Page 42 of Slashed Bonds

“You rich folk think we play to your tune for dollar bills?”

The man on the concrete starts to sit up. Starts to speak.

The center smiles.

Oh, that’s a bad smile.

Deadly. Cynical. The smile of somebody proving to the world he knows exactly what he’s doing and would do it again on camera.

“Don’t bother reaching out to Roz. She’s worse than me.” He tilts his head. “Time wasters can go sugarcoat some other team that gives a flying fuck.”

WOOF.

Everyone looks at Knox.

Knox is looking at the center with an expression of pure, unguarded joy, tail going like a metronome, as if this man has walked out of the building carrying the master key to every treat cupboard on earth.

“Knox…”

His leash goes taut. Then loose. Then gone.

He’s off my wrist, past the man on the ground, past the center’s knee, and through the open door into the building before my brain finishes the sentence.

Well, fuck.

I need a full fifteen seconds to process that. My six-year-old, eighty-pound, one-eyed convict of a dog has escaped into the exact building I came here to…what, exactly?

Inquire about. Audition for.

Whatever the fuck this is.

He never bolts. In five years he has never once left my side without permission, which is why the leash was looped loose around my wrist instead of wrapped tight around my fist. He sleeps against my knees. He watches doors for me. He does not sprint into strange buildings after strangers.

The center is watching me again.

One eyebrow goes up.

“Seeing as you’re with the dog that escaped,” he says, like it’s the most routine conclusion in the world, “I’m assuming you’re here for the tryout.”

A pause.

“Roz’s favorite pick.”

Favorite, huh.

“Sure,” I say.

Then I look down at the man on the concrete, who has gathered about half his paperwork and appears to be reconsidering his career.

“But if I don’t meet the standards, I want to be thrown out like that.” I nod at him. “Love dramatics.”

That gets the center’s attention.

He looks at the man on the ground. He looks back at me. And something forms on his pierced mouth that I can only call dangerous, because it isn’t friendly and it isn’t cruel, and it seems to be enjoying the distance between the two.

“I don’t ease off over bitches.”

“Good.”