Obedience Lessons

It was the screeching that got me. And also what came after the screech, a high pitched yelp that pierced the air even at a distance, silencing all the raucous dogs that had been barking.

Before, I hadn't even taken note of the incessant noise of the strays running after a car, it happened every few days since the pound was lethargic and always losing the dogs. Dave, the guy that ran it didn't have the heart to put them down, and let them out since a couple neighbors would feed scraps to them from their kitchens.

Dave was a good guy though. A softy with a big heart. The guy in the car… not so much. That was Dylan Ryman for you. Spat out of Satan’s personal kitchen, Dylan was a hot mess of dark hair with a heart to match. I watched as his car sped off while he flipped the bird at the dogs out his window.

People like him drove me insane. He believed he sat on a throne to rule over the rest of us carrying about our insignificant lives. He lived in one of the mansions in the far, eastern side, complete with four hundred meters of driveway from the gate to the doorstep. His gated home had security to turn away undesirables, from preachers to urchins and community petitioners, they all received the same unyielding answer - "Mr. Ryman is not seeing anyone today." For a long time I'd managed to ignore him, after all we all had a life to live. Mine had enough shit without bothering with another asshole like Mr. Ryman. But that all ended this morning.

I abandoned taking out the trash and started running towards the injured dog while the remaining strays scattered. The black Porsche continued its way. Dylan obviously didn’t give a shit about the situation he'd created.

Spotty, a brown and white spotted Labrador, lay on the ground with his back legs at weird angles and blood seeping from his joints that were obviously broken. I looked away, pulling out my phone and calling the vet that lived right around the corner. I blinked back tears and swallowed the nausea I felt at seeing the dog in pain. He had started a low whimpering as he saw me standing over him that just broke my heart.

Romeo picked up after a few rings and I guess I managed to explain the situation enough for him to have sent a van around for me and the dog. During the time waiting for the van a few neighbors came out.

Mrs. Headley, a stocky, older woman that usually fed the dogs, rushed out with bandages and towels, then backed away as she saw the blood.

"Cruel son of a bitch," she said when I ratted out the perp.

I couldn't even be amused at the fact that she'd used foul language I'd never heard from her before. She'd gotten it right after all. I just knew that I'd be having words with Mr. Ryman later that day, whether he liked it or not. I snapped a photo of poor Spotty and started to murmur at him to calm him down.

Romeo whistled low when he caught sight of the dog, having rushed from the van to collect him. He picked him up gently as the dog licked at his face all throughout the process of being lifted from the van to inside on the examination table.

"You sure you want to stick around for this," Romeo asked, his face making it plain that I didn't want to see this.

I nodded, exiting the room. "Just let me know when Spotty's okay." I backed out of his office and took a chair. Then I worried and fretted.

The bastard wouldn't get away with it. One thing kept me from phoning the police on him. He could afford the damn fine, and the money wasn't the point. Someone had to teach this guy a lesson. So I opened up a new document on my phone and started to type, attaching the photo of spotty and creating a small news article.

As it turned out, Spotty would make it. But not without an amputation of both his hind legs. After which he'd need wheels as a replacement.

Romeo's voice dropped an octave when he looked at me furtively, "You sure you wouldn't rather to just - you know...." I knew right away what he was saying. Spotty was a stray after all. It might be better to put him to sleep, rather than have him crippled. Who would keep him anyway?

"No," I told Romeo, "Amputate and order the wheels. I'll cover it for now."

"For now?" Romeo looked amused. "I know that look Andy, you used to get it every time you got payback on the football team for bullying you in high school."

"I'm a model citizen here," I grinned up at him. "Nothing wrong with teaching a lesson to a spoiled rich kid. When can I pick up Spotty?"

Romeo shook his head tiredly, "Give him a few days. Maybe by Thursday you can swing by to get him. He's going to need some training to get used to the wheels. And I'll warn you... another set of potty training. It takes some time for dogs like him to figure out the wheels.”

"Don't sweat it, Rome, I got this."

That brought me back squarely to the Ryman residence.

"Mr. Ryman is not..." The short, balding guard began his customary line, and I interrupted.

"I don't give a shit about that, you tell him someone's here to him that will call the cops otherwise."

"May I ask who -?"

"No."

The guard phoned up to the residence and I tapped my foot as I waited. With the rage building in my chest I knew it was only a matter of time before I exploded. I preferred to have Dylan in front of me by then, rather than some hapless minion.

Baldie carried on a brief conversation in low tones in which I heard him mention my threat to call the cops. Then spoke for another few moments before hanging up and saying to me, "He's not happy."

"Neither am I," I snapped.

Baldie opened the gate with an apology all over his face and I thanked him as I passed, belatedly realizing that I was being a dick to the wrong person.

Experiencing the walk to Dylan’s doorway was even more infuriating, it was like being forced to pay homage despite my feelings toward Dylan's status. By the time I reached his door there was a bitter taste in my mouth that I knew was there from the swear words I was holding in.

He flung back his doors when I hit the buzzer with a wild look on his face that read 'dangerous'. No I didn't notice his beautiful face. His sexy blue eyes did not make me forget why I was there for a second. I didn't see his exposed torso still mildly wet from a shower. I didn't notice how his trunks clung to him so that little was left to the imagination.

I had to studiously ignore his imposing presence. Not waiting for him to say a word, I brushed past him into his house even as I opened my mouth to let him have it.

And all the things I'd bottled up all day just streamed out. I called him every name I could think of, shoving the picture I'd taken of Spotty into his face. "If you thought anyone would have let you get away with it, you got another thing coming. I cannot believe - !"

He ended my tirade when he stepped into my personal space, his eyes narrowed sexily as he said in a low tone, "So why didn't you call the police?" His voice said I was playing with fire coming to his house all alone. I was only just beginning to realize, but refused to back down.

"They'd probably just kiss your ass, rather than kick it," I replied, casting him as venomous a glare as I dared.

He smiled. The asshole actually smiled, the fucker. "You're probably right. So you came to do the job yourself." He sounded very amused with the idea, as if I couldn't.

I calculated my chances again. His sculpted torso glistened with moisture and his biceps popped as if simply in appreciation of my inspection. This guy could probably hand my ass to me on a platter if he knew how to use a tenth of his muscles.

Inwardly screaming in frustration I conceded that I couldn't win a fist fight, but I still had a few tricks up my sleeve. I had calmed down enough now for rational thought, having called him enough of the insults that had born in my mind specifically for him.

"You operate Hi-Caliber, a family-owned enterprise that specializes in the processing of diamonds and other precious stones. You also dabble in several other ventures including charities for orphanages and relief work with the ASPCA. The daily papers are about to have fun with you. Kind of hypocritical to say the least, running over a dog you'd otherwise help with your money in front of a camera."

"You have no proof it was me..." He replied, blanching only slightly. He turned his back to me in his living room and I ogle at his rump in swim trunks shamelessly.

"Dude... You're a dick. And nobody likes you. In this neighborhood, you have no idea how many people would swear it's you that ran over this dog. So you have a choice to make." I sat in a plush armchair in his living room, making myself comfortable as a feeling of smugness sank in, then continued. "Own up and take care of the dog, and I mean everything, his vet bill, the wheels, the physiotherapy - the works. Or I make your world a little uncomfortable. Trust me. I even did a cute little article myself.”

“You’re out of your mind.” His tone was all changed and he appeared to be studying his walls, filled with strange, cold art.

“You, my sadistic little punk, have no idea.” I was a peaceful person, relatively. But I’d long know about my fiery streak. I’d wait for weeks to find the perfect moment for revenge, and just when the time was right…

Dylan turned back to face me, his face just a little flushed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, probably his massive ego going down his gullet, "Okay." Is it just me, or is there an erection in the front of his trunks? "I'll do whatever you want."