Page 65 of You Spin Me

As I’m wondering what the heck I’ve gotten myself into, he turns the knob and Blondie launches herself through it. By the time Cal closes it behind us, an enormous cat is yowling even as it rubs the side of its face against Blondie’s jaw.

“Who is this?”

It’s only when Cal sweeps the cat into his arms that I notice it’s missing a leg. And a tail. And its ears have chunks taken out of them. “This is my buddy Cash.”

“Like money?”

“Like Johnny. The Man in Black?”

“What happened to him?”

The cat keeps yowling, and Blondie adds to the cacophony with a few howls. “Sorry, I’ve got to feed these two before they wake up my neighbor.”

As he does so, he explains that he found Cash by the side of the road on his way home one night. He’d been hit by a car. The people at Tufts veterinary school managed to save his life but not his leg. “He’s a Manx, so he never had a tail.”

“And what’s Blondie’s story?”

“She was a police dog. Lost the eye when she got shot in the line of duty. Her handler was killed, and his family didn’t want to keep her. I actually got her when I brought Cash home from the vet. They’d bonded while they were in recovery. I knew a little something about that, so I didn’t want to split them up.”

“I actually meant why is she called Blondie when she’s a brunette?” I ask, stroking the German shepherd’s soft fur.

“Well, Deborah Harry isn’t either.”

“Good point.”

“But I didn’t name her, so I don’t really know. Maybe the cops were fans.”

He gestures to the rest of the apartment. “Make yourself comfortable. Can I take your coat?”

“I think I’ll keep it on for now.”

“Sorry. I keep it kind of cold.” He steps behind me and turns on a space heater. “This should help.”

“Thanks.” I’m dying to poke around, but I don’t want to violate his trust, which seems like a pretty big deal to him. So I rein in my curiosity, even as I take in the open space. There’s not much furniture: a couch and a TV in one corner, weights and a punching bag by the window, a bed at the far end.

I’m tempted to crawl into his bed, but I head for the couch instead. When I get close enough, I realize that shelves line the space under the big windows. There must be hundreds of albums here. I don’t see a big, fancy stereo setup, though. Instead, there’s a rack like the ones at the studio with a turntable and some other equipment. “Where are the speakers?” is all I can think to say.

He points to the corners of the high ceiling. “My brother helped me hang those. And outfit the rest of the place.” He shrugs. “It was an empty box. Used to be a printworks.”

“It’s very cool.”

Slapping his hands against his sides, he seems a bit lost without buttons to punch and sliders to slide. He points to the couch. “Have a seat.” The dog’s already curled up on one end, and when I sit down, she growls.

Popping back up, I whisper, “She didn’t do that at the station.”

“Blondie.” His voice is sharp, but he seems surprised. “Sorry. She’s not used to visitors.”

This shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. I mean, I hate to think of him living like a monk. But I also don’t like the idea of sharing him.

I take his hand. The tattooed one. I’m still not comfortable touching his scars without permission. “Maybe we can let her see that I mean you no harm.”

“Good idea. Come on, I’ll make something to eat.”

Following him back to the kitchen area, I slide onto a barstool at the counter. He pulls a few items from the fridge, including two bottles of Heineken. He holds one up, a question in his eyes. My first thought is that I don’t need the calories, but then I remember my talk with Bella. Since the alcohol might help me calm down, I nod.

The jangly feeling behind my solar plexus is not a familiar one. Usually, once I’ve decided to go home with a guy, the next steps are clear: the removal of clothing, a bit of tongue hockey, way too much attention paid to my breasts, and if I’m lucky, an orgasm.

But something’s different here. I’m not sure how to act as he pulls out a cutting board and arranges some cheeses, a bowl of cute little pickles, another of olives. After fanning a sleeve of crackers along the edge, he looks at it for a moment before pulling a couple of knives out of a drawer. After sliding the work of art toward me and resting his elbows on the counter, his eyes hold a shyness that mirrors my own.

---