Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda by Nina Wright Read Free Book Online Page A

him lead me upstairs to bed; I planned to fall into his arms and let fate take care of everything at least until morning, when somebody or something was sure to interrupt our fun.
    Vestige glowed warm and welcoming as we approached. Somebody had turned on the porch light. I recognized Jeb’s new car in the driveway. He had only recently replaced his ancient Nissan Van Wagon with a neat little leased Beamer, thanks to a cash infusion from his canine-crooning career. As Brady applied the brakes, the front door opened, and Jeb stepped out, a lank, grinning figure in the porch halo. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I did my best imitation of leaping from the vehicle. Not even close to graceful, at least I was relatively fast.
    Until I tripped over a dog. A small dog that had no business being in my driveway. Brady shone his flashlight on the ugliest canine I had seen since meeting Mooney, a Rottweiler-bloodhound mix owned by our local judge. This dog was a stocky, short-legged model with a Winston Churchill-like face and wide-set very large erect ears.
    “Whiskey, my love,” Jeb said, rushing from the porch to help me to my feet. Or so I thought. He paused first to scoop up the pooch and kiss the top of its head; Brady assisted me to a standing position.
    “Meet Sandra Bullock,” my ex-husband said, holding out the dog to me.
    “Sandra? You know this mutt?”
    “Know her? I rescued her. Only she’s not a mutt. She’s a purebred French bulldog.”
    Jeb squeezed me to him, but the embrace wasn’t what I had hoped for. He still clutched the dog in one arm.
    “Wait. Go back,” I said. “I had a big shock tonight, and I’m not sure I’m tracking this. You’re talking about Sandra Bullock?”
    Jeb had lusted after the movie star since seeing her in The Vanishing. Or was it Demolition Man ?
    “Right,” he said, kissing my forehead—with lips that had just kissed a dog. “I named this little doll after her. Baby, you’re gonna love Sandra as much as I do. And she’s fantastic with kids.”
    “I already have a dog,” I reminded him. “And I’ve successfully given away several.”
    Jeb whispered, “I heard Abra’s gone again. Of course, I hope she comes back, but if she doesn’t—”
    “Abra always comes back,” I said through clenched teeth. “Often with a police escort. What were you thinking? I don’t want another dog. Besides, that one is butt ugly.”
    “Oh, come on. Sandra’s a little cutie and a real comedienne, just like her namesake. Give her a chance, Whiskey.”
    I stepped back abruptly. “I thought you came home because you wanted to be here for me and the baby.”
    “I do.”
    “Why on earth would you bring a dog?”
    Suddenly Brady cleared his throat and Roscoe made a similar sound. I had forgotten about the police presence in my dark driveway. The two officers stepped forward into the spill of yellow light from my porch.
    “Good to see you, Jeb. Glad you’re back,” Brady said, and the two men shook hands. Roscoe introduced himself to Sandra Bullock by rising to his hind feet and performing an agile dance, one that exposed a certain extension.
    “What the—” I began. “Brady, I thought Roscoe was fixed.”
    “He is,” Brady said. “I’ve never seen that before, either. Wow. She must turn him on.”
    Jeb said, “All the boys love Sandra.”
    My own slut hound had never had that effect on the canine officer. How could the dumpy dog with the ugly mug succeed where Abra had failed? At least the Affie knew how to flirt.
    “She’s not even trying,” I pointed out.
    In fact, the French bulldog appeared to have dozed off in Jeb’s arms.
    He whispered, “That’s the secret to her success.”
    Roscoe, who was still dancing, moaned obscenely. So help me, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
    Brady cleared his throat. “If you’re all right, Whiskey, I’m heading home. Gonna have a little lemon pound cake with my wife.”
    Jeb chuckled in a way that made me wonder if “lemon pound