Page 34 of Heart Over Heels

Their laughter was a rumble, low and familiar. That was the rhythm of this place: same stories, same arguments about who had it worse in-country, same bitching about bad backs and politics.

I could slip right into it when I wanted to, but today I caught myself drifting. Thinking about Darby. His smile across the dinner table three nights ago, the way his tail twitched like it had a mind of its own. I’d thought about him more than was sensible these past few days, and I’d watched him more than was wise when my eyes should have been on the Dollhouse door.

He confused me, and he knew it. Witty banter, flirty remarks—he tossed them out like live grenades, waiting to see if I’d flinch. And because I kept watching, I learned something I wished I hadn’t.

He did it with everyone.

He rolled his hips, shook his ass, and laid his hands on any customer who walked through the club’s doors. Especially the wealthy ones. It was like he had a radar for money, an internal compass guiding him toward deep pockets. I couldn’t always tell if the grabs were for attention or the cash tucked in someone’s wallet.

Even at our dinner, I’d seen it. Something vague and coded, but it didn’t elude me. The way that older man, presumably the manager or owner of the restaurant, came over to make a show of greeting Darby. It made a statement beyond a casual “hello.”

Was I really surprised?

Not surprised but maybe a bit… I hadn’t decided yet.

I’d promised myself to keep it professional. I only watched because Darby was small, easy to manhandle or manipulate, and I wasn’t about to let anyone harm him or any of the dolls under my supervision.

That was my job. That, and keeping Antonella informed. Though the memory of the angel’s wicked smirk when she handed me this assignment made one thing clear: sooner or later, I was bound to end up at cross purposes with myself.

“Speaking of youngest in the room,” Earl piped up, his voice gruff from a decades-long tobacco habit. “Where’s Ollie these days? I’ve been missing him for what must be a month.”

Jack grimaced. “Aw, shit. Didn’t you hear? His dog got out. Mailman left the gate open.”

“And?” Earl tipped his drink back with one liver-spotted hand.

“And it died,” Jack replied. “Got hit by a car. Ollie won’t leave the house without it. He’s real torn up.”

Earl gave a low whistle. “Damn. Well, why doesn’t he just get another one?”

Jack shook his head. “Those things cost thousands of dollars.”

“For adog?” Earl exclaimed.

Their chatter had drawn my notice, but the bartender was otherwise engaged. He leaned against the back counter with his eyes glued to whatever late afternoon rerun flickered on the TV in the corner. Anything but the news.

“It’s aspecialdog, Earl,” Jack insisted. “It can sense shit, and it helps Ollie with stuff. Haven’t you seen that vest it’s got on? Says ‘Special Animal’ right on the side.”

“Serviceanimal,” I corrected.

Jack turned. “What’s that now?”

“It saysserviceanimal,” I repeated, watching drops of condensation race down the side of my beer bottle.

In the pause, I glanced over to see Jack staring into the near distance. His mouth was bent in a look of concentration, and his belly strained against his suspenders.

“Huh,” he said at last. “Guess I never looked that close.”

I chuckled and gazed at the swamp cooler overhead, rattling and clanking as it pushed out stale air. My drink wasn’t the only thing sweating by the time Jack’s and Earl’s attention circled back around.

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” Earl squinted at me with a glimmer of mischief in his cloudy blue eyes.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ve been awful quiet,” he replied. “Got somethin’ on your mind?”

Jack leaned in to add, “Or someone?”

I snorted into my beer. “What makes you think that?”