An American Werewolf in Hoboken (11 page)

But he’d proven her wrong. They were getting to know each other. They’d spent every night since they’d met together. At his place, of course, so she wouldn’t find out her new man and her dog were one in the same—and in the process, he’d learned a million little things about her.

One of them was, she was a crappy liar.

This “checkup” was a big fat lie.

He’d heard her on the phone while he was napping. She was going to have his teeth cleaned and his anal glands milked.

Max shuddered.

JC sighed at him, cupping his muzzle in his hand, her beautiful eyes searching his. “You know, don’t you? How do you always know?”

Because I’m the guy you told last night just before you made insane love to me? And brought it back up again afterward while we ate Chinese, nearly spoiling my lo mein?

This deception was killing him. If he wasn’t worried about talking her into coming to his place and leaving his alternate personality Fluffy at home alone, he was trying to sneak back into her house and get in that stupid crate she’d bought before she got to her bedroom.

It was hell getting into that infernal cage in his human form. He had to get in while human so he still had fingers available to slide the latch shut, and then shift back—and all before JC came to take him on what she called “walkies” before they went to bed.

It was a good thing he had uncanny speed on his side or he’d be sunk.

But the time spent with JC was worth it. Worth every minute he had to lie to her. Worth every minute he invested in running from his apartment to hers. He loved hearing her laugh, he loved that she’d gotten comfortable with how quickly they’d become involved.

He loved when her hair was tousled around her shoulders after they made love. He loved the way her cheeks turned a deep shade of red when he told her the things he wanted to do to her.

He loved when she dug into a hearty meal as if it were the last one on Earth, but daintily burped as though she were avoiding a felonious act.

With all of that came the worry. The worry about the lies he was essentially telling her by pretending to be her dog. The worry that when the time came to tell her he’d die if they didn’t mate, she’d walk away and never look back. Because to hear him say it out loud, to hear himself speak the words like he had in the mirror just yesterday, sounded goddamn crazy.

If JC didn’t love Fluffy so much, if Max didn’t have to see how happy his shifter form made her, hear her talk about him as if he were a member of her family, he’d make Fluffy disappear forever—or at least until he could tell her what he was.

But Max couldn’t bear her tears, not since that first night when JC had thought Fluffy had run away. Seeing her cry was like knives in his gut—tiny pinpoints of pain.

But he couldn’t date her for a mere two weeks then say, “Hey, by the way—I’m also your dog.” He needed to learn more about her, gauge how she reacted to things, weigh his options.

So he kept playing along, falling harder and harder as the days went by, until he could figure out how to present himself without giving her a heart attack.

Until then, there was this.

JC rose, tightening the scarf she wore around her neck. “Buddy? We gotta do this. We can’t put it off any longer. Remember that night you ran away?”

Distinctly.

She put her palm on his head, stroking him. “Well, what if you were out carousing? You know, just being a manly man dog. Let’s say you run into a smokin’ Chihuahua? Like, Mrs. Obermeyer’s Chihuahua, for instance. She’s always getting out. You know, little Ophelia?”

Right. Ophelia, the cute, cream-colored longhaired Chihuahua. She was the only dog who’d acknowledged him at the dog park last Saturday during his socialization classes—treated him as if he belonged.

No one wanted to play with Fluffy because everyone was too afraid of him, pets and owners alike. It probably didn’t help that he’d had on a T-shirt that read, “I’m Not Fat. I’m Fluffy.”
Ha. Ha.
The fit of giggles JC erupted into when she’d found it online and showed it to him still rang in his ears.

The second Mrs. Obermeyer had taken one look at him, she’d scooped Ophelia up as if he’d attacked her, when in reality he’d just wanted to sniff her so he could pinpoint the kind of beef jerky she’d eaten.

As Max was in the process of waffling between teriyaki-flavored or hickory-smoked, Mrs. Obermeyer had yanked Ophelia from the ground and tucked her into her ugly down jacket as if he were frothing at the mouth.

End play date. Sad panda.

So anyway, Ophelia. He tuned back in to what JC was saying.

“Mrs. Obermeyer told me Ophelia isn’t spayed just yet. Can you imagine the kind of havoc it would wreak if you and Ophelia were to…” She flapped a hand as though whatever she was thinking was unspeakable. “I can’t even say it out loud. So, according to the vet and all my animal-loving friends, this procedure will keep you from wanting to roam and…you know—
do the do
with Ophelia. And you have to have a checkup to be sure you’re up to it before we can schedule an appointment.”

Do the do with Ophelia?
Damn, that
was
unspeakable.

But wait. Hold the phone. There’d been no talk of bringing him to the vet so he wouldn’t
do the do
.

More vaccinations and a teeth cleaning, yep. Preventing him from doing the do? Not a word.

While he was busy in full panic mode, JC caught him off guard and gave the leash attached to his harness a hard yank, pulling him into the doorway of the vet’s office before he could regain his footing.

The loud clatter they made when they stumbled in together, JC’s heels clacking on the tile and his toenails scratching and scuffing, had everyone in the waiting area turning to stare at them.

JC virtually fell into the reception desk while various dogs and cats shuffled their feet and Max tried to figure out how he was going to get the hell out of there.

The receptionist, an older woman with a kind face, leaned over and gave him the once over. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. He’s—”

“Enormous,” JC said with a good-natured laugh. Both of them were growing used to that label. “I know. We’re still working on his behavioral issues, right, buddy?” She glanced down at him with those beautiful eyes. Eyes that held a familiar warning—
behave or lose one of those vile baked peanut butter and acai-blueberry treats
.

As JC talked with the receptionist, Max sat beside her and twitched—not only because he was headed for an evaluation to have his manhood callously ripped from his body, but because of all the little eyes upon him. Little beady eyes. Some held fear. Some were wide and glazed and others held amused scorn, as if he wasn’t good enough to breathe their air.

If the other animals in the waiting room could talk, they’d make fun of him. He sensed it—smelled it.

Was it his hair? He’d caught a glimpse of it today in that full-length mirror JC had on the back of her bedroom door. It
was
pretty fluffy, but was it so fluffy he should endure the cruel stares of his contemporaries?

Christ. You’re a man, Adams. Act like it. And while you’re at it, you’d damn well better figure out a way to handle this—before they take what’s left of your manhood. Think. Think fast.

JC smiled at the receptionist before leading him to an empty chair and grabbing a magazine, keeping the leash held tight in her hand. As they’d waded farther into the small waiting room, pet owners were assholes and elbows, scooping up their pets to tuck them safely on their laps with wary glances.

He was beginning to feel like Beast from that Disney movie his cousin’s daughter loved so much. Max slumped to the floor and sighed with defeat when he caught a white French poodle eyeing him from the corner of the room as though he had two heads.

All this rejection was hardcore.

Really? Should you be thinking about the in-crowd snubbing you, or should you be figuring a way out of this? Because you’re headed for the scalpel, Mr. Sensitive.

An unleashed dachshund came trailing in, yipping and jumping beside his owner’s feet. Max buried his head under his paws to silence the sharp barks in order to think.

A cold nose nudged him. Lifting his head, Max stared into the soft, doe-like eyes of the dachshund. It backed away in a playful dance and barked again, its auburn hair shiny and long, bouncing and behaving quite nicely, he mused.
Must be nice to have such a manageable coat—bet you have friends, too.

“Wow, he’s a big guy, huh?” The owner of the dachshund assessed Max with a whistle, dropping into a chair beside JC.

JC chuckled, reaching down to place that warning hand on his head—the one that said,
make a move and you’re meat
. “Yes, he’s big, and he seems to really like your dog, which, based on his past performance, is unusual. What a good boy, Fluff,” JC praised.

Yes. He was a good dog. Good, good, good.

And in the spirit of being a good dog, he didn’t eat the little dachshund whole when the thing gnawed on one of his ears contentedly.

“What’s your dog’s name?” JC asked, setting the magazine aside.

The elderly man settled in beside her, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Killer.”

Killer?
Killer
? That was grossly unjust.

“And your dog’s name?”

“Fluffy.”

The elderly gentleman who wore too much Old Spice cologne coughed, clearing his throat. “Sorry, did you say
Fluffy
?”

The whole room went silent for a moment before an astonished flutter of gasps rippled through the crowded waiting area.

He was like a boy named Sue.

Max growled, low and menacing. He’d show all these mean, snooty, self-entitled dogs all about the Fluffy.

Rawr.

But JC nudged his hindquarter with her foot without breaking a stride in her conversation. It was another warning. They’d been practicing direction and all sorts of techniques she’d learned from watching YouTube videos and reading the books her friend Viv gave her. When she made that weird noise with her tongue pressed to her teeth like The Dog Whisperer, she meant business.

Max slumped back down in defeat and let Killer finish the job.

“JC Jenson and Fluffy?” a pretty redheaded nurse from behind the reception desk called out, her eyes scanning the reception area. When they landed on him, they widened for a brief second before she plastered a fake smile on her face to cover her fear.

The nurse was the final nail in his coffin. He really was an outsider. Like Rudolph or the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Ouch.

“C’mon, big guy, let’s go. And
you
, mister, behave,” JC admonished as she kneeled and rubbed Killer’s belly, making him putty in her hands while the dachshund squealed his happiness.

He couldn’t be mad at Killer. Really, who could blame him for liking JC’s special belly rubs?

“Thanks for playing with Fluffy, Killer,” she cooed at him. “I hope you have a healthy checkup, little man.” She shot a smile at Killer’s owner before rising and pulling Max with her.

When he didn’t move, she gave him the eye. “Fluff, when I tug, that means up and at ’em, sweetie.”

Right. On top of everything else, he was having trouble remembering his commands.
Sit. Stay. Heel. I have to make potties.
So much to remember.

Max strolled past all the mean puppies who had silently mocked him, holding his head high.
Elitist jerks.

As they approached the nurse, she attempted to make herself small, pushing back against the door leading to the examination rooms.

JC just smiled at her with sympathy. “Don’t be afraid. He’s really a love. I know his size is intimidating, but he’s getting much better around strangers—we’ve been working hard, right, Fluff-a-nutter?”

So hard.

“Comforting,” the nurse mumbled, pointing to a room on the left and dropping his chart into the plastic basket on the door.

JC pulled him behind her, taking the seat by the examination table, which, if he was estimating right, wasn’t long enough for him.

While they waited for the doctor, and JC used calming words and gentle strokes to keep him settled, he tried to psych himself up for this examine.

Be nice. Don’t growl. No sudden moves. Suck it up, buttercup.

Under no circumstances should you eat the doctor.

Figure out how to tell JC who and what you are before she schedules that neuter.

When the doctor came in the door, he stopped dead in his tracks and gave Max the same eyeball treatment everyone else had before he recovered and held out his hand. The vet’s classically handsome face gave way to one of those smiles on all the toothpaste commercials the moment he saw what JC looked like.

Max swallowed a low warning growl.
Play nice, Fluffy.

“Ms. Jensen, I’m Doctor Jacobs. So this is Fluffy, huh? When the staff said you told them he was unusual, I didn’t realize
how
unusual.”

He watched as the good doctor snuck a peek at his woman’s backend when JC turned to grab her purse then nodded with silent appreciation.

I will eat you. I’ll leave no trace of your existence.
He fought his anger. Fought it hard. Clamped his muzzle shut until he thought his teeth would crack.

JC’s laughter tinkled through the sterile air, making his hair stand on end. That was the same damn flirty laugh she used with him.

Leaning toward the doctor, she said, “I know. He’s big. I think I’ve heard every synonym for that word since adopting him. Yes, he’s monstrous, but he’s really starting to socialize and he seems to be making himself more at home now—more comfortable. We’ve got a schedule and a pretty good daily routine worked out.”

Dr. Jacobs knelt in front of Max, his perfect features—with their soft angles and boy-next-door planes—swimming in front of his eyes, mocking him. He was everything all women loved. And he was a doctor—a nice one.

Asshat.

The vet reached a hand out and scratched him on the head. “Hey, big guy,” he said with far more cheer than Max liked as he flapped one of his ears open and stuck something into it.