Animal Behavior (2 page)

Her grandfather hadn’t been a rich man but what he’d
bequeathed to her would change her life. Starting over—again—sounded pretty
damn good right now, even if it was back in the Land of Lakes. Her new home was
far north of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. In fact, it was less
than a half-day’s drive to the Canadian border. It was quiet all summer and
buried under feet of snow in the winter, but Gwen thought that was exactly what
she needed at this point in her life.

Maybe someday she’d sell the property, but for now she would
use the time and the solitude to figure out her next move. Hopefully this new
chapter of her life would read a little better than the last.

She’d thought by now she would have settled down—at least have
a steady boyfriend. Turns out, Gwen’s instincts about men were about as
deficient as her money management skills. She had gone out with only three guys
in the past two years. The first was a one dater, after she found out he was
married with kids.

The second guy, Jack—an electrician she met when he’d come
to fix the light over the kitchen sink—lasted two weeks and twelve orgasms.
Since him, she’d gotten wet every time she saw a tool belt. The handyman had
been great in bed, but was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. He could barely
carry on an intelligent conversation and she’d finally called it quits when she’d
had to explain to him that Minnesota was not covered with snow year ‘round and
was in fact part of the United States—not Canada.

The third romance had lasted a couple of months. Jeremy was
a barista at the coffee shop down the block. She’d been attracted by his hippie
vibe, long ponytail and big blue eyes. He turned out to be egomaniacal
narcissist and a lousy lay. She’d kept him around for sheer companionship—simply
to avoid being alone. Their breakup had been ugly, but the worst of it was that
he made the best mocha latte in town and now she had to walk four blocks to get
a caffeine fix.

“Well, good riddance—huh, Jez? Maybe we’ll open our own
coffee shop up north. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Jezebel didn’t give any
indication whether she thought the new business plan was viable or not. “How
about a bacon shop?” At the sound of her favorite word, the dog began to wiggle
madly, her tail playing a bongo beat against a box marked “Winter”.

Gwen laughed and pulled a bag of bacon-flavored treats from
the canvas tote that held the doggie travel items. She flipped one across the
room and Jezebel snapped it easily out of the air. “Oh sure,
that
you
can catch!”

The “Winter” box had remained sealed since she’d left
Minnesota. There hadn’t been any need for cold-weather gear in California and
her designer coat and boots only reminded her of her penchant for extravagant
spending. Gwen had always had champagne tastes and a beer budget. That
personality quirk was just as responsible for her dismal financial predicament
as anything else. As she lifted the box of overpriced goodies, she made a
silent promise to herself that she would be careful with her inheritance.

Jezebel followed Gwen down the stairs, and wriggled up into
the Jeep. She flopped on the backseat and lounged while her mistress made
several more trips up and down. Gwen packed the last box into the back of the
car, dropped her apartment key into the caretaker’s mail slot, slid behind the
wheel and took a long swig from her water bottle.

“Thanks for all your help, goofball.” The dog groaned and
was snoring softly before they reached the highway. Gwen switched on the radio,
punched in the local classic rock station and tapped out a beat on the steering
wheel. Ahead of her was a tour bus wrapped in promotional graphics for the TV
show
The Dog Talker
. An oversized image of the show’s star—posing with
two dogs—stared out from the back of the bus.

Gwen was lost in her examination of Alex McKenzie’s handsome
smile when a convertible swooped between the two vehicles, narrowly missing the
Jeep’s front bumper. Gwen laid on her horn. The driver didn’t turn around, but
his passenger did and when her long blonde hair blew back from her face, Gwen
could see that the woman was terrified.

Leaning against the passenger door, Charlene Taylor looked
in the sideview mirror. The
Dog Talker
bus was trailing them closely and
when the GPS indicated a right at the next intersection, Alex eased the
jet-black convertible into a perfect ninety-degree turn.

“Three-point-two miles to your destination,” the robotic
female voice purred.

Charlene stole a glance at the tall star’s handsome profile.
An ever-present layer of copper-colored scruff accentuated his strong jaw and
framed full lips. She wondered how he managed to maintain that perpetual five-o’clock
shadow.

His reddish-brown hair was ruffled by the breeze and it was
all she could do not to reach over and run her fingers through it. But that was
against the rules. She wasn’t allowed to touch his face or hair and she
certainly wasn’t allowed to kiss him. Those were just a few of the provisions
in the mile-long contract she’d signed.

The document also clearly stated that Charlene was not to
discuss their arrangement, but everybody knew that the two were fucking. And
what a fuck he was! True, he always wanted to get right to the main event, but
their agreement didn’t say anything about exclusivity. There were plenty of
other men who were more than happy to play with her tits and lick her pussy and
she was usually able to imagine it was Alex’s head between her thighs.

His big, thick cock was always ready and even without
foreplay he knew how to use it to make her come almost every time. He was rough
and demanding and animalistic and she loved it. Her mind wandered back to their
encounter in the editing room that morning and a gush of moisture soaked her
thong.

She’d been so primed when he’d locked the door behind them
that she thought she’d explode before he’d even had a chance to touch her. When
he’d rammed into her, the mixture of pleasure and pain had been fantastic. She
loved this way he filled her so completely and each thrust stretched her
opening, teasing her clit. He had spread her legs wide and the wild look in his
eyes turned her on even more.

Then she’d made the mistake of trying to kiss him and he’d
pulled out quickly and turned her around. Alex had pounded her from behind with
such force that she’d had to hold on to the edge of the worktable to keep from
being pushed into the equipment. She’d moved one hand long enough to reach
between her legs and frantically rub herself, racing to come before he
finished.

The orgasm had been so intense she’d cried out, not caring
who else heard. He’d come immediately after she did, stood, wiped off his cock,
passed her the box of tissues then hurried out of the room without so much as a
kiss. It wasn’t exactly wine and roses, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t get
enough of the sex.

After they’d climbed into the car, Alex had dropped the
convertible top and now Charlene tried to tame her swirling hair by tucking it
behind her ears. She stole another look at his profile. God, he was sexy! It
had been barely an hour since they’d been together, but she was ready for
another round. She fidgeted with the leather stitching on the armrest and involuntarily
rubbed her thighs together.

He tilted his head from side to side as if working out the
kinks, then glanced over. It was unnerving how he seemed to sense when she was
turned on. He met her smile with a stony stare and her belly knotted.
Back
to business,
Charlene thought. Her hands shook as she flipped through her
notes. “Okay. Four-year-old Papillon, acute separation anxiety. I did a
pre-production meeting last week. The owner’s a real piece of work. It should
make for great TV.”

Alex just nodded, ran a broad, tanned hand through his hair
and checked himself in the mirror.

“Destination is one-hundred-twenty feet ahead on the right,”
the GPS announced. Alex smoothly swung the car to within inches of the curb,
cut the engine and stepped out. Charlene instinctively reached for her door
handle, but when Alex glared at her through the windshield she quickly folded
her hands in her lap and gave him an apologetic shrug. This ritual wasn’t in
the contract, but Alex insisted. Charlene could never get her head around a guy
who could screw her without making eye contact and demand to perform little
acts of chivalry.

When Alex opened her door and offered his hand, Charlene
allowed herself to be helped out. He glanced at the place where her breasts
mushroomed from the front of her tank top and raised one eyebrow. Charlene
retrieved a light cotton cardigan from the front seat, slid it on and yanked up
the scooped neck of her top a couple of inches.

Thetour bus had parked behind Alex’s car. She
scanned the advertising graphics that wrapped around every surface. Huge yellow
letters stood out against the navy-blue background—”Watch
The Dog Talker
,
starring Alex McKenzie! Thursday nights, only on the
Pet Channel!
“

The words curved above an enormous photograph of Alex, his
right arm around the neck of a huge Old English sheepdog and his left around a
Rottweiler. The Rottweiler was slurping the side of his face. Charlene examined
the broad smile and thought the only time Alex ever seemed truly happy was in
the company of four-legged creatures.

The cameraman and sound technician tumbled out of the bus,
laughing and chatting. They immediately settled down when Alex shot them a
look. He held up his hand, fingers spread wide, to indicate that he needed five
minutes. The men nodded and walked quietly to the cargo hold to unload the
equipment.

As popular as
The Dog Talker
program was, the small
cable network ran a tight ship. They sent skeleton crews out on location, and
everyone wore multiple hats. Besides sourcing interviews and doing the advance
work, Charlene handled makeup. That usually just meant powdering down interview
subjects when their skin was too shiny. Alex refused to wear makeup. Not that
he needed it. The camera loved him.

The cameraman also handled lighting and the sound guy did
all the post-production audio editing. They were also in charge of keeping the
tour bus running when they were on the road. The only thing new about the
vehicle was the graphics. As pretty as it was, the thing belched exhaust and
frequently broke down.

It seemed that the network sank all its profits into star
salaries. Rumor was that Alex had negotiated a killer contract. Supposedly he
was paid more than any other host, he got a piece of all the merchandising and
even a percentage of the advertising dollars. Charlene wouldn’t be surprised if
that were true. He was definitely persuasive.

As Charlene watched him head toward the house, she thought
he could persuade
her
to do just about anything. Alex turned and with a
sweep of his hand, motioned Charlene up the walk. She stiffened and led the
way.

Her fisted hand was suspended mid-knock when Mayola Sutton swung
open the door. The plump, elderly woman was stuffed into a short-sleeved peach
polyester jacket with matching pull-on pants. A satiny peach and turquoise
flowered blouse rounded out the ensemble. Her face was consumed by a giant
dentured grin. She shook her head in excited disbelief and her lavender-tinted
bouffant bounced like a puff of cotton candy.

“Ooo! Oh my! Oh goodness! Hello, Charlene. So good to see
you again! Come in! Come in!”

Mrs. Sutton held the screen door open—rather than yielding
the doorway—and Charlene had to turn sideways to squeeze past her. A muffled
yapping came from deep inside the house.

“Ooo! And there he is! Oh, Dr. McKenzie. Oh my! Oh! Please
come in!”

Charlene turned to watch her boss make his entrance. As if
flipping a switch, Alex’s face lit up with a broad smile. He inclined his head
slightly to the right and winked at Mrs. Sutton.

“Mrs. Sutton, what a pleasure. I have looked so forward to
meeting you and Marie Antoinette. Charlene says Marie Antoinette is just a
wonderful little dog.”

Mrs. Sutton was motionless as Alex breezed past her into the
bismuth-pink living room. The yapping increased in volume and frequency. Mrs.
Sutton seemed not to notice.

“What a lovely home,” Alex said. He turned slowly as if
taking in every nuance of the room—the pink floral overstuffed furniture, the
pink shag carpeting, the pink Grecian goddess table lamps, and the pink plastic
floral arrangement on the pseudo-French Provincial gilt and marble coffee
table.

Mrs. Sutton demurred. “Please come in and sit down. Can I
get you something to drink, Charlene? Dr. McKenzie? I’ve made lemonade.” She
left to fetch the refreshments without waiting for an answer.

The crew filed into the small living room, moving carefully
to avoid nicking the walls with their metal equipment cases, and after brief
introductions, they set to work.

Paul Evans was in charge of lighting and camerawork. He bent
over his gear surreptitiously glancing around the room. He caught Charlene’s
eye, wrinkled his nose and mouthed, “Pink!”

Charlene gave him her “Uh, yeah” look and shrugged.

Josh Walenski was engrossed in assembling and plugging in
his sound equipment. He slid the gray furry cover over the end of the boom mic and
positioned his huge headphones over his ears. He flipped the toggle switch on
his hip-mounted board and adjusted the volume.

The yapping picked up steam and Josh slowly followed it,
swinging the boom like a high-tech divining rod until it rested in front of a
door off the living room.

With Mrs. Sutton’s enthusiastic permission, Charlene began
rearranging the space for the shoot. Following Paul’s direction to frame up the
shot, Charlene moved the armchair closer to the sofa, asked Mrs. Sutton to sit
down, and positioned Alex on the end of the couch nearest her.

“Oh, I’m just so nervous!” Mrs. Sutton said, “I’ve never
been on TV before!”

Alex winked at her. “Ah, there’s nothing to it. We’re just
two old friends having a chat.”

A blush rose from Mrs. Sutton’s fleshy jowls and disappeared
under her Easter-egg-colored hair.

While Paul held the light meter up to the subjects, Alex
kept his attention on their hostess, “Thank you for the lemonade, Mrs. Sutton.”

The old woman giggled, “Oh, it was nothing Dr. Mac…Alex.”

The crew exchanged glances and knowing grins. Charlene shook
her head and smiled with admiration. Alex could turn on the charm when it
served him, and his ability to read dogs was uncanny.

“Tell me about Marie Antoinette,” Alex said, never releasing
Mrs. Sutton from his gaze.

YAP! YAP!

“Well, Marie Antoinette is four years old. She’s a little
Papillon,” Mrs. Sutton began. She spoke as if she were gossiping at a
neighborhood coffee klatch. “Did you know that Papillon is French for ‘butterfly’?”

Alex nodded slowly, apparently hanging on Mrs. Sutton’s
every word.

“They’re called that because their little ears flare up and
out just like butterfly wings. They’re just the sweetest little dogs.”

Alex pulled his eyebrows together as his expression took on
a serious air. “And why did you call us, Mrs. Sutton? Are you concerned about
Marie Antoinette?”

“Oh Alex,” Mrs. Sutton said, leaning in and resting her hand
lightly on his forearm. “I’m just
so
concerned! Marie Antoinette has
started acting out. I just can’t understand it. I can’t leave her alone for a
minute. The second I leave the house, she just turns into a little monster! It’s
like she’s possessed!”

YAP! YAP! YAP!

“Go on.”

“She tears things up—just rips them to shreds and sometimes
she even,” Mrs. Sutton leaned in and whispered, “She even, well, tinkles on my
bed!”

YAP! YAP! YAP!

Mrs. Sutton reached down the front of her shirt, extracted a
pink tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m beside myself, Alex! I love her to
bits, just to pieces! I don’t know why she’s behaving this way but I simply can’t
have it!”

Alex furrowed his brow and shook his head in a show of
sincere sympathy. Paul and Charlene looked at each other and executed
synchronized eye rolls.

“Maybe I should meet Marie Antoinette.”

YAP! YAP! YAP!

Mrs. Sutton sniffed and nodded slowly.

Alex looked at Charlene and inclined his head toward the
door. Paul trained his lens on the lower portion of the doorway and Josh
positioned the mic just out of the frame then gave Charlene a thumbs-up.
Charlene took a breath, turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

“Marie Antoinette!” Mrs. Sutton called out in a singsong
voice.

Every one leaned in toward the door and Josh dialed up the
volume another notch.

“Marie Antoin—”

A seven-pound whirling dervish of black and white fur
wrapped in pink satin and tulle burst through the doorway. Her butterfly ears
were perked so high they nearly met in the middle and her plume of a tail
fanned out behind her.

Charlene plastered herself against the wall. Paul staggered
backward as if trying to keep the furry blur in frame, then stumbled over a
pink vinyl footstool and landed flat on his back. The cameraman rolled on one
side and continued filming from ground level. Josh kept the boom mic close to
the action.

Marie Antoinette’s tiny paws dug into the shag carpet as she
bolted across the room toward Paul. He held his position but moved one hand
from the camera and cupped it protectively over his crotch. Marie Antoinette
launched herself into the air, spring-boarded off the ottoman and landed within
six inches of the camera lens. The little dog resumed her frantic yapping and,
without the door as a muffler, the noise buried the soundboard needle. Josh let
out an “ARGH!” dropped the microphone, yanked off his headset and clasped his
hands to the side of his head. “Holy shit! Are my eardrums bleeding?”

Marie Antoinette wheeled around and started yapping in Josh’s
direction. She spied the boom mic on the floor, pounced, and yanked the furry
gray cover from the microphone. Snarling, the little dog shook it until she
seemed sure it was dead.