Bearded Dragon by Liz Stafford

Chapter One
     
    Carlton raked his fingers through his beard, then dumped bedding into the last cage. Dragon flicked his tail and tilted his head to watch. “There you go, old boy.” Carlton dropped the lid on top. The clatter had Dragon hissing and retreating to the mass of greenery in the corner. “Sorry, bud,” he said again. Not fair to take out his mood on the lizards. It wasn’t their fault Carlton had gotten into this situation. He finished cleaning the remaining nineteen cages and/or aquariums. He threw the dirty bedding in the trash and flung the bag of wood chips into the hall closet.
    Why couldn’t the freaking Patriots have won the Super Bowl? They had the talent. They had the edge. And more than anything, they were favored to win by three and a half points. The game should have been in the bag, then he wouldn’t be forced to go out with some bag named Wanda.
    With a name like hers—a minus-point on his dating chart—she’d have been subjected to ridicule and pranks her whole school life. It would’ve scarred her forever. He had no doubts it had. After all, she was in her mid-thirties and had never been married. That said it all, didn’t it?
    He’d known a Wanda back in high school. A real dog. He was embarrassed to remember once loudly comparing her to a pug. So, another Wanda had come into his life. Carlton guessed this was his payback. He believed in payback. You did something wrong, sooner or later it came back and bite you in the ass. This was his ass-bite.
    Okay, it was only one date. He’d take her someplace dark. Then get her home by nine saying he had to work early at the clinic. He didn’t. He never worked on Saturdays; the younger vets got stuck with that gig.
    Too bad this wasn’t a regular date; he really needed to get out. He’d been cooped up too many nights lately, commiserating with his bosses. Rianna and Tonya were trying to buy a parcel on the outskirts of LA to enlarge the animal hospital and somebody was stalling the permits.
    Damn. Twenty minutes till he had to pick up Wanda in Glendale. He jammed his arms into his Patsjacket sleeves, gathered car keys from the counter and raced out the door. He was only going seven miles an hour over the speed limit when a car shot through the intersection on his left. Carlton spun the Venza to the right. The front tire banged the curb. Even so, the other car’s bumper thumped into his. What the hell did they think they were doing?
    The bright silver Mercedes S550 squealed to a stop just inches in front of him. The driver leaped out and raced back to his car. She was a tall, blonde bombshell—did they call ’em bombshells anymore? Carlton didn’t know. He’d sure as heck never dated one. He climbed out of the car, prepared to give her hell. She feathered a hand over his bumper, stood erect, spun around and, without even making eye contact, was gone.
    Carlton examined the bumper, and then his right front tire. No outward damage but probably the alignment was gone to hell. He got back in the car and followed the directions to Wanda’s place a block away. Nice enough middle-class building. A plus-point for her. He hurried up the steps to the door with the big number 3 on it, smoothed his beard and rang the bell.
    The door opened. And there she stood. Silhouetted by light from the living room, he couldn’t see much except she was quite tall—close to six feet—and had an unruly mass of hair. She wasn’t fat but couldn’t be called thin by any means. Blocky might be a good description. A minus-point.
    “Yes?” said the woman.
    “Wanda?”
    As she stepped aside he got a glimpse of a beak of a nose. Yikes. Another minus. “Come in.”
    Her voice was nice. Smooth and pleasant with no accent. Beyond the point of no return, he stepped into the apartment. It smelled like lilacs, which was nice. The place was well furnished and clean. Another point in her favor.
    “Come sit a moment.”
    In the blue-light from the television, he could see