Page 3 of Wine & Dine

2

Wet dog – that’s not a euphemism

[Dolores]

Standing on the shore, I dig my toes in the sand. One week ago, I was preparing for Halloween in the cool mountains of Georgia. Today, I stand barefoot in jeans rolled to my ankles with a tank top and a warm breeze ruffling my hair. My arms cross, protecting myself, or maybe I’m holding myself together.

I did what Denton suggested. I left, took the Beast—his white 1967 Ford Shelby GT500 Super Snake with a blue strip—and drove across the country to California, only making a few stops along the way. A Walmart was sufficient for clothing because I was only worried about getting the essentials. A few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a sweater, and new shoes. Though, as my toes wiggle in the cool grains at my feet, I wonder if I’ll ever wear shoes again.

I also bought a cell phone charger with the false hope that Rusty would call me. The fantasy played out in my head where he’d miss me, wonder where I was, and then beg me to return to him. I snort aloud with the thought. One week absent and I haven’t heard from him. Not a text. Not a call. Nothing.

My arms draw tighter around myself.

My second stop was a hotel. Nothing fancy, but one where I felt safe. I’d never traveled alone before, and the process grew daunting as I crossed state lines. At more than one point, I was sick of myself and in desperate need of an audiobook or a new playlist. I hadn’t taken the pleasure to read in so long. Most nights, I fall asleep in front of the television or pass out after a few rounds of sex with Rusty.

I shiver at the thought.

My first night alone—truly alone—outside of Georgia, I slept. Twelve hours. I haven’t slept like that since I was a teenager, and even then, I didn’t sleep half a day away because I worked. My grandmother was still an active owner of her diner back then, named after her mother and my namesake, and I worked there to fill my time. She taught me to cook. She taught me to manage.

Every girl should have her own finances,Magnolia would tell me. Your place might be in a kitchen, but only if you own it. She’d wink. She knew my father’s philosophy. A woman’s place was in the home, specifically the kitchen and the bedroom.

I shiver again.

In the distance, I hear a faint call. I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived last night. I’m not good with the maps app on my phone and grew frustrated at the congestion of the Los Angeles area. Denton’s place is actually north of Santa Monica along the beach. His condo is on the second floor, where only one other resident occupies the other half of the floor.

“Garrett Fox lives next door. He’s harmless. Sort of. Just stay away from him. He’s hardly home anyway, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble. I’ll call him to let him know you’ll be staying at my place for a while.”Denton really came through and took care of everything. His car. His credit cards. His home.

We didn’t have a strong sibling relationship. In fact, I’d even consider it estranged. Even though I’d seen plenty of him in the tabloids and social media, we hadn’t seen each other in twenty-seven years. His rock star status included dating models and actresses, as well as bad boy behavior, but nothing as extreme as his drummer, Hank Paige. Our cousin Lawson, who now goes by Tommy, rounded out the trio of their band, Chrome Teardrops. His sister, Kit, was their meal ticket as the lead singer. A female phenomenon at the height of rock-chick bands, her diagnosis of breast cancer cut their headlining days short. Rumor has it, Denton quit although we hadn’t discussed his specific reasons.

“We were a shitstorm waiting to implode,” he told me after it happened. That was over ten years ago.

Then again, Denton seems resolved in his return, and he’s trying to make amends, I guess. It’s yet to be determined how well he can handle our small town, the diner, or living with our grandmother for the time being. I have missed my brother over the years, if for no other reason than he is one of the last two living members of my family.

Another bellowed call floats to me, drifting in the echo of the breeze around me. I hear the tender bark of a dog in the distance, but I don’t draw my eyes from the waves before me. The aggressive roll and crash of the salt water appears angry, despite the early hour and the lightening sky announcing a potentially glorious day of sunshine. My head tilts as I welcome the heat. I want to relax, but I haven’t gotten to that point. I don’t even think I know how to relax, but I’m telling myself I must learn.

Suddenly, I’m thrust to the ground, and the wind knocked out of me as something heavy and wet laps at my neck.

I can’t breathe, and my eyes squeeze tight to ward off the weight over me. The most pungent smell overwhelms me.

Wet dog.

Oh God, I hate dogs.

I whimper in fear, worried the thing will bite me. Willing my eyes to open, I peek at the creature on top of me. I try to roll to my side, but I can’t as the furry beast licks my face.

Gross, gross, gross.

My hands struggle to rise, wedging between the underbelly of the beast and brushing against soaked fur. I fight past my repulsion and cover my face, which does nothing to deter the dog.

“Wally!” The sharp snap of a male voice cracks near me, but the heavy panting of the animal and the sound of him salivating over me are my sole focus.

Sweet mother of all things holy, he’s going to eat me.

“Wally, get off.” At the sound of the masculine tenor growing louder, and the strict command, the dog gyrates.

Is he…oh my God, he’s getting off…on me!

The beast dry humps my hip as I’m able to roll only the slightest under him. My elbow comes up in a desperate but weak attempt to rid him of me.