Stepdog (23 page)

“As soon as this is over,” said Alex, ignoring my question, “Cody and her guy will get in his car and drive away. The other guy will remain here with me and my brothers for four hours. Four hours, got it? At that point, he's free to go, if he doesn't want to party with us any longer, and I take no responsibility for what happens after that as long as you don't fight over her on our turf. This has been entertaining, but my brothers and I don't want a sequel.” He whistled suddenly, high and sharp and piercing. Cody leapt to her feet in alarm, showing the whites of her eyes. What happened next was like something out of a movie.

The forty bikers left off whatever they were doing in the park
ing lot (or in a few cases, within the building), and all began to walk toward us with a wondrously quiet dangerousness. They moved close enough to describe a half circle that began at one exterior corner of the clubhouse, arced out around us, and then cemented itself at the far corner. They looked like a hirsute version of the Rockettes. Most of them did not acknowledge us directly, although a few nodded and several grinned at Cody. Cody stared at them in fascination, wagging her tail slowly. She moved tentatively around the enclosed space. Then, as if swooning from the attention of so many alpha males, she fell back down into her submissive tarty-dog pose, craning her neck a bit to the side to try to see if they had noticed.

When the men had completely settled into place, creating the impression of an impromptu bare-knuckle boxing ring, Alex gestured to them and spoke to the two of us. “Just so you see, gentlemen, I am not fucking around here,” he said, with a congenial smile. “Got it?”

Jay nodded calmly. I frowned and ducked my head once in acknowledgment.

“So we're all in agreement this is how it works, gentlemen? Your hands on it, please.”

Jay first, we both shook hands with Alex himself. Then Jay languidly extended his hand to me. I grasped it and shook it, avoiding his gaze and clenching my jaws together with all the pressure I wanted to use to break the bones in his fingers. I nearly cracked my molars from the force of it.

What the hell was going to happen after Jay drove away with Cody, and Sara's cousin kept me captive for half a day? How was this going to end in any way besides complete disaster?

“Excellent!” said Alex happily. “And if it helps I want you to know that whoever stays here gets the better deal, in my opinion. We have several kegs and other drinkables waiting inside, Rooster is ready to DJ, and the strippers will be here in an hour.”

“I'm sure Rory will enjoy that,” said Jay. He gave me an infuriatingly confiding smile. “I won't tell Sara about that last part.” I could have vomited with the rage. Maybe I should attack him and just let all forty bikers have a go at me—I would be the avenging Irish angel, liberating them all from their kidneys. Yeah, right.

“So,” Alex said, clapping his hands together. “We might be standing around for a while. Does either of you gentlemen need anything before we start? A drink of water? A piss? A cigarette? Speak now if you want anything.”

Despite the warm day, I was having hangover-induced chills, which would surely get worse inside, out of the sun. “I want to grab my sweatshirt,” I said. Alex nodded and I jogged over to the car, the Arc of Bikers parting for me. Inside the car, I reached in for the sweatshirt. I put it on, and zipped it up as I reemerged. There was a poignant comfort in feeling the fabric against my skin, because Sara had practically been living in this sweatshirt for a day and a half before she got on the plane. In my imagination, her scent, some ineffable Sara-ness, still lingered on it.

I stumbled back across the road—lost my footing, giddy with the sudden relief as I reentered the ring of bikers. I couldn't take credit for doing it deliberately, but I'd just saved my own arse. Nothing in all Dixie screamed “Sara Renault” the way that sweatshirt did. I wasn't going to get Cody back. Only Sara, the leader of the pack, could do that. And I was now wearing her.

I crouched down beside Cody, opposite Jay. Cody's nose imme
diately started working subtly but madly. She looked around as if trying to trace the path of a passing butterfly.

“What have you got in that sweatshirt?” asked Jay.

“Nothing,” I said. I reached for the zipper. “You want to take a look?”

“I'll
examine it,” said Alex. I shrugged out of it and gave it to him. There was a guitar pick in the right-hand pocket, nothing more, except a hundred thousand scent molecules that only Cody and I knew about.

“It's clean,” said Alex, and began to hand it back to me.

“Wait a minute,” Jay said sharply, and grabbed it from Alex's hands with a jerkiness unlike his usual legato movements. He buried his face in it, breathing in deeply. For a long moment, he did not move, even to breathe out.

When he pulled the sweatshirt away from his face, he looked ashen. He gave me a weary, accusatory look. It was the first time he had ever seemed at all vulnerable.

“This smells like Sara,” he said very quietly.

It was an awkward moment. I really wanted to say,
That's right, you wanker!
but in fairness, it's an awful thing to be up close to a bloke when he's having a moment like that. He probably didn't even realize that he remembered Sara's scent—until he did. It was like watching someone's skin get peeled off.

“And
you
smell like
bacon,
” said Alex, trying to make light of it.

“Do you concede?” I asked quickly. “You know if you can smell it, the dog can, too.”

“Her name is
Cody,
” said Jay, in a low purr of disgusted anger.

“I win,” I said quietly. “What do you say we just call this farce off?”

Jay shook his head with the sad dignity I remembered from the arboretum. “I'm not
conceding
. We play it through,” he said.

It all happened pretty quickly after that.

We went into the clubhouse, a place I don't imagine I would've ever found myself invited into under less extraordinary circumstances. Inside was a whitewashed cinder-block room with a pool table (“regulation size,” Alex pointed out) down toward one end, a bar with a refrigerator and all the promised booze along one wall, and a bank of chairs, sofas, and even an old church pew along the other for seating. The walls were covered with frame photo collages of motorcycle rallies, or snapshots of the club members and their birds at barbecues or picnics or parties. One photo montage was large enough to see one of the women clearly—a cheerful, pretty blonde, her arm around a bloke with a club patch that said his name was Elephant. She also wore a patch—
PROPERTY OF ELEPHANT.
Hanging from the rafters was a wide assortment of brassieres. Alex saw me staring at them.

“Donated by some generous ladies.” He grinned.

In the corner hung a large Confederate flag emblazoned with the words
I Ain't Coming Down.
There was a stink of old beer and old sweat accented with the stench of old tobacco, but to be fair, the place was actually neat and clean.

The near half of the room was largely open. I stood to the left, and Jay, looking even more depressed than Leonard Cohen, stood to the right. We both turned our faces to the walls.

Cody was mildly interested in all the unfamiliar scents in the room, taking inventory, and meandered both toward and away from each of us to make sure she wasn't missing any morsels. But most of all, she wanted Sara, and her nose told her exactly where
the Sara-est place was. She wandered over to me and sat before me, staring up at me with her big brown eyes, her tail slowly, hopefully, sweeping the floor. I did not dare to move, even to slide my eyes in her direction, lest Jay claim I was breaking the rules. After a moment, wanting my attention, she moved toward me, leaned heavily against my leg and stared up at my face adoringly, her cheek pressing against my knee. It was fucking adorable but I didn't dare acknowledge her.

“I'm calling it,” said Alex. “She goes with Rory.”

W
hen Alex spoke, four of the bikers entered, and came across toward us. Seeing that Cody was with me, two of the bikers stood in front of Jay, in case he tried to rush me. But he had no intention of doing that. He was playing it cool for now, refusing to acknowledge any of us.

“You fucking prick!”
I felt all the tension return to my muscles. The relief of getting Cody back didn't relax me—all I wanted was to smash his face. The other two bikers moved in front of me to make sure I didn't.

Alex stepped up to me immediately and shook his head. “None of that now, Rory,” he said, firm but friendly. “This was a gentlemen's arrangement and you are to continue to act like gentlemen. That doesn't only mean that Jonathan's a gracious loser, it also means that you're a gracious winner. So why don't you just take the dog and go.”

I pressed up to tiptoes and craned my neck to look over his shoulder so I could see Jay, and opened my mouth to tell him—

“Rory,”
Alex said curtly. “I don't care if you hate the man. Out
of respect to me and my brothers, you need to leave now, without making a scene.”

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart pounding against my sternum, feeling the pulse in my neck, even inside my ears. “All right,” I said. “Fair enough, I understand”—although I didn't, really, only that it was a code of conduct that he genuinely believed in. It seemed a lot of bollocks to me because that bastard had it coming to him. “Thanks, Alex.” I took another breath to calm myself. “I mean it, mate. Thanks.”

I threw one arm around him; he pounded me once on the back, said, “Brother,” and stepped back. Then he literally showed me the door.

My hands were shaking as I put the car into drive and pulled away.

Cody was delighted to be back on her bed, surrounded by the smells of familiar things. She sat up, her head brushing the ceiling of the tiny car, and I swear she smiled at me through the rearview mirror. Her head cocked slightly to the side as well, as if to say,
But what have you done with Sara?

Sara had carefully packed and arranged the backseat—pre–dog nap—so that a water dish designed for travel was wedged in tight between two bags, with a water bottle beside it; I'd filled the dish that morning. She had also planted—in the passenger-side well, within easy reach of the driver's seat—a bag of bully sticks (otherwise known as pizzle sticks, which gives you some idea which part of a bull it's made from). I pulled one out and tossed it back over my shoulder onto her bed, but she was too excited and interested in our new adventure to be bothered to eat it.

After about half a mile, signs of civilization encroached upon
the green around me: houses, shacks, a gas station. I could not stop shaking. At an intersection with a McDonald's, I pulled into the car park and cut the motor. I unclenched my hands from the steering wheel and sobbed.

Cody looked over at me and stuck her muzzle against my neck.

“All right, it's all right, girl,” I said, getting my breath. “I'm grand. You're grand. Everything's going to be grand.” I turned in the seat and put my arms around her, pulling her as tightly as I could against me. She tucked her head down and pressed into me.

“Ah, Cody,” I said to her as I released her. I roughly tousled her head. “First things first.” I reached for my phone. It wasn't in my pocket.

No, come on, I'd been fucked around enough today.

Brief moment of me frantically clutching at every pocketlike piece of my clothing and the car, until I found the fucking thing down in the console, where I never put it. I hurriedly called Sara.

“Hi—” she began, but I cut her off.

“I've got her! She's here! She's with me! We're on our way to you!”

Silence.

“Sara? Can you hear me? Did you hear what I said? I've got her with me, she's here in the car. She's right here!”

“Really?” Sara asked in the tiniest of voices. She was crying.

“Yes. Yes. I promise. It's over. She's back.” I'm no fool, I knew this was the best moment for clemency. “And I'm sorry I was such a fuckup, I'm sorry I was stupid and too trusting and not honest enough, I'm so sorry, I'll be better, but I got her back for you and isn't that what matters? I'm bringing her to you and I'm going to put her right into your beautiful arms.”

She hadn't even been listening to me, she was crying-laughing with relief on the other end of the line. “She's okay? Really? Was she happy to see you?”

“Of course she was, she's no fool,” I said. “And she knew she'd get to be with you if she was with me, and that's what matters most of all.”

“Oh . . .” she was saying, “Oh . . . God . . . thank God . . . thank you . . . I can't even tell you . . .”

“I know,” I said, “It's okay. We're grand. We're better than grand. We're going to grab a bite and then I'll run her around a bit and we'll get on the road. If you can give me a heads-up where I should try to get to tonight—”

“Chattanooga,” she said, already collecting herself. “I checked. The next best place heading west with a dog-friendly hotel is Chattanooga, I'll call and make a reservation for tonight.”

“Do you know how much I love your hyperorganizational impulses?” I said.

“I bet you say that to all the girls whose dogs you lose.”

“No,” I said, “only to the girls whose dogs I get back.”

“Thank you,” she said quickly. “Thank you. I didn't mean to sound like a bitch.”

“You don't sound like a bitch. I have a bitch right here with me in the car and you don't sound a thing like her.”

“I love you,” she said. “I'm saying that because you can't see how much I'm smiling.”

“I can
feel
it,” I said, relieved and grateful. That was the flavor of the day: relieved and grateful. With a plate of deferred vengeance on the side.

“What about Jonathan?”

“Right now he's stuck in a clubhouse full of bikers who are getting drunk and throwing money at strippers.”

“What? Oh my God!” She laughed. “That's so Alex.”

“He's not allowed to leave for four hours. Alex seems to believe that, given an hour to shrug it off, he'll enjoy himself.”

She burst out laughing again. God, it was a great relief and a joy to hear her laugh. “I could kiss Alex for that,” she said. “Okay, just head west for Asheville. That's about four hours, and there should be signs, I think you'll hit 40 eventually. By the time you get there, I'll have a place in Chattanooga. Drive safe and give my puppy a big belly rub for me.”

“I will, of course, darlin'. Love you,” I said. “Hey, how'd your meeting go? Your interview?”

A pause in which I could imagine her nodding. “Pretty well, I think. I'll hear next week. I guess it doesn't make sense for me to fly home now.”

“True. The taxi fare to meet me in Chattanooga would break the bank.”

“Let me think what to do,” she said. “Talk soon. Love you.”

After we hung up, I called the newest addition to my speed dial.

“Hey, Rory,” said Alto, picking up after one ring.

“I've got her.”

“Awesome!” Alto shouted, the happiest I've ever heard—meaning, actually
happy,
like. “I'll tell the crew!”

I grinned. “The crew?” I asked, keeping the grin out of my voice.

“Marie, Lena, Danny. I'm head of communications.”

“Alto,” I said. “You're the man.”

“So to speak,” he said. His tone of voice cheered me up. This whole thing was almost worth it just to hear Alto happy. (
Almost,
I said. Not
quite
.)

After I hung up from Alto, I glanced over at the McDonald's. It had a drive-through. I glanced back at Cody. Ah, what the hell. “It's a special day!” I declared. “Want a treat?”

She stared at me, panting a little, happy and vapid. Her eyebrows lifted slightly at the word “treat.”

“All right, then,” I said. “Don't you dare tell Sara we're doing this.”

I pulled up to the speaker, ordered a chicken sandwich for myself. And for Cody, a cheeseburger and chips. (I mean french fries.) At the delivery window, I took the bag, set it down on the passenger seat. “Cheers,” I said to the snub-nosed, freckle-faced teenage boy who served me. (Sound track: some kind of squeaky-clean fifties medley. Really.) As I pulled away, I reached in and pitched the whole container of chips over my shoulder, onto the dog bed.

“Have at it, Cody!” I said. In the rearview mirror, I saw her stare in astonishment at the shower of forbidden goodies. She glanced up toward me almost guiltily.

“Okay,” I said encouragingly. “It's okay, girl. Good girl!”

Loving me more than God (that's to say, Sara), she nibbled, explored them, and then she went into a frenzy feed, wolfing them down. They were gone in seconds. Whatever that wanker Jay-hole had done to spoil her, I bet she forgot all about it now.

I headed west back into rural territory. The huge pines faded back, and the road opened up—two lanes in each direction, the tarmac laid directly down on Mother Earth, with a broad grass
meridian and grass shoulders. It was a spectacular sunny day, the kind people write songs about and remember fondly from their childhood. About a mile past McDonald's, I pulled way over onto the broad grass shoulder of the road. I rolled down Cody's window and opened the sunroof, then gestured her to come up to the passenger seat. We sat there together, man and dog, enjoying our artery-clogging burgers as the sun-warmed field gleamed green beside us. “Well,” I said to her as I finished, “that promises some fantastic indigestion sometime soon. Let's stretch our legs.”

I got out of the car, went round to the passenger door, and called Cody out away from the road. She glanced around the wide swath of green, taking it in, looked toward the shadows of the pines a hundred paces back from the highway. Then she looked at me, and bowed, and began hopping around in circles as if she had springs on all four paws, studying me for a response.

I cracked up laughing, but also felt my throat constrict. She was safe! She was here! She was cute! “Don't tell Sara I said it, but you're one supercute dog. Let's go!” I took off running toward the pine forest. Cody reared into the air, hopped like a kangaroo, and then began to chase me. Her floppy ears blew back from her face, and the whites of her eyes showed, like she was a crazed Chinese dragon.

I ran as far as the start of the pines but then stopped, the hastily consumed chicken lurching around uncomfortably within. Cody darted past me into the forest. Ten yards in, she stopped abruptly, amazed by the otherworldliness in there—an overwhelming scent of pine, with no undergrowth, little more than russet needles carpeting the springy, shaded earth. She turned slowly in circles, looked round above herself, like a little kid entering a cathedral for
the first time. Awed, but not really understanding why. She kept glancing at me in amazement, as if I had built it for her.

“Nice one, hah, Cody?” I said. “Get a good whiff, I don't think they have this in L.A.”

With my voice, the spell was broken. She reared up again and dashed ecstatically toward me, wanting to chase me again. I made a face and a raspberry sound—
pthththt
—in her direction, because I'm really mature like that, then I turned and legged it back toward the car.

Only, when I got there, I turned to see she hadn't actually chased me. She'd stopped to eat grass. Like a hungry horse, she was chomping entire mouthfuls of the stuff. Sara once explained why dogs do that. (At some point or other, Sara had explained why dogs do everything.) For an upset stomach, was it? So that was my bad—the fried food must've made her queasy. After a dozen or so chomps, she stopped grazing. She looked up and around, searching for me. She didn't seem as chipper as she had moments earlier.

“Hey, Cody,” I called out. “How you doing, pup?”

She gave me an accusatory look, then turned away, as if trying to be discreet, and her torso began to heave. On instinct, I turned away too. A moment later, I heard . . . well, you can guess.

My gorge rose just from the noise. I can handle someone vomiting if I'm drunk, but sober, forget it. I'm useless. It's as bad as dirty nappies or something. And Jesus, how long had I had her back in my care before I'd made her sick? In fairness, her rescue wasn't really my doing. This, however, was. Bollocks! Put a little damper on my giddiness, and that in turn reminded me how hungover and wrecked I still was.

I waited about half a minute, then glanced over my shoulder.
She had finished being sick, and was now trudging back toward me, shaking her head slightly from, I'm sure, the surprise of sudden sickness. When she reached me, she sat, very quietly, and looked up at me with a pleading expression. It made me feel crap, and irresponsible, which further undermined my victorious mood.

“You okay?” I asked.

She kept staring at me. She wanted comforting. My impulse to kneel down beside her was negated by my disgust at the thought of what had just come out of her mouth. “Nothing like a good barf to get over an upset stomach, eh, Cody?” I said with forced heartiness. “Works a charm for me, every time.”

She stretched her muzzle yearningly in my direction. On reflex I pulled back a step.

“C'mon. Back in the car with you,” I said suddenly, and gestured. She sat back on her haunches. “Back in the car,” I repeated, stern. She sighed, disappointed not to have wrangled more affection from me, then obediently climbed up onto the passenger seat, then back onto her bed. She began to lap at the water, and kept drinking until it was gone. I refilled it and she drank another half container. Being sick was thirsty work. I hoped it was enough that she'd purged herself. I wasn't going to find a vet en route.