Hound Dog & Bean (3 page)

Bean sat down at his small, old-fashioned rolltop desk and looked over his invoices. A shipment had come in this morning from Kenya. It was from the Rugento farmer co-op. Very nice people, with just enough land to support their family. Last year’s crop had been quite elegant, making a coffee that was complex and sweet, with a body that gave way to all kinds of plummy fruitiness, then revealed black-cherry and citrus flavors as the cup cooled. If this year’s crop was half as good, he and his customers were in for a treat. He’d roast a barrel this afternoon.

The phone rang, and since it was right there, he answered it so none of the baristas would have to stop what they were doing.

“Good morning. Thank you for calling The Shepherd’s Bean.”

“Dean” came the cheerful voice from the other end of the line. “I am
so
glad you answered.” Dean—not Bean.

“Hello, Mom,” he replied.

“How’s the coffee business?” she asked.

“Good. Very good.”

“I’m so sorry I’ve been in just the one time since you’ve expanded.”

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s a bit of a drive from Terra’s Gate for a cup of coffee.”

“But not so far for you to bring some to me,” she purred.

“It’s the same distance, Mom.” He dated the invoice and put it away in the short two-drawer filing cabinet to the right of his desk.

“But when you come here, you get dinner besides. You free tomorrow night? Tell me you’re free tomorrow night, dear. Father and I
so
want you to come. It’s been forever.”

“Mom, it hasn’t been forever.” He glanced at his desk calendar. “Two and a half weeks.”

“And I should have to wait so long? Tell me you’re coming tomorrow. Big Dean is firing up the grill.” Big Dean was his father. Bean was a junior. “We’re going to have his famous chicken.”

In spite of himself, Bean felt his mouth water. “I don’t think I have anything planned. Let me look.” He checked his faithful calendar again, flipping over to the next day.

“Of course you don’t have anything planned,” his mother said. “You never
do
anything. Never
go
anywhere.”

“Mom. Enough.” He sighed. Why fight it? He really didn’t have anything planned, and his father’s chicken was amazing. “I’ll be there.”

“Oh, good. That’s good.” Then yelling, half in the phone: “Father! Dean’s going to be here… No… I didn’t tell him yet. No… Don’t worry, I’ll tell him.”

Bean felt a worrisome premonition.

“Honey, you remember Mrs. McKenna?”

“I-I’m not sure….”

“My friend Muriel? Sloan McKenna’s mother? He was one year behind you in school. You remember?”

Did he? High school was a good while ago. Fifteen years. Fifteen years? Whoa, time did fly the older you got. “I’m not sure, Mom.”

“Muriel had the most
spectacular
gardens. Her whole front yard was—”

Bang. That did it. “Oh, yeah.” The McKennas had lived the next block over when he was a kid. “Sure, I remember her. How’s she doing?”

“Not so good, I’m afraid. Brain tumor. Inoperable.”

“Jeez,” he replied, surprised. “That’s terrible.”
Poor woman
. Bean remembered her being a nice lady, always ready to offer Popsicles and Kool-Aid.

“She’s decided against chemo. Wants a shorter, better life. Her son isn’t too happy about it, I gather. But it’s her decision really. So far all is as good as it can be with a… you know… tumor and all. Every now and then, she’ll do something a little… off. Ask me to pick up a snowman for her when I go to the supermarket. Things like that.”

A snowman?
“Gosh, Mom. That’s sad.” Really sad.

“It is. And I thought you being here tomorrow night would add some normalcy, you know?”

“Sure, Mom. I’ll be there. You want me to pick up some wine?”

“Just coffee, dear. That will be more than enough.”

H
OUND
D
OG
waited until the man lying next to him began to snore (had in fact waited with agonizing patience ten minutes past that) before slipping out of the bed. He padded silently around the room, gathering his discarded clothes: a T-shirt here, his soft, form-fitting jeans over there, a sock hanging from an open desk drawer, the second under it, and…. His shoes. Where were his shoes?

Living room. That was it. He’d toed them off under the coffee table while he and… whatever his name was… made out on the couch. H.D. was halfway out the bedroom door when Whatever-his-name-was spoke.

“Hey, H.D., where you goin’? Don’t you want to spend the night?”

Dammit. The guy’s awake. And he can remember my name. Why can’t I remember his?

“Sorry, guy,” H.D. said. “I have a dog to let out.”

Which was true. He’d taken Sarah Jane home, not wanting her to spend the night in a kennel at Four-Footed Friends. Actually, not many animals stayed there overnight. Most were fostered out to homes throughout the city and the suburbs while they awaited their “forever home.” It really surprised him that Sarah Jane hadn’t found one yet. She was one of the most precious dogs they’d ever had, especially after she began to physically and emotionally heal from her abandonment. Which was another reason Hound Dog hadn’t wanted to cage her up for the night.

“Aw, come on,” said his bed partner. Bob? Or was it Rob? “A dog will be fine for one night. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. You can take some extra bacon home for it.”

It? Did he say “it”?

“I’m a vegetarian,” H.D. lied and headed into the other room.

Bob or Rob followed him. “Do you really have to go?” The man leaned against the bedroom doorframe, folded his arms over a hairy, muscular chest and crossed one leg over the other. Both were as well developed and hairy as the rest of him. Hound Dog’s type all the way.

He stood there, completely at ease in his nudity, and as H.D. dressed, he couldn’t help but be impressed.
Dayum! I did myself proud tonight.

The man’s eyes were dark and sparkling in the light of the pole lamp, a dense shadow of new beard covered a strong jaw (
and didn’t that feel good in my ass crack?
), and all that wasn’t even to mention his thick endowment, draped over a set of low-hanging balls. In fact, it was those eyes and the talent of his tongue that had almost caused Hound Dog to break down and let the man top him. But finally, the answer had been, “No!”

“Oh,
please
, man. I
gotta
have this,” the guy had said. And oh, he’d looked so hot, peering up from between H.D.’s butt cheeks, head shaved all but bald, looking
total
man.

“No, dude. I don’t let anyone do that. It’s far too personal.”

“That’s what most guys say about kissing,” Bob or Rob had said.

“Which makes no friggin’ sense,” Hound Dog had replied. “You can kiss anybody—but fuckin’ is a whole different ballgame.”

The man had gone back to rimming again and—wow!—did Bob (or Rob) know what he was doing. After five minutes of that, and lots of moaning on both their parts, Hound Dog’s rimmer made his request again, and—
dayum!
—it had been tempting. But “Nope,” H.D. had said and flipping over, had presented his front instead. “But whatever else you want to do is okay with me.”

What Bob or Rob had decided to do was climb aboard, after H.D. had insisted on a condom, and then ride him like a champion broncobuster. It had been simply outstanding.

And now? Looking at that face, the devilish expression, the shifting down below—well it was all H.D. could do to look away and finish dressing.

Sarah Jane really was waiting. And the little girl truly was special. He couldn’t bear to think of her crying, wondering where all the people were.

And the simple truth was, Hound Dog had been in heat, and now he wasn’t anymore. He’d been scratched in the right spot, his itch had been relieved, he’d twitched his leg, and it was time to go home. The deed was done, and it was past time to skedaddle. It was the offer of Bob or Rob’s place that had made it utterly perfect. H.D. never asked anyone to his small apartment. That meant the guy might not leave. When you went to his place, you could leave—politely, graciously, or otherwise—anytime you wanted. You got
out
.

“Sorry… guy,” he said. He couldn’t say Bob or Rob now, could he? “I really need to go.”

“Well, let me give you my phone number,” the guy said.

Good. H.D. would write it down and then promptly lose it.

“I’ll put it in your cell phone,” the trick said and held out his hand.

And shit again. H.D. couldn’t even lie and say he didn’t have one. Elaine had called twice while he was at the bar, and this guy had seen it. H.D. sighed inwardly, pulled out his cell, and handed it over. A moment later it was back, and when he glanced down he saw the name. Mike. Mike? How had he gotten Bob or Rob out of that?

“Now give me yours,” Mike said.

“I just did,” H.D. said.

“Not your phone.” Mike rolled his eyes. Funny to see a macho man like him roll his eyes. It didn’t fit somehow. “I want your phone
number
.”

H.D. spit his phone number out so fast, he hoped Mike missed it. When the trick repeated it back, H.D. saw he wasn’t to be so lucky. But he smiled and pretended he was happy and turned to leave.

“Wait!” Mike stepped closer and bent to give him a kiss, and H.D. turned his head slightly at the last instant so it landed on his cheek and not his lips. Suddenly, kissing seemed very personal indeed.

And was that hurt he saw in the big hunk’s eyes? H.D. growled to himself.
How do I get myself in messes like this?
“See you, Baaa—Mike.” Jeez. He’d almost called the man Bob.

“See ya,” Mike replied, and Hound Dog quickly escaped out the door.

O
NCE
ON
the street, H.D. felt so much better. Free. He could breathe.

God, what if he calls?
His mind threatened to go into a whorl of thoughts.

No
, he commanded himself.
Don’t. Do not. Do not-not-not go there. If Bob or Mike calls, just ignore it.
The thought made him pull out his phone and block Mike’s number. If the guy called, it would go straight to voicemail. H.D. wouldn’t even hear the phone ring. He breathed a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t that H.D. hadn’t had a good time with Mike. He had. The man had been great in bed. Hound Dog had cum twice. Mike kissed like an escort, sucked like a whore, and rode cock like his life depended on it. But that didn’t mean the evening called for a repeat performance. No evening (or morning or afternoon) sexual escapade called for repeat performances. In that direction lay danger. Seconds led to the potential for clinginess—and Mike had suddenly showed a potential for such behavior. H.D. did not do clingy.

What had happened? It really had seemed like nothing but sex when they’d connected at The Watering Hole. Lots of sucking face and grinding of crotches. They hadn’t discussed anything personal. No “What-do-you-do-for-a-living?” even. Just shots and making out in a dark corner and earlobe bites and whispers of what each wanted to do to the other. So when the man had asked him home, H.D. had answered with a resounding “Yes!”

They were making out as they climbed the stairs. They were all over each other in the living room. And—God!—Mike had tripped Hound Dog’s heat into overdrive. Brown eyes—what was it about brown eyes?—that thick, dark shadow of a beard not yet fully formed, the fact that he was taller, but not too tall…. And perfect teeth. For some reason, crooked teeth were a turnoff for H.D. The big dick had been a plus. He wasn’t a size queen, but on the other hand, he wanted something he could get all animal with.

Because—goddammit!—it was all about the sex. Why couldn’t people see that? Animals knew it. When a male tiger met a female in heat, they got to it. No courting. No wooing. And certainly no romance. They fucked, and then they went their own ways. Over and done with. Dogs too. One went into heat, the other was drawn in, and they
fucked
. Then it was done. No mating for life. Sex, pure and simple.

Why, oh why the hell couldn’t people be like that?

Because the
last
thing Hound Dog wanted was a mate.

He knew what that led to.

Hurt. Betrayal. Abandonment.

And that was never ever happening to him again.

Never. Ever. Again.

S
ARAH
J
ANE
was thrilled to see H.D. home. She began to bark when he was about twenty feet from the door to his apartment, and he hoped it was because she recognized his step and didn’t react that way to everyone who climbed the steps. If so, he’d hear about it from the neighbors. But a dog’s ears were mind-bogglingly acute, and their sense of smell was a miracle. She could have easily figured out it was him.

As he put the key into the lock, her barking doubled—a high-pitched sound, but not irritating like some breeds—and when he opened the door, she began to dance in merry circles.

“Hello, Sarah, I’m home!”

She dashed to him and leapt back on her hind legs, front feet waving in the air. He marveled that such a long dog with such tiny legs and paws could do such a feat. He scooped her up into his arms, and she began to cover his face with kisses.
I shouldn’t have left you for so long
, he thought. But all it was supposed to have been was a couple of drinks. He didn’t know he would wind up going to Bob or Rob’s (Mike’s) place, and he certainly hadn’t planned on being so long.

“I know! I know! I’m happy to see you too.” He pulled Sarah Jane closer—feeling guilty—resting his face against her blonde head. It seemed so startlingly different from the rest of her red-brown coat. He loved it.

Sarah Jane began to wiggle, and he knew that sign and retrieved her leash. The sight of it brought her to near-hysterical joy, and moments later they hit the streets. She was practically prancing—like a tiny long-haired pony—as they walked down the block, and of course, she stopped often and sniffed where the other dogs had been.