To say he was unimpressed with collecting the dog was saying the ocean was a little bit wet. He’d backed up a step when the freight attendant brought Mitsy to the counter in the little dog carrier and handed it over with obvious relief. The damn dog hadn’t appreciated the flight, as evidenced by the bared teeth locked on the cage door and the pile of puke near his front paws. It had almost been worth bringing him to see the look of horror on Casey’s face. Mitsy, for some unexplainable reason, had barked excitedly when I came into view.
“This yapfest is yours?” Casey turned raised brows on me with disgust. “With a name like Mitsy, I should’ve known,” he muttered under his breath, because yeah, if he had a dog, it would no doubt be some badass pit bull named 50cent. Wanker. I didn’t tell him the dog wasn’t mine for long if I could help it. This partnership was temporary. As soon as Dalton set down on Australian soil, it would be sayonara Mitsy.
“You have a problem, Casey? Want to search his cage and do a pat down for contraband? I hear up the ass is the best place to hide things,” I pointed out helpfully. “Perhaps you should start there.”
Travis choked from somewhere on my left and Casey scowled. “No problem, Slim,” he replied, taking a firm grasp on the cage as Mitsy growled in warning. “Seems like your type of dog.”
“My type? Wow.” I raised my brows, choosing to ignore the insulting nickname he bestowed with such originality. “You’re pretty big on pigeonholing people. That just smacks of deep-seated issues. What’s yours?”
“What’s my what?” he asked as we began the trek to the carpark, Travis kindly wheeling my suitcase for me as Casey led the way.
“What’s your issue?”
“My issue?” he retorted, his tone implying that I was sorely mistaken and it was me with the issue.
Travis ping-ponged his gaze between the both of us with an amused glint in his green eyes. Ignoring it, I replied, “Yeah. Your issue.”
Casey shrugged, his muscular shoulders tightening beneath his worn shirt. I fought not to stare. No man had the right to look as good as he did and turn out to be an asshole. The fact that I wanted to run my hands over that smooth, golden skin was like the universe playing a cruel joke. “No issue.”
But something flashed across his face before it was hidden quickly. If I had to name it I’d say his pretty blue eyes looked haunted. Just like they did when I mentioned him having pets. Perhaps he once had a cat that got run over when he was little? My heart filled with an unexpected surge of tenderness towards him.
“You’re just obviously high-maintenance,” he added as we crossed the road and began weaving through parked cars. “Like your dog.”
I beat back the tender feeling with a big, baseball bat, bruising it into submission. The last thing I needed was to go getting a ladyboner over an antagonistic hero on a bender for justice.
“Screw you, Casey,” I hissed as we stopped in front of the magnificent car that I wanted to kick with the heel of my shiny black boot. “Oh wait. That must be your problem, right? You’re all uptight because who wants to fuck a douchebag?”
Travis shouted with laughter, stowing my luggage as I released Mitsy from his little prison and clipped his leash on with haste. As a final insult, the dog cocked his furry little leg, displaying his ample appendage as he pissed all over Casey’s motherfucker tyres.
“Dude,” Travis declared as they both eyed the dog like the menace to society that he was. “You called a male dog ‘Mitsy?’”
Now here we were, on our way to Henry’s so the man could dump me and run. He was quiet, his temper seeming to have cooled right off, leaving him calm. It was almost unnatural and I found I didn’t like it. If this had been my car and a dog like Mitsy emptied his bladder all over it, I would’ve made them walk home.
“So Henry’s told me you’re a pretty big deal in the world of modelling. How long have you been doing that for?” Travis asked.
“Since I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” he echoed, looking unimpressed. “That’s a bit young, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I told him honestly. Missing out on normal teenage years and life at home had been lonely, though I suspect his expression related more to the exploitation of young girls in an adult profession. “But I got to travel the world and meet a lot of amazing people,” I added, as if that somehow made up for it.
Casey glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “So you’re an international model then, huh?”
I cocked my head, unable to avoid one last dig. “Sorry to disappoint you, Casey, but international model isn’t a euphemism for international drug runner and crack whore.”