Page 25 of The Revenge Game
I stare at his message.
How do I explain the complex mix of feelings that seeing Justin’s reaction to my revenge prank caused? How do I explain how every interaction with him leaves me more confused?
It’s going okay. I’ll tell you more about it when you get here.
Chapter Eight
Justin
“For the last time, Moose, you are not a lapdog.” I attempt to reason with the hundred-and-fifty-pound mastiff trying to edge himself onto my lap.
“Are you being sizeist, Justin?” Lucy, another volunteer, looks up from where she’s scrubbing out a kennel.
“I’m just being realistic. I don’t think we’re doing Moose’s future owners any favors by making him believe that people will be enthusiastic about having a mastiff use them as a human beanbag.”
I scratch Moose’s ears to reduce the sting of my comment. He leans into my hand. I swear if Moose was a cat, he would purr.
Saturday mornings at the Second Chances Animal Shelter are my sanctuary. With dogs and cats, there’s no judgment or expectations. Just unconditional acceptance, even if it comes with a side of drool.
The shelter manager, Maria, corners me as I finish Moose’s walk.
“So, about the fundraiser…” she begins, and I’m immediately nervous. Maria with a clipboard and that particular gleam in her eye is dangerous.
“We need some special auction items,” she continues. “Things that will really draw the crowds. I want to auction off a date with you.”
I nearly drop Moose’s leash. “What?”
“You’re perfect! Successful, handsome, good with animals.” She taps her pen against the clipboard. “And you know we need this fundraiser to be successful.”
I do know. Maria does a fabulous job at managing to keep the shelter afloat, but I know the annual fundraiser is the difference between keeping our doors open or turning animals away.
The thought of saying no to cases like Moose, who came to us so scared he wouldn’t let anyone near him, makes my chest tight.
“That’s emotional blackmail,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Is it working?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll get started on the marketing. How do you feel about posing with puppies for the promotional photos?”
A memory slips into my mind. Me clutching an injured kitten and a deep-pitched voice laced with contempt.
“Real men don’t cuddle animals. They shoot them.”
I push the voice away. It’s not welcome in my head.
“Sure, I’m happy to help however you want me,” I tell Maria.
After I finish at the shelter, I go back home to grab a quick lunch before I head to the gym, which is my usual Saturday afternoon routine.
I like having routines to fill the void of my weekends.
When I first arrived in London, I tried to find a friendship group among other ex-pats. But I got sick of my new friends trying to set me up, of the well-meaning suggestions that their friend Sarah/Emma/Jessica would be perfect for me.
True friendship is difficult when you’re concealing such a large part of yourself.
It’s easier in a big city to melt into anonymity. Now, my social life normally only involves drinks with my colleagues and clients, where the talk is nearly always about work or sports.
