Not That Kind of Girl

  “I’ll take her,” Roxanne had said. The three-person approval committee laughed at her enthusiasm.

  “It takes a special person to accept this type of responsibility,” one of the committee members had said in a kind voice. “This is a dog that needs to start from square one. She needs lots of time and lots of patience. And there’s something else you should know.” The woman glanced nervously at her fellow female committee members. “It seems she doesn’t like men very much.”

  “I’m your girl!” Roxanne assured them, knowing a sign from heaven when it fell on her.

  Of course, Lilith didn’t come home with her that day. It took four additional weeks, two more interviews, four personal references, a written application process, a criminal background check, and a home inspection before Roxanne was approved to be Lilith’s new owner.

  As Bea had said, “You can squirt out eight artificially inseminated babies in this state without so much as a howdy-do, but you can’t adopt a beat-up mutt without getting Top Secret security clearance? What the fuck?”

  The memory made Roxanne smile, even through her sniffles. As fate would have it, the day she’d brought Lilith home marked the three-month anniversary of the death of her beloved Millie, and the two-month anniversary of the Night of the Cigar, as she and Josie had since referred to it. And it marked the beginning of a new phase in Roxie’s life.

  When the paper was preparing to fire Roxie, Lilith became her primary sounding board and shoulder to cry on. When she sank most of her savings and all of her energy into the Web site, Lilith became her one-woman cheering section. Of course, she also had Bea, Ginger, and Josie, but they weren’t exactly shy about dispensing advice along with their encouragement. Lilith, however, had no agenda. She would sit on the couch with Roxie, lay her in head in her lap, and look up at her with soft brown eyes filled with adoration.

  And really, sometimes that’s all a girl wanted. No advice. No “I told you sos.” Just some freakin’ adoration.

  Roxanne rubbed her dog’s head and tried to keep her focus on the road, the tears flowing harder now. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were the whole story?

  Well, it wasn’t.

  The truth was, something wasn’t right with Lilith. Love, patience, and time hadn’t been enough. Lilith had a feral and volatile part of her that Roxanne hadn’t been able to reach. Lilith might be strong and healthy now, with a shiny coat and bright eyes, but Roxanne hadn’t been able to give her the one thing she needed most—a deep belief that everything would be all right, that she could let down her guard.

  For whatever reason, Roxanne hadn’t been able to make Lilith feel safe, no matter what she did, how hard she tried, or how relentlessly she wished for things to get better. But nothing had changed. The reason she got Lilith in the first place was to enjoy her company, but that only happened when they were alone at home. Doors locked. No sounds coming from outside. No other people or dogs in sight.

  The bottom line? Owning Lilith was exhausting.

  They pulled up Roxanne’s drive and into the little garage of her Noe Valley house. They went for a quick walk around the block. Of course, Roxie had an encounter with the Sweeping Lady. She always had an encounter with the Sweeping Lady on days when being nice to an anal-retentive nut job required more energy than she possessed.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Delano. How are you?”

  The Sweeping Lady’s broom stopped in mid-jerk. Mrs. Delano looked up from her perpetual task, one eye squinted beneath her sunhat. After a barely noticeable nod to Roxie, her eyes darted to Lilith. “Pit bulls should be illegal,” she said.

  Roxie made a polite “hmmm” sound, as if she were giving the woman’s comment some serious thought—for the thousandth time. This had been their topic of conversation since the day she brought Lilith home. Not that the pre-Lilith Mrs. Delano had been any friendlier. Roxie had bought her little two-bedroom bungalow on Sanchez Street four years before, and Mrs. Delano lived two doors down. From what Roxie could tell, the widow’s motto was, “I sweep, therefore I am.”

  She swept morning, noon, and night. She swept leaves, twigs, dirt, pebbles, and stray blades of grass. She swept in the rain, wind, and occasional cold. She swept the driveway. The sidewalk. The porch. The porch steps. And, on her most anxious days, the street itself. Once, Roxie even caught her sweeping the small patch of grass in front of her house. That time, Mrs. Delano had scurried inside, broom clutched tight to her body, ashamed that she’d been caught.

  “Lilith is a mixed breed, Mrs. Delano,” Roxie said, sounding as sweet as she could. “She may have some pit bull in her but she’s also part boxer and beagle or something.”

  With a shrug, the woman went back to her sweeping. Swssh, swssh. Swssh, swssh. “I liked your other one better. It was a normal dog.”

  Lilith chose that moment to growl. Roxie’s head swiveled around to see a man walking a well-behaved standard poodle on the opposite side of the street. Lilith began to tug and bark.

  “Have a nice evening, Mrs. Delano,” Roxanne managed to say as she was dragged down the sidewalk by a now frothing Lilith.

  “This one’s not normal!” Mrs. Delano called out, just before she recommenced her sweeping.

  Ten minutes later, Roxanne had managed to take off Lilith’s muzzle and put away her leash, order a pizza with mushrooms and black olives, and change into a pair of comfortable sweats and a tank top. Popping open a Diet Coke, she began updating her blog while Lilith rested peacefully at her feet. Today’s topic: men who turn you down for lunch one day and try to kiss you the next. She titled it “The Vacillator.” It would make a nice follow-up to yesterday’s essay about how relationships can go from champagne and kisses to civil litigation in the blink of an eye. That one she’d called “Tort, Anyone?”

  She went on to read some e-mails, then three entries for the Jerk-of-the-Week contest. She came across one entry from a grad student who ran into her ex at a dance club and, against her better judgment, took him back to her place, just like old times.

  At first, the guy was all over her, telling her he’d made a huge mistake letting her go. Suddenly, he stopped all the sweet talk and asked if he could use her bathroom. While he was occupied, she put on some nice music and changed her clothes. When the ex came out fifteen minutes later, he announced he had to leave. No explanation. No small talk. And suddenly he was gone, leaving behind a foul-smelling bathroom and a really confused girl.

  Roxie felt chills race through her. I’ve found this week’s winner!

  She was just about to review the day’s merchandise orders when she heard the doorbell. Roxie was shocked at what had to be a record for pizza delivery. After grabbing a twenty out of her purse, she opened the door just a bit, leaving the chain lock in place. This was her tried-and-true routine: stick the money through the crevice, tell the delivery guy to leave the pizza on the doorstep, and wait for him to get safely to his car before she opened the door. It was a foolproof method that insured the delivery guy’s safety and minimized Lilith’s agitation.

  But this time, something went terribly wrong. The instant she eased the door open, it slammed against her palms, throwing her back onto her butt as a loud crack! echoed through the house and the chain ripped away from the wood door frame.

  “You bitch!”

  Roxanne barely had time to prop herself up on an elbow and catch her breath before he was standing over her, rage on his face, sweat beading on his balding head. She realized she had a headache. Had the door hit her? She lifted her hand to find a lump forming under her hair.

  “ ‘Tort Anyone?’ How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are, you stupid, hardheaded sluuu—?”

  Uh-oh.

  From her vantage point down on the hardwood floor, Roxanne saw only a brindle-brown, white-bellied blur sail overhead, sharp white fangs bared. She heard a horrible low-level growl rumble through the air.

  There was nothing she could do to prevent it. Lilith ended her flight with a thump, hitting a terrified-lo
oking Raymond Sandberg on his upper chest. His head flew back. Lilith promptly sank her teeth into the side of his neck. Raymond crumpled to the floor, but Lilith hung on.

  “Stop, Lilith! No! Oh, God!” Roxanne was up. She threw her body on top of Lilith and gripped the dog’s collar. She tried in vain to pull Lilith off Raymond. Her ex-boyfriend, in the meantime, began screaming. He begged for his life. He threatened to kill Roxanne and/or sue her for everything she was worth. Even in the panic of the moment, Roxanne noted that Lilith had done a half-assed job—the man still had use of his vocal chords.

  Thrashing. Tearing. Screaming. Growling. It seemed to go on forever. But it ended abruptly, when there was a faint sound of someone clearing his throat.

  It was the pizza guy. The kid’s eyes darted to the bloody scene before him as he simultaneously opened the Velcro closure of a thermal carrying case and removed a cardboard box that guaranteed a hot and fresh pizza or your money back. “Medium thin crust with black olive and mushroom?” he asked nonchalantly.

  This interruption distracted Lilith from her murderous intent—if only for an instant—and when the dog turned her attention to the new arrival, Roxanne was able to grip her snout and collar. While Raymond continued to scream and curse, Roxie dragged Lilith’s muscular body down the hallway to the kitchen, where she crammed her inside and slammed the door. Roxie raced back to the living room, grabbing her cell phone as she went, already dialing 911 with trembling, bloody fingers.

  She fell to her knees in front of Raymond. He lay on his back, limbs spread, eyes huge with shock, a blood-covered hand clutching the side of his throat. He was alive.

  And boy, was he pissed!

  “That fucking dog tried to kill me! You trained it to attack me, didn’t you? You did this on purpose!”

  “I need an ambulance,” Roxie said to the 911 operator. “My dog just bit a home intruder.”

  “What?” Raymond struggled to a sitting position, his face scarlet with rage. The veins in his neck—the ones not shredded by Lilith—pulsed wildly. “You bitch!”

  Only then did Roxanne notice that Mrs. Delano stood on the stoop, broom in hand, head pivoting back and forth as she passed judgment.

  Next, Roxanne noticed that the pizza box had been carefully placed in the doorway, along with the receipt. The delivery guy was gone, and so was the twenty-dollar bill that had slipped from Roxanne’s hand in the melee.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m so sorry,” Roxanne whispered, dropping her head into her hands, pressing the ice pack into her lump. “I know this isn’t the traditional way to wrap up a baby shower.”

  Josie patted Roxie on the shoulder. Ginger stroked her knee. Bea paced wildly between the rows of waiting room chairs in the emergency room of the California Pacific Medical Center, mumbling obscenities to herself.

  A sudden outburst from Lucio surprised everyone. “That sohn uva towzand beet-chez!” Ginger’s husband waved his hands around wildly the way he did when he got worked up. “¡Gilipollas!”

  Bea stopped her pacing and looked to Lucio with approval. “Amen to whatever it is you just said,” she told him.

  From her slump of defeat, Roxanne laughed sarcastically. “You know what I just realized? Mrs. Needleman was almost right.” She peeked up at Bea. “I left my door open just a crack like she suggested, and voilà! A man waltzes right in. Only he wasn’t the man of my dreams. He was my worst nightmare!”

  Bea pursed her lips. “That was supposed to be a metaphor.”

  “Oh, really?” Roxanne asked, laughing harder. “I’ve never seen a metaphor bleed like that!”

  Just then, Rick and Teeny came marching through the waiting room, provoking openmouthed stares from most of the women within visual range. Teeny was very big, black, and bald, and he wore a substantial diamond in one of his ears. Plus he dressed like a movie star. Rick was his usual hunky self, part casual and scruffy surfer dude and part GQ CEO.

  Roxie stood up to greet them.

  “Door’s fixed,” Teeny announced. “We built a whole new frame, put in a sturdier chain, and added a dead bolt. We recommend you use it.”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t forget to prime the frame before you paint,” he added.

  “Of course,” she said, overwhelmed by the kindness of her friends. She gave both of them a quick hug. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “It’s nothing,” Rick said. “How’s the head?”

  Roxie absently touched the sore bump a few inches above her left temple, where the door had hit her. “The doctors said it’s just a minor contusion.”

  Rick nodded, looking worried. “Listen, Roxie, I left a message for my lawyer to see who he’d recommend for this kind of situation. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Roxanne shook her head. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ll find someone.” She returned to her seat between Josie and Ginger and resumed her slump.

  Teeny frowned. “You’d better listen to what he’s telling you,” he admonished Roxanne.

  “Yeah. Listen to the man, Rox,” Bea said.

  Rick stepped closer to Roxanne and squatted, putting a hand on her knee. “If you don’t have the best defense money can buy, Raymond Sandberg’s going to chew you up and spit you out.”

  Roxanne moaned, returning her face to her hands. “Raymond is the best defense lawyer money can buy,” she mumbled.

  “What you really need is a damn time machine,” Teeny said, his voice soft. “Then you could go back in time and take out any mention of him on your Web site.”

  Roxanne raised her eyes and huffed, offended. “I’ve never once used his name! I only provided a general description of him!”

  “Come on now, Rox,” Bea said, pacing again. “It’s common knowledge that Raymond Sandberg is your ex-lover. The breakup was dramatic and acted out in front of the patrons of a crowded cigar bar. Plus, how many other men in this town can be described as ‘San Francisco’s most successful criminal defense attorney and all-around champion pig-faced, misogynistic asshole?’ ”

  Rick nodded, his brow crumpled in seriousness as he looked into her face. “You hung this guy in virtual effigy, Rox. You turned him into the Internet poster boy for pig-faced men everywhere. He was already planning to sue you for that—and now this?”

  Bea snorted her agreement. “The man shows up and your dog promptly tries to rip his throat out. This doesn’t look so good, babes.”

  “The man didn’t just show up!” Roxanne wailed. “He busted down my whole freakin’ door! Lilith was protecting me! She might have saved my life!”

  The group of six remained quiet for a moment. Rick’s phone rang and he wandered off to speak with his lawyer. Josie continued to rub Roxie’s back. Ginger stroked her hair. Their attention felt very sweet and maternal, but Roxie was too upset to appreciate their attempt to comfort her.

  Suddenly, the doors leading from the ER slammed open. Raymond Sandberg appeared, looking like an extra in a Quentin Tarantino flick. Blood droplets were spattered all over his white slacks and tangerine-hued Ralph Lauren polo shirt. A large, square gauze bandage was taped to the side of his neck. The same two San Francisco Police detectives who’d interviewed Roxie strolled out behind him.

  Raymond’s dark blue eyes burned with hatred as he headed directly toward Roxanne. She stood up, swallowing hard. All her friends stood up with her, and gathered close. Rick hurried back to the waiting room chairs, the phone still to his ear.

  Raymond came to a stop, breathing hard. “I so look forward to our various courtroom rendezvous,” he said, his voice laced with mock politeness. “It seems you’ll be kissing both your business and your fugly mutt good-bye.”

  “You wait just a damn second, mister.” Josie stepped forward before Roxanne could even open her mouth to speak. The mother-to-be’s cheeks were flushed as she peered up into Raymond’s face. She poked a finger in his chest. “You are a brute and a bully and you’re dressed like you belong in a Miami Vice rerun
.”

  Ginger stepped forward next. “You got exactly what you had coming to you, you pompous douche bag.”

  Then Bea sauntered up. “Ain’t karma a bitch?”

  Raymond said nothing for a long second, studying the little group, taking note of Josie and Ginger’s very pregnant silhouettes and angry faces. Then he produced a deep laugh and displayed one of his jury-worthy grins. His gaze flew to Roxanne.

  The force of that stare pinned her down. She felt trapped. She hated him. She’d once loved and trusted him with everything in her, and he’d blown a hole in her soul with his betrayal. It was interesting how hate had filled up that hole, spilling over into everything in her life.

  Oh, and how she despised those eyes of his. How she cringed at the sight of that stellar smile.

  The image of Eli Gallagher flashed in her mind. In her head she watched him tug on the brim of that stupid hat. She remembered the sound of that velvet-calm voice as it assured her she was safe. But she especially recalled the sadness she saw in his eyes when she pulled away from his kiss.

  She remembered it so well because she’d felt the very same way.

  Roxanne squeezed her eyes shut to block the vision. Why was that man haunting her? And why now? Didn’t she have enough shit to deal with? She didn’t want Eli in her head. She didn’t want Raymond in her life. She just wanted these men—all men—to go away and leave her in peace.

  Raymond leaned in close. She kept her eyes closed so she didn’t have to see him. But she smelled him—the crisp, light scent of his expensive cologne mixed with blood and sweat. It almost made her heave.

  “My complaint has already been processed,” he whispered. “Your dog will be impounded. She’s going to be put down.” Raymond chuckled in her ear. “May I just say, in advance, how sorry I am for your loss?”

  With that, the smell and sound of Raymond Sandberg dissipated. He was gone. She opened her eyes.

  “Miss Bloom?” One of the detectives moved toward her. His partner followed.