Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68390 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“If you’re lonely, I’m sorry, but why don’t you get yourself a dog?”
I almost laugh because, really? Are we that in tune that we’re on the same wavelength about dogs here? “Um, I don’t think I’m looking for that kind of relationship.”
“I know you’re not the kind of woman who does one-night stands.” Smitty’s voice goes from deep to deeper. “But more importantly, you’re not the kind that goes back on her word.”
“I want to be that woman, Smitty, but I don’t know. I can’t make any promises.”
Actually, I can. Because this phone call is actually bull. I know I won’t find someone and take them home. I could never do that. But it doesn’t hurt to vent. And who am I supposed to vent to? Only a few people in this world know the truth. And that’s me, Smitty, and his client—as he terms him. My family thinks I got the money from my song going viral, then selling the rights to it, and some of my other work to some big record exec who discovered me and didn’t like me but liked my music. That’s the convoluted story I gave them, but it worked. It explained where I got a large chunk of money from, why I took the video down, and why I haven’t put anything else up.
My mom didn’t even know the whole story, and she still begged me not to give up the rights to my songs, even knowing that as she was telling me not to give up something that should have been mine, she was resigning her son to a life of never being able to walk properly again. My brother shattered his knee in a stupid dirt bike accident. On a friend’s bike. Driving it when he didn’t really know how.
It was pretty easy to convince my mom in the end that songs didn’t matter. My brother did. When I put it like that, she understood, even if she sensed there was more, and I wasn’t telling her all of it.
“I’m going to get you a dog. I’ll have him or her delivered within the hour. Personally. I will personally pick him or her out for you.”
I know he won’t do it. Smitty has more important things to do. These are empty threats. Just like I’m calling him to threaten and vent because he’s the only one I can call at this point. It’s not like I know my husband’s number. It’s not like I know anything about him. He could be called Buttfink Finkle Finkleton the Eighth and makes his oodles of money by selling photos of his hairy big toe, for all I know.
Fine, so I know he’s not named Buttfink, and I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes, although they might be hairy. Do I know he doesn’t sell photos of his toes? No. No, I don’t. But I would bet he doesn’t.
“Okay, Smitty. I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay, Miss Bull. Take care. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up, confident he’s bluffing and that he’s called my bluff. That we’re both bluffers, and all this amounted to nothing, though I do feel just a little bit better. Smitty has that effect for some reason.
Two hours later, I realized one of us wasn’t bluffing.
I open the door to a red-bearded, big-hearted, big juggernaut lawyer dude in one of those custom huge and extra huge and then some suits, holding what can only be described as an old and slightly moldy ancient-looking dog in his arms.
It only has one eye and one ear on opposite sides, half a tail, and very, very strange fur. And its tongue lolls out. Permanently, I think. There is also a decrepit odor that has to be the dog because Smitty doesn’t smell like old armpits.
“His name is Beans, but you can change it if you want. He’s had a hard run of things, but his luck changed today because you’re going to love him. He’s your new best friend.”
He holds out his arms, and the dog rips a massive fart. It absolutely rips it. Like, loudly. And eye wateringly too. What were they feeding this guy? The dog probably also weighs at least sixty pounds. It’s not a small breed. I’m not sure what breed it is. It’s some terrifyingly cute mix of every single breed on Earth. Honesty, he looks more like a scraggly potato than a Beans.
The poor thing’s tongue is lolling out, and it makes me think he can taste the fart. Dear god, I hope he can’t taste the fart. It’s potent. So, so potent. I can feel myself tearing up because it’s that bad.
“Can you set him down on the couch?” I shouldn’t be asking this. I should be telling Smitty absolutely not and to take that dog back to wherever he got it, but it was probably a shelter, and who knows? Maybe this poor guy won’t find another home. He’s old. He’s a scraggly potato with mold, and he looks very, very sad.