Page 556 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Yes, thank you,” I said as I slid out of the car. “I won’t be too long, then I need to head to the office.”

New York was just starting to wake up after a long winter, but you wouldn’t know it from the state of Tyler’s Washington Heights neighborhood. The area was rundown, bleak and gray in every season, and depressing as hell. I’d offered to put him up in a rental closer to me, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.

I jogged up the narrow stairs to his place above a fast-food restaurant, ignoring the pervasive hot grease smell and hoping it didn’t permeate my clothing. How did he live here? I rapped on his door, only to discover it was open.

“Tyler?” I peeked in, just in case he had company. My friend still managed to score his share of beautiful women, both groupies who remembered him from his glory days as well as new fans who couldn’t resist his smoldering charm.

“Yeah?”

I followed the sound of the groan through the dim, messy apartment and discovered him face down on the couch, surrounded by beer bottles and an empty pizza box. I sat down in a chair across from him.

“Dude. What are you doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Sleeping,” he slurred, not even bothering to open his eyes. “It’s like six in the morning, I should be asking you what you’re doing. I already told you I can’t walk Boris today.”

“Ty, it’s nine forty-five. You’re not supposed to walk Boris until two. I came to find out why.”

He finally sat up, squinting at me. It was then I saw the cuts on the side of his face and a light blue bruise on his cheek that was probably going to turn purple by the end of the day.

“Why are you such a pain in the ass?” Tyler yawned and fell back against the couch. “You annoy me, dude.”

“Thanks.”

I knew better than to take his insults to heart. He’d always been a bear when he was hungover. Which was another conversation we needed to have.

“How’d you get that shiner?”

He scowled at me, then touched his cheek and winced. He answered with a shrug.

“Not cool, bro,” I said. “If you got so drunk you can’t remember how and why you got a punch to the face, then we need to have a serious conversation. I’m worried about you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he growled at me. “Not now, okay? I’m still waking up; I don’t have the headspace for a Cameron O’Connor intervention.”

I threw my hands up in submission. “Fine. Just know it’s coming. Now, as for Boris…”

Tyler sighed heavily. “Yeah, I know, I know. He needs his Uncle T, and no other dog walker can compare. Got it.”

“You think I’m joking, but I’m not. The last chick who subbed for you claimed to be an expert dog walker but she was terrified of Boris.”

“Well, that’s stupid, because Boris is a total teddy bear,” Tyler yawned. “Like, he doesn’t even try to chase the pigeons. He’s a gentle giant.”

It was true. My eighty-pound dog looked intimidating with his piercing eyes and beard, but he was a purebred goofball.

“So will you be there today or what?” I asked Tyler. Even though he was hungover, I knew getting some fresh air with a good dog was exactly what he needed.

He stared at the ceiling doing some sort of mental accounting, then finally fixed his gaze on me. Sometimes I saw glimmers of the guy I knew—the guy who was creative and fun, filled with a passion for life and music. I still hoped he’d find his way back to that version of himself.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there. But not for you, because you annoy the shit outta me. For him.” The corner of his mouth crept up.

“Of course not for me. I’m the worst friend ever, I know that,” I joked back.

Tyler warmed to our familiar ritual. “You are, dude. I mean, you freaking bought me a new guitar when I misplaced my last one. It didn’t have any dents or scratches on it. Easy to tune, and incredible sound. Ugh, what a dick move.”

I ignored the fact that Tyler had forgotten the guitar in a club after getting wasted.

“Exactly. And I force you to walk a rabid monster through the streets of Manhattan. Who does that?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I freaking love that dog.”