Consumed (Firefighters #1)(22)

And as he thought about his sister, and how she wouldn’t have answered if he’d called her, he decided he hadn’t expected a lot about life.

He left his vehicle unlocked and went to the back door—

What . . . the fuck?

A shadow thrown on the lawn from the far side of the building suggested some douchebag was taking a piss on the stationhouse.

The bastard was literally planted there with his hand on his hose, a fine stream of urine arcing from the tip of his dick.

Tom marched over without screaming so he could catch the SOB and rub his nose in the mess like a fucking dog—

As he came around the corner, he stopped and became even more furious. The guy was wearing a New Brunswick FD navy blue T-shirt, navy blue work pants, and work boots. Everything was so new, there were no scuffs on those Carhartts, and both the shirt and pants still had creases from when they’d been folded at the factory.

“Goddamn it!”

The new recruit spun around, and his cock came with him, a golden stream fanning out so that Tom had to jump back.

You want to talk about pale? The f-nug, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-two, turned white as a Band-Aid pad. Then again, Tom’s mug had been in the paper a lot, and there were few in town who wouldn’t have recognized his salt-and-pepper hair.

Which was turning whiter by the frickin’ second.

“OhmyGod.”

“He pulled the lemonade trick, didn’t he,” Tom muttered.

“The bathrooms are out of commission! Chief, I swear, I—”

“Zip your dick up and get back inside—but first hose off my fucking house.”

Tom left the recruit and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he went inside. Sure enough, front and center on the mess hall’s table was a big fat jug of lemonade—that was three-quarters of the way empty. As well as a glass.

“Damnit!” he yelled. “You get your ass to my office right fucking now!”

Same shit, different day.



* * *



Across town, at Metro Emergency Veterinary Clinic, Anne stood up as the vet came in. She’d been waiting in this exam room for the last hour and she wiped her sweaty hands on the seat of her slacks.

“How’re we doing?” she asked.

Dr. Delgado was a fifty-year-old woman with thick dark hair, no makeup, and the kind of face that made your heart rate ease up.

“Well,” she said, “we’re malnourished. We have worms. Fleas. Ticks. An infection in the ear flap and in the shoulder. A paw with a laceration in between the pads. There’s a tooth cracked in the back our mouth that will have to be removed. Do you want to come see him?”

“Ah . . . sure. Yes.”

The vet smiled. “Come this way. He’s been neutered, by the way, so he was owned by someone at some point.”

Anne followed the woman out and down the corridor of exam rooms, the muffled barks and meows behind the closed doors suggesting the practice was a busy one. Entering a more clinical space, they proceeded over to a line of cages. The stray was down at the far end, curled in the corner as if he were terrified but used to being helpless.

“Hey, big guy,” Anne murmured as she went across and got down on her haunches. “How you feeling?”

A tentative wag greeted her, just the tip of the tail moving.

“He recognizes you,” Dr. Delgado said. “Anyway, you can pick him up tomorrow, assuming he does well on the antibiotic shot. I had to give him some powerful—”

“Pick him up?” Anne got to her feet. “I don’t understand.”

Now the vet’s face grew remote. “I thought you were adopting him.”

“I can’t— I mean, no. I’m not a dog person. I’m not a pet person.” She rushed on with, “But I mean, I’ll pay for the charges. And his food and stuff until he’s adopted.”

“We’re not really equipped to hold onto him after he’s been treated.”

“You must have people who want dogs, though.”

“I’ll do what I can. But he’s part pit and that can be a problem. If we can’t find someone, he’ll have to go to a shelter.”

Anne took a deep breath. “Okay, and someone will take him home from there, then.” There was a pause. “Right? I mean, people adopt all the time. He’ll find somebody to care for him.”

“He’ll have a week. If he’s lucky. But again, with the pit in him, I’m not sure anyone will want him.” The vet took a step back. “We have your credit card. I’ll keep you posted on the charges.”

“And how he is?”

“If you want”—the vet put out her hand—“I’ll be in touch.”

Anne shook the palm that was offered and then looked back through the steel weave of the cage. The dog stared up at her, his exhausted, pale brown eyes suggesting that all the things getting done to him and the stuff being pumped into his frail body was just one more scene in a nightmare that had started a long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the dog. “I really am.”

He wagged one last time and put his head down on the paw that wasn’t bandaged. As Anne turned away, she got busy checking out the clinical space, everything so neat and clean, the techs and vets walking with purpose, the stainless steel tables and X-ray machines and clear-fronted cabinets of supplies as professional as any human-grade clinic she’d ever been to.