his clothing and discarding it with none of his usual care. He shed his jacket and dropped it over the back of one of the stools at the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room. He wrestled down the knot on his tie before yanking the neckpiece off through his collar and lobbing it toward the nightstand in his bedroom. When it got hung up on the reading lamp, he disregarded the possible snags to its expensive silk and strode back into the living room, pawing open the buttons on his shirt as he went. Disgruntlement rode him like a bareback rider on a trick pony. Christ, what was his problem? He didn’t get it.
All right, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what the problem was. Or more accurately, who.
Carly Jacobsen.
“Dammit!” Undecided whether his outburst was intended for the menace next door or the frigging phone, which continued to ring despite the lateness of the hour or the fact that six rings ought to indicate that he had no desire to answer it, he stalked over to the breakfast bar and snatched the receiver off the hook. “What?!”
“Wolfgang? Is that you?”
“Mom?” She was the last person he’d expected to hear at the other end of the line. His mother wasn’t a stay-up-past-midnight kind of woman—and it was even later in La Paz, Bolivia, where she and the old man were currently stationed.
The wireless receiver tucked into his shoulder, he only listened with half an ear as his mother launched into the courteous preamble with which she began all telephone conversations. Pulling his shirttails from his waistband, he shrugged out of the garment and tossed it toward the leather couch. It fluttered to the hardwood floor before it even got halfway there, but he ignored the slowly settling billow of dark cotton to scowl at the wall that connected his condo to his neighbor’s.
God, she irritated him. With her complete lack of organizational skills and her promptly stated opinions, her