Second Hand (Tucker Springs) by Marie Sexton, Heidi Cullinan Page A

all the cleaning, you bastard. But first you’re going to tell me who you’re bringing to the party.”
    He stopped dead in the middle of the street, panic shafting through him. “Nobody. I was just bullshitting there, trying to sell the reason for moving the party.”
    “No, that’s the bullshit, what you just said to me. When you said you wanted to invite someone, that was the truth.”
    Goddamn Rosa and her ability to see right through him. “It’s nobody. Just this guy that’s been hanging around the shop. He’s a friend.”
    “A friend you want to fuck. Interesting. What’s his name?”
    Fuck. “Bob.”
    “You’re lying,” Rosa declared, sounding pleased with herself. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it out of you while you’re cleaning.” She hung up.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
    Though it hadn’t been his original intention, El headed to Lights Out instead of back to the shop. When Denver greeted him at the door, the bouncer’s expression changed from welcoming to something heavy and sober.
    “Somebody die?” he asked.
    “No, but I have the feeling I’m going to wish I had.” An idea struck him, and he seized it. “Denver, what are you doing for the Fourth?”
    “Working here, what do you think?” He gave El a funny look. “Why?”
    “Nothing. I just had this—” He grimaced and shook his head. “Forget it.”
    Denver grinned at him. “You’re looking nervous, buddy. Any chance this nothing has to do with Strawberry? Because if it means I get to watch you with him again, I’ll get Jase to find someone else to man the door that night.”
    Murmuring “Fuck you” under his breath, El nudged past his friend and a gaggle of giggling girls playing tourist, heading straight for Jase and the bar and the alcohol.

I arrived at the office on Monday a few minutes early to unlock, as I usually did. A large cardboard box waited on the sidewalk in front of the door. My first thought was that it was odd for the mailman to have arrived already, but then I heard a scratching from inside.
    The cardboard shook, and then I heard something else: a high-pitched, desperate whine.
    “Oh no.” I got down on my knees, tore open the box, and was immediately attacked by a wriggling ball of black and white fur. “Puppy, who left you here? Are you okay?”
    The dog seemed unharmed and eager to be free. “Where’d you come from?” I asked, and the dog lapped its little tongue ineffectually in the direction of my face.
    There was a note inside the box.
     
    This is MoJo. She’s a good dog, but I have to go home, and I can’t take her with me.
    Please take care of her.
     
    “MoJo?” I said to the dog, and her wriggling went into overdrive. She was a small dog, and shaggy. My guess was that she was a Lhasa Apso mix, not more than two years old. She had ears as expressive as Yoda’s and about the same shape. “Poor MoJo. How long have you been here? I can’t believe your owner left you! What a bad, mean owner.” I was talking like an idiot to her, but she clearly liked it. Her little tail whipped back and forth so fast it dragged the bulk of her backside along with it. “Are you hungry? Want something to eat?”
    By the time Nick arrived, MoJo was happily snarfing down a can of dog food like she hadn’t eaten in days.
    “Where’d he come from?” Nick asked.
    “She,” I corrected. I showed him the note. “Somebody left her on the step.”
    He shook his head. “I’ll never get why people do that. There’s a shelter two miles away.”
    “They probably worry they won’t get adopted, but think if they bring them here, you’ll take care of them.”
    “Looks like this one’s on you,” he said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m maxed out on dogs. I have three, which is already one more than my lease allows, and they’re all big. They’d think that little thing was nothing but an interactive squeaky toy.”
    “I can’t have dogs at my house,” I said.
    “Too bad.” Nick shrugged. “Well, she