Out Of Control. Shannon McKenna

the thing, but her nice lamps had been smashed in the break-in. She was stuck with the urban blight light till she got her act together. Though the way her life was going, that day seemed to get more distant all the time.

      She set Mikey gently on the floor. He shook himself and sniffed around with remote puzzlement, as if to say, What is this place? I scarcely remember it…or you. He turned his back on her and limped, slowly and pitifully, towards the kitchen.

      Of course, he’d always limped, since the day she’d found him. She’d found him half-dead on the side of the road seven months ago, after her flight from California had finally landed her in Seattle. A car had fractured his back legs. The vet had recommended putting him down immediately, but she’d never been known for her propensity for following sensible advice. She’d nursed him through it with her own intuitive version of dog physical therapy, taking on the task of saving Mikey as if he were a symbol of everything in life worth saving. And if she pulled it off, things would eventually be OK for her again, too.

      Silly and superstitious, maybe, but it didn’t matter, since Mikey the Wonder Mutt was his own reward. Smart, devoted, and the most shameless manipulator she’d ever known. His hitching gait made her heart hurt. He was probably playing it up to make her feel bad, but she knew from experience that aches and pains were worse when you felt depressed and abandoned. Why should it be any different for Mikey?

      Besides, if he was faking it, she forgave him the ploy. He was a little dog. Old, too, in dog years. He had to use what weapons were available to him. Now there was a concept she could relate to.

      She peeled off her clammy workout gear as she trailed into the kitchen after Mikey, and ran a basin full of water with a capful of laundry soap. Mikey climbed into his basket, did his compulsive three and a half turns, and flopped down with a dejected sigh.

      She let out a dejected sigh herself as she dunked her spandex into the suds. A quickie shower in her mildewy bathroom was next, after which some sloppy sweatpants, her big Superman T-shirt, and she felt almost human. She rummaged for her comb in the basket on her dresser. Her fingers closed around the heavy gold snake pendant.

      She pulled the thing out and tried to stare down the sense of dread it gave her. She wished the thief had taken this instead of her laptop. It was worth more money, and she would have been grateful to be rid of it. She should pawn the nasty thing. The money would be tainted, but she’d get over it. Vet bills had to be paid somehow.

      She knew why she hung onto it, though she didn’t like to admit it. The pendant was the only key she had to the nightmare puzzle her life had become. It was like a magical talisman. If she got rid of it, she might be trapped in this lonesome gray nowhere forever. No way out.

      Whoops, don’t go there. She couldn’t let herself think that way, even briefly. The only way to keep her sanity was to stay focused on the present moment. Breathing in, breathing out, and grateful to be alive.

      She headed into the kitchen and hunkered down next to Mikey’s basket, fully prepared to grovel. He’d curled up into a ball, graying muzzle buried between his paws. Eyes tight shut. No wags, no licks, no yips, no friendly interaction of any kind. It was the doggie deep freeze.

      “Hey. Mikey. Don’t you want some dinner?” she asked.

      Mikey was far above such obvious bribery. He didn’t twitch so much as a whisker. Margot got up and rummaged through the cupboard for the dog treats. She waved one in front of his nose.

      He opened one slitted eye and gave her his patented “as if ” look.

      “This isn’t fair,” she told him. “I’m leaving you at that kennel to protect you from Snakey, you ungrateful little snot. I can’t afford it, either. I’m still in hock to the vet for your last fight. That dog was ten times your size, but did you think about that before you got mouthy?”

      Mikey indicated with a snuffling grunt that dogs will be dogs, and she could stick her budget problems where the sun didn’t shine.

      “Besides, you owe me,” she reminded him. “You’d be roadkill if it weren’t for me, fur-face.”

      No go. Mikey wasn’t coming down off his high horse tonight.

      Margot sagged down next to his basket and concentrated on petting him the way he liked best, a gentle stroke from brow to nape with an extra against-the-grain rub around the ears on the upswing. He allowed her touch, but refused to respond to it. She ran her fingers through his silky hair, careful to avoid the shaved spots around his stitches. A relic from his run-in with a bad-ass stray in the park.

      Mikey was a scrappy little guy. She admired that about him, even when it cost her money. He didn’t know when to shut his big mouth. A lot like yours truly, so it’s not like she could point fingers.

      She was whipped, but she really should work on her web design business, or plod away at her private amateur murder investigation.

      The thought zipped through her mind before she remembered that she no longer had her laptop. The rat bastard thief had it now.

      Gah. She was squeezed dry tonight anyhow. Nothing left but pulp. Up before dawn to get Mikey to the pet hotel before her waitressing shift, then she schlepped downtown to do a lunchtime body sculpting class and aerobics class at a health club that catered to corporate types, and then the evening classes at Women’s Wellness. She was woozy, too, after a week on the new crash diet. The kennel fees and vet bills had bitten deep into her already lean grocery budget.

      And yet, her butt still hadn’t gotten any smaller. Go figure.

      Time to start foraging. It took character and a sense of humor to make a meal out of what was left in her kitchen. She heaved herself to her feet and opened the cupboard. Crumbs in the bottom of the cornflakes box. Whatever she might still be able to scrape out of the Skippy’s jar. There was a third of a bag of peeled baby carrots in the fridge, and she was hungry enough to actually eat them tonight, not just tell herself that she should. God, it would be great to just pick up the phone and order in something wickedly high-caloric and delicious.

      That made her think about Davy McCloud’s offer of Mexican food. A whoosh of something potent and scary shivered up her spine.

      She’d been checking the guy out ever since she’d started teaching at Women’s Wellness. Your typical stern, taciturn Nordic warrior type; studly, gorgeous and as cold as ice. Apparently uninterested in her, but oh, so fascinating. The lure of the unattainable, and all that crap.

      She stared at the black pepper and the teabags while the images played through her mind; McCloud’s powerful body moving over the tatami with the swift, lethal grace of a thrown spear. He was so well-proportioned, you didn’t notice how huge he was until he was right in your face—and then, whoopsy daisy, it was too late.

      He was way too big for her, though. Big guys made her nervous. On those rare occasions that she did indulge her baser instincts—that would be way back in prehistory when she still had the nerve—she picked mellow, scrawny guys who made her laugh. Guys she could put into a hammerlock, if need be. Craig had fit into that category.

      Her mind shied away from poor Craig. She focused her attention back on the far more appealing image of Davy McCloud’s half-naked body. Nobody could put McCloud into a hammerlock. She had a tough time imagining him laughing, either. The thought of those piercing eyes made heat rush into her face—and various other parts of her body.

      Strange, to have such a raw sexual reaction to a guy she barely knew. She’d been off men for months. Waking up naked and bewildered in a strange hotel room after witnessing a brutal murder could do that to a girl. Real libido crusher. Turned those hormones off like a faucet.

      And God, she would really, really rather not think about that tonight, or she’d start feeling slimed, and have to take another shower.

      A hot, juicy sexual fantasy starring Davy McCloud and her trusty vibrator would be a fab distraction. He was pure fantasy, though, and she’d better not forget it. With his angular face, his grim mouth, his hair cropped off into that sweat-stiffened brush cut, he looked almost military. Too severe