Ruff Trouble

Chapter 2-2

“Did he say bathroom for my sake? I’ve heard Sam use franker words for taking a trip to the loo.” Chantelle’s tone lifted with a cadence of surprise. Her smell indicated amusement as did the twitch of her lips.

“Probably. He tries to be polite around you.”

“Polite, but…”

They looked at each other.

“Moody.” They spoke in unison, laughing. The waiter came over; they ordered.

“You honestly think Sam would be into the three of us if we offered?” Bobby rearranged his cutlery for no good reason.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t mind sharing your guy?”

Chantelle pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t like sharing you with another woman.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Yeah, I know. I take it you mind sharing me with Sam?” The lilt of her voice made it a question, her expression thoughtful. Her smell told him otherwise; pensive more like. Anxiety tightened the skin around her eyes.

“You blame me for wanting you all to myself?”

“No. I just…He’s not going to put up with this. He will quit his job.”

“He’ll quit his job, anyway, was going to even before the accident. He was good at it, but I can’t say he ever considered it a calling.”

These facts had been easy to collect from Sam’s scent. When people loved what they were doing to a degree where it fulfilled their spirit, it left a detectable odour. General happiness came through as less distinct. Some days Sam was generally happy, but it had never satisfied him, not as Bobby remembered. Not physically, or sexually. Bobby had ignored these things, because they were men, and a man didn’t interrogate another man about his feelings. Even when Sam had been injured, they’d laughed it off, slapped each other on the backs. The officers at the precinct had called Sam a lucky sod for being confined to a desk job and let him hide behind the pretence. Bobby had let Sam shrug and say, “Them’s the breaks,” without questioning the statement. “He’s no happier behind a desk full-time than I would be.”

“True, but it’s not solely the job. He’s going to move.”

“Move?”

“Ask him. He’s ready for change, because if his life doesn’t, he will curl up under the pain.”

“Pain?”

Chantelle sighed, the sound deliberate. “Christ, you…” She appeared to struggle for the right word and settled for, “Men! You’re all the same, no matter the species. Pain of the accident, of wanting someone he believes he can’t have, of not knowing where his life is heading. He needs a new start, and it includes moving away from everything and everyone he’s known. I’ll lay odds.”

“How can you know? Don’t tell me you can smell all that?” Bobby didn’t, though it wouldn’t be the first time her scent perception proved to be sharper than his, if by a margin.

She smiled a strange I’m a woman and I know everything smile.

“Fine. I’ll ask him.”

“And if I’m right? Can you reconcile with it? With not having Sam in your life? Because that’s what it means, you know. If Sam moves away, he intends to break ties with us. He has to, for his sanity.”

“I’m not even sure about his loving me.”

“Smell him.”

“I have. All I’m getting is belligerence.”

“Of course you are. We need to get him in the right situation.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We eat. We chat. We take this party back to…your place with a bottle.”

Bobby was sure she’d almost said our place. No one knew of their relationship except Sam, and both had their own homes to go to, but Chantelle spent many a night at Bobby’s home. One day their luck would run out. Once discovered, even in the unlikely event someone allowed them to keep working at the same station owing to a lack of manpower, they’d never be on the same rota again.

How much more complicated would the work situation be if they brought Sam into their relationship? Would theirs be the first British police station to deal with a ménage situation? As far as he knew no one had written that into the rule book.

“We get him relaxed,” Chantelle finished saying.

Sam and relaxation didn’t go together. Chantelle shook her head at his expression.

“There’s no point, though, if you’re unhappy about this.” Chantelle leaned over the table, her attitude urgent. “Bobby, he’s been gone too long for your average trip to the bathroom. I’d say he’s taking his time to avoid us. He doesn’t even want to be with us over a meal.”

She stared out the window, speaking while appearing to study the moving traffic, though there was every chance she didn’t focus on anything. “I love you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours, and the only way I’ll ever leave you is owing to some misfortune or disaster. None of this would be a problem if you and Sam hadn’t been an item before I came along.”

The waiter had brought their drinks, and Bobby almost choked on his first swallow of beer. “Sam and I were never an item.”

She chewed on her lip. “No? Before the accident, what was your relationship? If you’d known of Sam’s feelings, would you have made a move?”

With dog species, humping was a dominance issue regardless of sexuality. Among shape-shifters lines blurred, were complicated. “I’ve never wanted to dominate Sam. Our working involvement was equal.” His statement sounded questioning even to his own ears.

“It was? Did he ever defer to you?”

Bobby rubbed his thumb and index finger over his forehead, pinching the skin, trying to deter a growing headache. “Sometimes.”

“All the time. Given the chance, he would have rolled onto his back, all four paws in the air.”

“Sam doesn’t have paws.”

Chantelle smirked. “Metaphorical paws. If he’d presented to you, what would you have done?”

“Fine. If I’d realised what he wanted, I would have taken advantage.”

“And when I came along?”

“I…don’t know.” Would he have discarded Sam? His animal side might have, despite regret, but his human half wasn’t so sure. Put those two aspects of his personality together, and he would have struggled to abandon Sam.

“But it never happened and now you’re with me.”

By itself a miracle. Two shape-shifters of the same type working for the force in the same precinct? From the moment he first smiled at her, Chantelle had sought Bobby out as her mate. Knowing this, how could he deny her anything?

“So, we leave Sam to get on with his life?” The question came from her lips, sounding like a plea for him to do the right thing. Whatever that was. “If you’re happy to, fine. If you can dismiss Sam’s puppy dog gaze, deny you love him, and still walk away, that’s what we’ll do. But if you regret it, I don’t want the disappointment to eat away you, at our relationship. Accepting him as ours might be easier.”

Bitch! He didn’t say so although he wasn’t at all sure she didn’t read it in his eyes. Know it all, interfering…lovely, wonderful, fantastic, sexy b***h of mine. She had him to rights. “Why did you have to tell me how Sam feels?”

“Because to do less would be a betrayal. Be like I’d lied to you, and you’d smell the anguish on me. Besides, I believe we can all be happy. I’ll never love Sam the way I love you, but Sam wouldn’t need me to. I can cope with you loving Sam and he you. But you need to hurry and decide if you want to see this through because he will be back any second.”

As if Chantelle called him to the table, Sam emerged from the men’s room, held the door open for someone following in his wake.

“Even if it’s true, he’s not…like us.” Bobby lowered his voice. “He’ll always feel separate.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Are you going to deny him the chance?”

“The chance?”

“For love. For a family.”

“Ahh…heck.”

“Now you understand my point.”

He did. Sam took the long way around the tables in the wider spaces so his bum leg wouldn’t become entangled. The man had more than his share of bad experiences. Sam came from a broken home, and the aunt he loved and who raised him died young. Sam had studied, kicking and clawing his way through his education. He’d applied to the police because of a yen to come across as respectable, which explained why it wasn’t his passion. Sam might not know what his heart’s desire was.

Except maybe for me.

Did he want Sam? The question made him frown, brow drawing tight.

“What?” Sam asked as he made it back to the table. The grumpy voice and disgruntled gaze changed Bobby’s scowl to a grin. He glanced from Sam’s face to Chantelle’s, and although she stared at the table, she smirked.

Spend the rest of his life without Sam’s moodiness? Preposterous. Of course, if Sam wanted what Chantelle claimed he did, and they gave him what he craved, maybe he wouldn’t be so moody.

Who was he kidding? He knew what Sam was like before his first cup of coffee of the morning. That and a thousand other little annoyances would always be cause for Sam’s disposition. His moods weren’t the problem. The bleakness that shone from Sam’s eyes most-recently worried Bobby.

“Sit, you twat.” Bobby nodded to the approaching waiter. “Your dinner’s here. How about we eat before we down a few more beers back at my place?”

“I’m…No, some other time.” Sam nodded at the waiter in thanks and pulled his plate closer.

“Why? What the f**k you got going on later you can’t pop back and have a drink with us?”

“Just…things.”

“A hot date?”

Under the table, Chantelle kicked him, a gentle swing of her leg so Sam wouldn’t notice, but no way had Bobby mistaken the resulting pain for anything but a warning. Sam glowered sideways at him. All three of them were aware Sam hadn’t gone out with anyone since he’d damaged his leg. Besides, Sam kept his personal life private. If he were seeing guys, Bobby now understood why. Maybe he saw no one, being hung up on yours truly for the last four years. “Well, if you don’t have date plans, what arrangements have you made?”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s expression became wary. His smell changed. Instead of being gritty with anger, it flared smoky with caution.

“You know as I do a desk job ain’t going to cut it for you. You must have made other arrangements.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Providing analytical support to help detect and reduce crime by collating and studying information,” Bobby quoted, pulling a face as he did so.

“I may apply for another job in time.” Sam shovelled some of his meal down, took a swig of beer to chase it.

“Even if it means moving away?”

Sam paused, the glass in his hand halfway back to the table. He set it down, swallowed, and glared at his dinner as if it was at fault. “Trying to play detective?”

“You make it easy.”

“Let’s not argue,” Chantelle interrupted.

Sam snorted, spurned her, and faced Bobby. “You couldn’t sniff out a clue if someone stuffed it up your nose.”

“It would surprise you what I pick up with this nose.”

“What the f**k does that mean?” Sam glowered, before taking his anger out on his food, savaging it into submission. Bobby watched in amazement as Sam became a ravening animal and wolfed down half his meal. “If a fresh beginning means moving,” Sam at last said, “yeah, I’ll move. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.” Bobby kept his tone level, displaying more calm than he felt. Chantelle was right. He stared into her eyes although she would sniff out the dread Sam’s words instilled in him. “All the more reason for us to have fun while we can. We should have a few drinks.”

“A few drinks and it’ll be late, and you won’t be able to drive me home. A cab from your place will cost me a fortune.”

That explained part of the reason for Sam’s hesitation. His leg was so bad he struggled to drive, hence his being stuck behind a desk. “Then stay the night.”

“No!” Even for Sam the retort came out too forceful.

“Tequila,” Chantelle chimed in.

“What?” Both men asked together, gazing at her.

“We need tequila.”

Sam’s favourite tipple. The idea she knew appeared to startle Sam so much, Bobby caught the scent of surprise even beneath all the anger.

“Come onnnnn,” Chantelle wheedled. “Who knows when we’ll get another opportunity? We have a whole Sunday to get over the hangover.”

True. Had Chantelle waited to approach the topic when all three of them had the weekend free?

“I need you to help me tease this man here. We need to dream up more dog jokes.”

Despite his annoyance, Sam’s lips twitched.

“No. No dog jokes,” Bobby insisted. “I’ve had enough to last a lifetime, and I swear you started them at work.” He turned the accusation on Sam. “Go on. Confess. Admit your guilt. All those years ago, you were the one responsible for the guys buying me all those rubber bones and squeaky balls.”

“With a name like Pooch, what did you expect me to do?” Sam took another swig of his beer, grinning as he did so.

“I had enough problems with Bobby as a first name.” ‘Bobbies’ was a time-honoured English nickname for British police officers, as was the lesser-known name of ‘peelers’ in Ireland. Both terms originated from Sir Robert Peel who, in 1829 when Home Secretary, reformed and created the modern concept of England’s police force. Hard to say which was worse—the Bobbie ‘on the beat’ jokes, or the Pooch ones. He liked the dog jokes more because Sam started them.

Maybe he should take heed of those emotions. Didn’t it say something about how much Sam meant to him? Maybe Chantelle had a point. Of course, Sam didn’t appreciate the extent of the pooch and dog jokes. What would happen when he did?

“Tequila?” Chantelle mentioned again, making it a question.

Sam peered at her over his beer glass. “Tequila.” He nodded.

Bobby exchanged a glance with his lover. They had manoeuvred Sam to where anything was possible. Now the question arose of what might happen later, and how they would all face each other come morning.