5. Criminal Dinner

five

Cam

Is it too soon to quit?

I mean, I think if I asked really nicely and apologized for the three-page letter I wrote about how terrible their company is, The Dog Shop might just give me a second chance.

After Adrian dropped me off in the salon so they could go about their day, I've been spending the rest of mine ankle-deep in dog hair and regret.

The problem is, I'm not sure if I regret the making out or taking this job. The making out was too amazing to regret, but this job is going to pay my bills.

I've never been good at first impressions. I always talk too much or too little. My body throws internal muscle raves, and it always feels like Judgement Day. I've also been told once or twice, or six times, that I come off as "uninviting." Dr. Burton was one of those times.

Thisfirst impression, however, might just have taken the cake.

Now, six hours into my shift, I am struggling. I'm struggling with the fact that I know what my boss's lips taste like, and I'm struggling with this giant, stubborn dog. What Adrian failed to mention about the large doodle is that he's only nine-months old and, on top of that, has never been groomed. The giant puppy is apprehensive and completely matted, and although I hold my patience well, not much progress has been made. He keeps throwing himself off the table as if ending his life would be a more suitable conclusion to this day than the haircut.

Maybe we have something in common.

I take a deep breath before attempting, again, to soothe the anxious pup.

"Hey baby, it's okay! It's okay! You're being so brave! Yes, you are! You're the bravest boy!" I encourage him as I gently run my clippers behind the back of his leg. "Good boy!"

This tactic is not working, but I keep trying anyway.

I might be trying to soothe the dog, but my tone is more so pleading with him at this point. Today did not start off well, and it isn't really showing signs of improving. It's only my first day, and this dog, due to no fault of its own or mine for that matter, is an absolute mess. I push the switch on my clippers backward, bringing the vibrating sensation in my hand to an end.

I rifle through my blue denim bag until I find the orange cylindrical bottle that frequently saves my life. I like to think I don't have to depend on my medication often, but my periodic Xanax refills say otherwise. Beebo the Goldendoodle definitely isn't the only thing causing my anxiety to spike.

I turn around, inhaling methodically, and my eyes travel from a dirty pair of shoes on the floor up to a recognizable, aggravating face. Avery is standing in the doorway, watching with a patronizing smile.

"What are you doing!?" I snap. I'm already getting frustrated, and sometimes, just looking at Avery puts me in a sour mood.

"I need to borrow a pair of hemostats. A dog has a splinter stuck in his paw pad. What are you doing?" Avery asks, cocking his eyebrow. His husky voice is filled with arrogance, and it pisses me off to no end. I know he doesn't actually want to know what I'm doing, but I'm holding in enough, and I can't stop the words flowing from my mouth.

"I can't get this dog to sit still long enough to shave him. And the parents didn't even want me to shave him, but he's totally matted, and I tried talking to him and soothing him, but—"

"Do you have the hemostats?" Avery interrupts impatiently, shaking his head to dismiss anything I may have mistaken as interest.

Probably for a combination of reasons, I snap. "Wow. You're a real charmer, you know that?!" I retaliate, the stress now boiling to anger. Avery has a special way of pissing me off.

Avery quirks a brow, no doubt finding my mental decline humorous. He watches my cheeks grow red and my eyebrows drop further down as I continue my rant.

"—because you think you know everything, but you don't! All you know how to do is—"

"Scratch his tail," Avery cuts in.

"You—what?"

"Scratch his tail. Beebo loves getting his tail scratched," he explains, his tone continually degrading.

I study Avery's face for a moment, attempting to decipher the rules to the game he's trying to play. I can't.

"You really think that is going to make a terrified, unsocialized puppy stop spinning and alligator-rolling? Scratching his tail?"

Listen, I've groomed a lot of dogs in my years as a groomer. I've baby-talked, scratched chins, and handed out mountains of beef-smelling treats that leave oily residue on my hands. I've tried all the holds and all the tricks, and nothing stops a doodle puppy from being a complete psychopath for its first haircut.

A dramatic scoff exits the back of my throat when Avery approaches me, his tall, broad body towering over me.

I will never, ever say this out loud, but Avery is hot. His shoulders are broad. So broad that I couldn't wrap my arms around them if I wanted to. His eyes resemble amber, and when he steps into the sun, they melt into honey. His facial hair is always kept short but scruffy, and then his personality ruins it all. I step aside, continuing to glare. I have to admit, I'm rather excited to see Avery get donkey-kicked by a seventy-pound puppy.

"When I start scratching his tail, you can go ahead and start. You'll need to move fast though. Is it just the back legs?" he asks, already positioning his arm under the nervous pup.

"Yeah, the back legs, and then I'll just hand-scissor his face."

Beebo relaxes into Avery's touch as he softly rubs the base of his tail. I tilt my head to find the right angle, part of my tongue peeking out the side of my mouth while the clippers do the work. Minutes later, I turn them off, and the majority of Beebo's haircut is finally done. Though it may not be as even as I would have liked, I'm grateful it's over with. Avery grabs the hemostats out of the toolbox and sneers.

"Told ya."

I roll my eyes so hard that it physically hurts.

Adrian, Hayden, begrudgingly Avery, and I host "theme nights" every Tuesday, where we watch Criminal Minds and cook cuisines from different countries. It was started as part of my therapy in an attempt to incorporate new foods into my rather repetitive diet. We call it "Criminal Dinner," partly due to the Criminal Minds element, but more so due to how criminally disgusting my dish always is. A few weeks ago, we did Filipino food, and I completely botched the Bagnet Kare-Kare. While the pork was like eating a bicycle tire, the show's third season finale didn't disappoint. We all enjoy these nights, but Adrian loves them the most. Plus their culinary skills blow everyone else out of the water.

This Tuesday, Adrian may have done their best. Or so Hayden and Avery say.

"This might be the best Gyro I've ever had," Hayden says through a mouthful of meat and pita bread.

Avery nods his head. "Agree."

I poke at mine with a fork, carefully peeling off the outside layer of bread that hasn't touched anything inside.

"Oh, come on Cam," Avery groans. "It's not like your dish. This one is actually edible."

How I managed to fuck up garlic hummus is a mystery to me. The dry, crumbling chickpeas made their way directly into the garbage can, as did my homemade mozzarella sticks from last week.

"Respectfully," Hayden says, before taking another massive bite, "I don't know why we keep letting you make the appetizers."

I shoot him a glare and toss a piece of pita bread at his face. It hits his cheek and falls onto the couch cushion, from which he picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

"Gross!" Adrian yells, little rays forming on their skin as they scrunch their nose. Hayden shrugs, and I let out a light laugh.

"It's fine," I say. "Probably just a little dog hair."

Adrian pretends to throw up, and then Avery gets mad because it makes him actually nauseous.

"For someone who's terrified of food poisoning, you're really gross."

"I'm a dog groomer. I accidentally eat dog hair all day long."

I push my gyro to the front of the coffee table, Dawson eyeing it inconspicuously as he lies on the floor nearby.

"How was your first day of work?" Hayden asks, clicking through the season seven episodes to find the specific one he's looking for.

A pit forms in my sinking stomach, and my heart palpitates. I wonder if it feels anything like Hayden's arrhythmia: loud, fast, thrumming against the inside of my ribcage. My breath hitches.

Truthfully, the day in itself was great. The rest of the dogs on my schedule were absolute angels, and it felt so relieving to be able to do what was right for the dogs instead of just trying to make the customers happy. A weight has been lifted off my shoulders in that I no longer have to worry about random corporate policies that make no apparent sense.

In fact, other than Beebo trying to DIY his own death, the only part of my day that was less than amazing was learning that I shoved my tongue down my boss's throat last night.

The most horrifying part of it all is that, with absolutely no warning, I fled the scene like I had just committed a crime. To be fair, that's kind of how it feels right now. I don't know why. We are two consenting adults who were having a good time. But in the pit of my stomach, it feels like I did something illegal. I think that's why I haven't told Adrian or Hayden yet.

"It was good," I say, walking over to the refrigerator. I pull out a cinnamon applesauce pouch and twist the plastic cap until it snaps off. "I like having my own space."

I suck the sweet puree into my mouth and slide down on the floor next to Dawson. He lifts his head just for a moment, then rests his chin on my lap, a small spot of drool leaking onto my thigh. I know it's kind of gross, but I love when he does that.

"By the way," Avery says gruffly, "Beebo's mom said thank you for the suggestions on brushes."

My eyebrows press together so hard that I'm surprised it doesn't leave an indent. "What?"

Avery shoots me a confused glance, then looks back at the television and takes another bite of his gyro.

"She left a tip in the till for you too."

Okay. Now I know Avery is fucking with me. Because never, in my five years of dog grooming, has a client ever been polite, or even thanked me, when I spent hours shaving their dog who was pelted to the skin. I get "I asked for a Teddy Bear cut," or sometimes the occasional shocked laugh when their dog comes in looking like a bear, then leaves looking like a naked horse. But never, ever, "thank you."

"Ha-ha," I say sarcastically, scratching gently behind Dawson's ear. He groans in appreciation, his toes spreading out in front of him in pure bliss. Adrian quirks an eyebrow, and Avery looks back at me again with that same confused expression.

"Cam, she left fifty dollars," Adrian says, and their tone tells me they aren't bullshitting me. I swallow, still shocked as to how this can be true.

"Huh? But I charged her $200!"

Avery chuckles, shaking his head and Hayden whistles dramatically.

"Babes," Adrian says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "People who can afford to bring their dog to a dog hotel don't give a shit about money. And Beebo's mom is awesome. She owns Mountain Scoops, so she always brings us free samples."

Mountain Scoops Creamery has the best ice cream known to man. All of its flavors are Pacific-Northwest-themed. Puget Sound Pistachio, Huckleberry Lilac, Rainier Rocky Road. But my favorite, and the only one I've ever tried, is the Seattle Strawberry Swirl.

"What?" I ask, my eyebrows practically touching my hairline. They both chuckle again.

"Wow. Corporate really did a number on you, huh, kid?" Avery says. He always calls me kid like he isn't only a year older than me. It's so condescending. Adrian bursts into laughter and smacks Avery's arm repeatedly as they struggle to get their words out.

"Remember when Carlos-wh-when he thought the Peanut Butter Dream was for humans, and he ate the entire pint because he didn't know it was a sample for the dogs?" They cackle, gripping their stomach as their eyes well with hysterical tears. Avery's cheeks pink as he recounts the event.

"Oh my god, I forgot about that."

Hayden and I giggle at the thought, even though neither of us were there.

"I don't think I met Carlos," I say, flipping through mental flashcards of the few people I was introduced to today. There was Martha, the receptionist. Brooke was young, no older than sixteen, and I was honestly kind of confused as to why she wasn't at school. Then, there was Malcolm, a twenty-something-year-old that was possibly but not definitively stoned. And of course, who could forget Violet? But nothing comes to mind at the name "Carlos." Avery shakes his head, running a hand through his thick brown hair.

"Oh, Carlos doesn't work there anymore," Adrian says, waving a hand like it's nothing to worry about. "He got fired."

Hayden's eyes widen, and I choke on my applesauce.

"What?"

People get fired anywhere. I know that. But if there are any random things I could do that would get me into trouble, I want to know what they are. You know, like telling parents how to brush their dogs.

"Calm down, calm down," Adrian says, already knowing exactly where my brain was dragging me to. "It was an unconventional situation."

I stare at them, anxiously tugging at the strands of hair tickling the back of my neck.

Vague explanations don't work for me. I need to know the exact details of a situation. The fine print. I'm the type of person who reads the terms and conditions before clicking "accept." Adrian knows this.

They sigh, leaning back into the couch. I know it gets exhausting for them, to have to hold my hand through every little thing. I feel terrible about it, and I try really, really hard not to do it all the time. But it feels impossible to just move on. My brain gets attached to the subject until my mind is at ease. I can't eat, sleep, or think about anything else until I get the answers my brain is looking for. That's another reason Adrian is so amazing. They always break things down for me, even if it has no significance at all in the end.

"So," they say, now leaning forward, their arms resting on their knees like they're about to tell a campfire story. Adrian is a wonderful storyteller. "Once upon a time, there was a manager named Carlos. Carlos was kinda cool. Then, one day, Carlos hired a girl named Annie. Annie was kind of a bitch."

Hayden clears his throat, shooting Adrian a dissatisfied glance. Adrian rolls their eyes and corrects themself.

"Annie was unpleasant. Annie and Carlos started dating, but secretly, she was giving another kennel tech Dale shifts on the side. If you know what I mean." They wiggle their eyebrows, and all three of us shake our heads, stifling our laughs. "Well, one day, Carlos found out, and it was pretty much World War III in the lobby."

I give them a "seriously" look, but Avery's eyes widen, and he nods his head, confirming.

"Carlos and Dale were straight up mauling each other," he adds. "It was gruesome."

"Damn," Hayden mutters. "I mean, you know how much I love women, but no woman is worth all that."

His eyes flick over to me, and I nod in agreement. "Nobody is worth all that."

"Right? Especially bitc-people like Annie."

Adrian doesn't use the word "bitch" in a derogatory, woman-hating manner. They use it for any gender of person, either out of love or pure distaste. And if Adrian is calling someone a bitch, chances are, they probably are one.

"Anyway," Avery says, taking my uneaten gyro into his hands. "That's why Angela made that rule."

I tilt my head, frowning. "What rule?"

He takes a massive bite of the gyro. "You know. The ‘no fucking' rule." Adrian lightly smacks his shoulder.

"He means the ‘no fraternization' rule. After that, Angela decided to instate a strict no-dating, no-nothing policy, which is totally fair if you ask me."

It feels like I swallowed a rock, with how large and dry the lump in my throat is. It's difficult to funnel air into my lungs with it blocking its path. I cough, feeling as if my lungs are filling with water. Heat pours over my cheeks, my throat burning as I continue clearing it repetitively. Avery casually slides a glass of water over to me, and Adrian hops off the couch to rub circles on my back.

"Damn, babes, you good?"

I try to nod my head, which in some twisted way is supposed to communicate that I'm fine. I take a strained breath and finally feel like I can breathe for the first time in sixty seconds.

"It's okay, Cam," Hayden says, after I give them all a thumbs-up to signal I'm okay. "I don't work there, so we're totally good."