“And did you ever feed the dog?” I wondered.
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t really like the dog. He was really standoffish around me, and I think he sensed that I didn’t really like him.”
“You don’t like dogs?” I asked. “Or just that one in particular?”
“That one in particular, but all dogs really.” She winced. “I’m just not good with animals. I don’t like dog hair. I don’t really like them touching me with their wet mouths. And I don’t really like the smell of them and how dirty they make things. Or the way they’re so loud.”
I grinned. “So, what you’re telling me is you don’t like kids, either?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
CHAPTER 21
I like big butts and taco trucks.
-Bruno to Belle
BRUNO
“How many times have you been to prison?” she asked curiously.
I grinned at her change of topic. How we’d gone from talking about dog adoption to prison was anyone’s guess.
“Twice,” I answered.
She tilted her head. “For how long each time?”
I thought back to that answer.
“For the first time, I spent eighteen months in there. For the second time, which was just last year, I was in for four months,” I responded.
She blinked. “You were in prison just last year? Why?”
I grimaced. “Long story short, I needed to be in there to get some information that I couldn’t shake out by other means. So I picked a fight using an alter ego that Lynn set up for me, got arrested, and then spent the time there while I waited for shit to get settled on the outside. Fast forward two months, I have the information that I need, but not the means to get myself out. It was decided, instead of Lynn pulling a get out of jail free card, I just spent the rest of my time in there that they deemed necessary.”
“I’ve never heard of someone getting into jail because they wanted to be there before,” she admitted as she sat back with a sigh and rubbed her belly.
It was then that I saw she’d unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, exposing her underwear that said ‘Holi-yay’ on them.
My eyes were glued to the green fabric.
“What did you do when you needed to let one loose?” she asked curiously.
I tilted my head. “Let one loose like a fart? Or let one loose like an orgasm?”
She blinked. “An orgasm.” She tilted her head. “I assume you’re just like any other guy in that respect. Wherever you may be, your wind goes free.”
My lips were seriously kicking up hard at the corners.
I managed not to smile, though.
“Interesting.” She grinned. “That didn’t even make you smile. You’re such a robot.”
Did it make me a robot that I didn’t laugh? Maybe.
But I’d learned from a young age that showing any joy, sadness, anger or hope was a one-way ticket to pound town.
Showing no emotion was preferable to getting a fat lip or a black eye.