Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom.
Not as horrible an idea as losing his cool and confronting his neighbor in person rather than just filing a complaint, which appealed more and more by the second.
No. Someone would tell the tabloids, and he’d learned long ago that reputation was everything. He’d worked hard to cultivate the correct image for the CEO of Anderson Enterprises.
He flicked a dog hair off of his sleeve and sighed. Being a caretaker of a foster dog was not going to enhance his image. Not one bit. And he didn’t see how it would help him get his edge back, either. Still, he’d made a promise and he never went back on his word. Like it or not, he was stuck with the damned thing for a while.
After filling his glass with ice, he remembered it was morning, and his homecoming routine would have to be adjusted. Instead of scotch, he filled the tumbler with water, then wandered into the bedroom to take off his suit and tie and stopped short.
Feathers.
Everywhere. Like a pillow had exploded—or been ripped apart by the teeth of a wild, savage beast. “Dammit!” he said under his breath. The dog leapt off the bed and then wiggled underneath it.
In a trembling falsetto, he mimicked Dr. Whittelsey’s singsong voice. “The dog is completely housetrained and has never torn up anything.” A single feather, still airborne, landed on his suit lapel. Taking a deep, calculated, calming breath, he set his drink on the nightstand, and then gently plucked the feather from his jacket and deposited it in the trashcan next to the bed. One in the right place was better than none.
And still the booming bass from Club House Sitter continued its relentless attack on his already frayed nerves. One thing at a time. Dog first.
“Never torn anything up, my ass,” he grumbled, getting down on his hands and knees to peer under the bed. Big, brown eyes stared back. Then blinked, and a majority of his anger floated away like feathers.
It wasn’t the dog’s fault, really. Most likely it was as unhappy about this arrangement as he was. No. That wasn’t accurate. Nothing and no one could be as unhappy about this as he was. “Dog therapy,” he muttered. “Total bullshit.”
The dog stuck its tongue out and for a moment, it looked like it was smiling.
“I’m glad you agree. If I hadn’t promised her that I would take care of you personally for the three weeks she’s in Europe, you’d be at a boarding kennel,” he said, still on his hands and knees. “But I did promise because my shrink thinks you’ll break my routine and make me more flexible.”
The racket from next door continued as the dog flipped its back legs behind it and stretched out on its belly under the bed.
“Don’t get comfortable. I don’t want you in my bedroom, so come on out.” He crooked his finger like he would to an employee across the office lobby. Only, unlike his employees, the dog didn’t come running. It simply looked at him, panted, and tapped its tail on the floor.
“Now, listen, dog. Let’s get this straight. This is my house. You will do as I command. Now, out!”
It blinked its huge eyes while the rest of its hairy body remained motionless, except its tail, which kept wagging.
Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom, the bass pounded.
Shit. This was a fucking nightmare. “I said, out!”
Rolling to its side, it gave the appearance of being completely at ease and unaffected.
He reached, but couldn’t touch the animal because it had positioned itself directly under the center of the low king-sized bed.
A frustrated growl rumbled in Michael’s chest, then morphed into a defeated groan. He’d been bested by a ten-pound animal with pink nail polish and a bow in its hair. “I can’t believe I’m paying Dr. Whittelsey to torture me like this.”
The dog lowered its chin to its paws and closed its eyes.
“Okay. You win this round, but if you think you’re sleeping in here, you’ve got it wrong.”
Before he’d gotten to his feet, a relentless eardrum-piercing pulse came from the other side of the wall.
“What now?”
God, he missed the days when he could come home to a peaceful, relaxing environment to unwind. Recently, it was like a living in a nightclub or video arcade with thumping music and now a deafening alarm clock of some kind.
The music stopped, but the shrill beeping continued. It wasn’t an alarm clock, he realized. It was his neighbor’s smoke detector.
Shit. She was going to burn the place down.