Page 6 of Doggy Style

Two dozen purebred puppies have been artistically arranged in designer plastic crates against the back wall, but unlike some other stores, we’re treating every dog wonderfully. Our puppies receive the best food, toys, and medical care that money can buy.

Hugh, who is also my childhood best friend, stands at the front of the store, peering out the window. Dude is nothing like me. I’m tall; he’s short. I spend hours in the gym; he spends hours playing Xbox. I love to surf; the guy can’t swim. But he’s my right-hand man. He has been completely supportive of this entire store concept, and I’m excited to build it with him, but he doesn’t know anything about dogs either. I just figured this would be a good business opportunity to capitalize on my notoriety.

I slap Hugh on the back. “Where is she?”

“There. She keeps chanting, ‘Save the dogs!’ I think she’s one of those psycho animal protesters.”

Great. Just what I need. Bad publicity. But I’ve learned the hard way that any buzz is a good buzz. Maybe I can find a way to spin this.

When I squint through the frosted glass window, my feelings of anxiety morph into lust.

Handcuffed to our front door is a stunningly beautiful woman. She has waist-length black hair that grazes her incredibly round ass, full breasts that fill out her tight black t-shirt, and plump pink lips that are practically begging to be kissed. Her left arm has a kickass Catrina tattoo—a sexy skeleton girl with a cross on her forehead and a red rose under her chin.

I unlock the door, careful not to hit her as I open it, step outside, and give her a smile. “If you wanted to meet me, you could’ve just knocked.”

At the sound of my voice, she takes a step back. The moment her dark eyes meet mine, I see her breath falter slightly and her pupils dilate with desire.

This hunter has found his prey.

The moment exists for mere seconds before her look of lust is replaced by rage. A scowl crosses her face as she retorts, “Meet you? Wow, arrogant much? Why on earth would I want to meet a womanizing fame whore who sells puppies? You’re disgusting.”

A womanizing fame whore? I’m not a cheater; I had been faithful and loyal to Kira. And now I’m single. But damn. Hugh’s right. She is one of those animal activists. Maybe she’s posed naked for a PETA ad?

I make a mental note to get her name and Google her.

I point to the cuffs. “Got a key for those? Or should I saw them off? Hey, if you’re into some BDSM, I’m your man.”

She flicks me off.

Damn, she’s a feisty one.

“You’ll never be my man. And I’m not leaving until you stop selling puppies here. Do you know that one point five million animals are killed in shelters every year?”

I’ve heard that number thrown around before, but I’m pretty sure it’s exaggerated. Kira had been involved with rescuing beagles from testing laboratories, but I don’t know too much about shelter dogs. “Look, people will always buy puppies. Our dogs come from good breeders. Would you like to come inside and see them?”

She sneers at me, and a few people walking down the street stop to stare at her as her voice gets louder.

“Oh, I know all about your dogs. I have devoted my life to rescuing their mothers, who spend their lives crammed into steel crates on farms until they’re drowned or shot when they can no longer breed. And there’s no such thing as a responsible breeder. It’s an oxymoron. Actually, you’re the moron. You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about!”

Whoa. Her face is red, and she bares her teeth at me like a rabid dog.

But beneath her fury, I see determination. Dedication to her cause. It’s a look that I recognize from the battlefield.

I have many faults, but overreacting isn’t one of them. As a former sniper, I was trained to remain calm under pressure. And this beautiful woman is clearly enraged. I decide not to antagonize her further.

I lean on the wall next to her. “Hey, relax. What’s your name?”

“Don’t you tell me to relax. Saving dogs is my life. I run a rescue. Earlier today, I saved three dogs today from a shelter only a few miles from here. They were scheduled to be murdered, and hundreds of dogs die there daily. And there’s nothing I can do about it. And now, because of your stupid store, even more will be slaughtered.”

Her voice is choked with emotion. And for the first time since I came up with the idea to open the store, I question whether I’m doing the right thing.

But the self-doubt only lasts for a second. Of course, I’m doing the right thing. I researched and found the best breeders. This is America. I risked my life in Iraq for our freedom, and that freedom extends to having choices about where to acquire your pets.

“Let’s start over. I’m Preston Evans. Tell you what, if you uncuff yourself, I’ll listen to everything you have to say. Let me take you to dinner. There’s a great little restaurant down the street.”

Her beautiful eyes widen in surprise. “Dinner? With you? No. That’s out of the question. I’m not going anywhere with you. And I sure as hell won’t let you open this store.”

I touch her shoulder, and she flinches. I raise my hands in mock surrender. “I get that, but I’m a businessman. I’m willing to listen to your points and facts, and then I’ll make an educated decision. Although I’m not promising anything. That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”