Page 18 of Doggy Style

Preston

Iarrive at the shop at seven on the morning of our flight. I couldn’t sleep at all last night, imagining what it would be like to fuck Yessi, taste her sweet pussy, hear her scream my name, watch her come all over my cock.

How long has it been since I’d felt this kind of anticipation, this hunger, this desire?

But this woman doesn’t even like me.

Despite all my Instagram followers, I sometimes wonder if the majority of people even see the real me. I joined the Marine Corps because I wanted to help people and serve my country. But lately, it seems like the only person I’ve been looking out for is myself.

I trail behind Gidget as she trots into the store. I’m shocked at what a good dog she’s been in the two days that I’ve had her. She’s fully house-trained and hasn’t destroyed any of my furniture. She also loves to cuddle and watch movies with me, and even brings me her food bowl when it’s time to eat.

It breaks my heart that she would’ve been killed if I hadn’t fostered her.

Hugh shows up, disheveled and hungover. He murmurs something unintelligible when he sees me.

I slap his back. “Dude, pull it together. We open soon, and because I’ll be out of town for the pet expo, I need you to handle everything. Can you help me get these kennels ready for the dogs Yessi’s bringing in?”

His bloodshot eyes bulge. “Dogs? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We already talked about this, remember? She runs a dog rescue, saving dogs from high-kill shelters. I told her she could keep the dogs here while we’re in Hawai’i, and we can feature her rescue dogs on opening day. Should be good for publicity.”

Hugh abruptly gets in my face; a whiff of stale whiskey envelops me. “Fuck no, Evans. I don’t care if you got pussy on your brain. The whole point of Doggy Style is that we’re billing ourselves as a high-end pet store. Purebreds and designer dogs only. We don’t want some mangy mutts soiling our brand!”

I stare him down. “Non-negotiable. I already told her yes. Besides, stop being such a dick. These dogs were going to die. We can still sell the puppies we have. I thought this entire concept was about giving our customers choices?”

He shakes his head. “Fine. But don’t get any crazy ideas. This is a puppy store, not some charity. We’re here to make a profit.”

I give him a scowl but hold my tongue. I’m not going to engage him, especially since I’m headed out of town today. This business is Hugh’s life—he doesn’t have a girlfriend, lives above our new store, and he left his old job to run Doggy Style full time. I owe him my gratitude—even if he can be an immature jerk at times.

“Are you still pet-sitting for me?”

Hugh squints his eyes. “Pet-sit? You mean house-sit?”

“No, I mean pet-sit. I’m fostering this dog right here for Yessi.” Jingling her leash, I add, “Her name is Gidget. She’s really sweet and totally house-trained. You won’t even know she’s there.”

Hugh shakes his head. “Nope, not going to happen. I just wanted to spend some time at your place chilling in front of that sweet ocean view and blasting your home theater system. I’m not going to take care of some reject dog. You owe me for making me work here while you run off to Hawai’i with your chick of the week.”

My jaw clenches. I should hand him his ass, but I can’t start a fight with him today. He’s usually not this much of a dick. Maybe he’s just stressed about the opening of the shop.

“Fine. Then you can’t stay at my place. I’ll just keep her here.”

“Whatever, man.”

I place Gidget in one of the cages out front, then head to the back room and prepare to sanitize the kennels. After I’ve gathered a brush and a bucket, I pull on some gloves and get down on my hands and knees to scrub the floors. The caustic bleach fumes make my eyes water.

Hugh follows me into the room. “What the fuck are you doing, dude? We have janitors for that shit.”

I glare at him. That’s true and all, but they won’t be in until later. I want the dogs to have clean kennels while they’re here. “Yeah, well, the dogs are coming in now, and this place is a pigsty. Get your lazy ass over here and help me out.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, man. If you want to clean when we’re already paying people to do it for us, that’s on you. You’re better than that.”

“No, I’m not.”

Fuck him. My dad taught me that I’m no better than anyone else. Success comes from hard work. I’m not afraid to get dirty and do some manual labor. Every breath I take is a blessing. Every day of my life, I’m thankful that I’m alive, and that I exited the battlefield in one piece and didn’t leave the Middle East in a flag-draped coffin like some of my buddies did.

Like Rafael did.

Hugh storms off like a petulant child. Sometimes, I want to strangle him. But I had begged him to work with me . . . a decision I’m starting to question.