Hot Damn(8)

I know what makes for a successful relationship when it comes to behavior modification, and this guy isn’t it. He won’t listen to what I tell him, he won’t do the work to reinforce positive behaviors, and his cat will continue to be a problem. I know his type. He probably thinks it’d be more appropriate to discipline Thor with a rolled-up newspaper than to actually get to the root of his issues. It’s the worst possible profile for a pet owner in this situation.

“Dr. Raczek just gave a recommendation. That doesn’t guarantee I’ll be willing to take you on.”

“Why wouldn’t you be willing to? You need the money, right?”

“I only work with clients who I know are a good match for my techniques, and from what I’ve seen, you’re not.”

Now he looks offended. “Why not? I’m motivated.” He waves his red-streaked arm at me. “I want him to stop this shit.”

“You’re too confrontational. I don’t think you have the patience for successful behavioral therapy.”

“I have infinite patience.” His voice rises in volume, as if to emphasize his point.

“So much patience you knock people’s doors down?”

“That was an emergency. Besides—you need the money, right? So why would you turn down the opportunity?”

He has a point. This cat isn’t going to be a quick fix. It could take weeks. Multiple appointments. During which I’d have to deal with his attitude, his bluster, and his incredibly hot body flexing far too close to me, making me forget he’s trouble with all-capital letters. “Because you’re annoying.”

A grin staggers across his face. “I can’t be that bad. You opened the door for me.”

“Don’t take it personally. I have a soft spot for animals.”

“Maybe I’ll grow on you.”

“I prefer warts.”

“Ouch. What would Dr. Raczek say?” he counters, mangling the pronunciation of her name. “She recommended you—you’ll make her look bad if you say no.”

“I’ll make her look bad if I say yes and I don’t get good results. And I have a strong feeling I won’t get good results.”

“Right. Because I’m impatient. What else? How else do I fall short on your list of ideal clients?” He’s rising to the challenge, moving a little closer to me so he can loom. I can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not, but it’s irritating. I hold my ground.

“Chances are you won’t do what I tell you, and then the cat will keep being a bad cat and you’ll blame me and this veterinary practice, and that would be bad.”

“I just want him sorted out so he’s not an asshole.”

“Maybe you should provide a better role model.”

He laughs suddenly, to my surprise, and when I turn back to look at him, he’s grinning. The expression on his face, the white flash of his teeth framed by a few days’ growth of dark-blond stubble, heats me up again. Damn him. Why does he have to be so hot? It’s not fair.

I wonder what kind of lame comeback he’s going to throw my way, but just then the doctor returns with Thor. The cat has a small spot shaved on one front leg, and he looks like he’s been combed a bit. “All done,” the doctor announces cheerfully. “Like I said, Mr. King, I’ll give you a call if anything unusual turns up in the blood work. And I’m going to give you a recommendation for a groomer. Thor’s got some mats in his fur that might be contributing to his bad behavior.”

She slides the cat back into the carrier. He goes willingly, meowing piteously as she closes the door on him. Then she looks up, and I can tell the exact moment when she realizes Jesse and I are somewhat less than comfortable with each other.

She clears her throat. “Well. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. King. Hopefully some behavioral work will help you and Thor live together more peacefully.”

Jesse goes to pick up the cat carrier. Thor hisses as the carrier lifts from the table, but Jesse seems less bothered by it this time. He gives me a wink—the kind of wink that makes you want to slap him.

“Thanks, Doc,” he says, then looks at my card and adds, “I’ll be giving you a call, Miss Bowan.”

“Fine,” I tell him, and watch him go.

I’m not staring at his fine, tight ass as he walks out the door. Nope. Most certainly not.

I lock the practice up—again—and go back to my desk to shut down my computer. The letter’s lying on the desk. I can’t clearly remember taking it out of my purse, but I must have. Probably when I was sorting through it looking for my phone. The envelope lies there staring at me, daring me to open it.

I grab it, snatch a letter opener from the desk, and open the envelope.

“Dear Ms. Bowan, blah blah blah,” I mutter to myself, and then stop. I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

They want me. They really want me.

I read it again just to make sure, but, sure enough, it’s an acceptance letter. I can start veterinary school in the fall.

I blink a few times, my eyes hot. I’m not crying, though. There’s a huge bubble of joy in the middle of my chest. I’ve wanted to get a letter like this for years. Since middle school. No, since grade school, although then I didn’t quite understand the process. I just knew I wanted to be a vet.

This is huge. This is my life—the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. For a second, I can see my life spreading out from this moment just the way I’d envisioned it. Going to school, getting a job as a veterinarian, starting up my own practice, caring for animals, keeping them safe and healthy.

Then I look at the next page.

The tuition is astronomical. Maybe it wouldn’t seem that way to some people, but for me, it’s outrageous. There’s no way I could ever afford it. Anxiety rises, curling around my previous happy thoughts and strangling them to death.

My parents have told me they’ll help if I decide to go back to school, but thinking about talking to them ratchets that anxiety up several notches. It’s been a long time since we had that conversation, and honestly I don’t know how they would react if I asked them now.

I have some money in savings, but it’s not a lot. Maybe a semester’s worth, and then it’d be gone. Maybe I could get a scholarship. They have lots of those for single moms who want to go back to school, right?

Or I could have a long talk with Mr. Sexy Fireman’s cat and then charge him twice my normal rates. That’d give me enough to cover my books. Maybe.

I take a long, frustrated breath and let it out. It’s impossible. I figured I’d worry about the money once I got past the hurdle of being accepted, but now I’ve been accepted and the money hurdle looms like the Great Wall of China.

Sighing again, I slide the letter back into the envelope. I really should take the job with Fireman Jesse. It’s easy money, and even if it doesn’t bridge the gap between reality and my dream of vet school, it’ll at least pay for groceries.

I put the letter back in my purse and tell myself I should forget about it.



The next night is family dinner night, so after work I pick up Christopher and get him ready to head to my parents’ house. I don’t want to go. I never want to go. In fact, last time we went, I told Mom and Dad I wasn’t going to come tonight.

But here I am. Going back on my sworn word and knocking on their front door. There’s a gigantic door knocker, but I refuse to use it. Their house is huge—way bigger than anybody actually needs—in a neighborhood full of huge houses with sweeping, manicured lawns, luxury cars in the garages, and a golf course two blocks away. My kind of place, that’s for sure.

I wish I’d stayed home to watch movies. Hell, even the Fantastic Four movie—any one of them—would be better than this.

Maybe it’s not too late to change my mind and go home…but then the door opens and there’s Mom, wearing dress slacks and a tailored jacket, as if we’re off to the fucking opera or something. Her hair’s even nicely done, and she’s wearing makeup.

She gives me a once-over that makes me feel about five inches tall.

“I don’t think a Spiderman T-shirt is appropriate for dinner,” she says.

Hi, Mom. Nice to see you, too. I don’t say it out loud. There’s no point. As to why I’m supposed to dress up for dinner? Hell if I know. We go through this every damn week. I could break down and come over in my scrubs, but I doubt she’d like that much better.

“Gammaw!” says Christopher, and holds his arms out. Mom takes him, still looking less than pleased. A good number of my friends told me Mom would lighten up when her grandchild arrived, but so far that hasn’t been the case. The taint that has followed me through my entire life has touched my son through no fault of his own. I’m the one, after all, who put him in a Spiderman shirt, too.

Whatever my feelings for my mother are, Christopher likes her. He seems immune to any signals indicating he’s not entirely wanted. As far as he’s concerned, my mom wants to cuddle him and Sparks wants to be chased around the house relentlessly. There’s nothing that can change his mind about these things. I envy him that sometimes.

I follow Mom into the living room, where Dad sits in his armchair reading the New York Times. As in, the actual paper made of paper. He’s never caught up with the technological revolution and yet somehow manages to be one of the most successful hedge fund managers in Seattle. An admirable profession, to be sure. Nothing quite like making the rich richer.