Pretty Dogs (Dirty Strays, #2)

by Riley Nash

A sour taste fills my mouth as the toy yanks me from hot-ass wet dreams into dysphoria. I don’t actually have a cis cock and balls for my captor to play with, and this cheap piece of teal plastic came in a pink box that definitely wasn’t aimed at men. But a trans virgin has needs too. Daily needs, in my case. Sometimes several times daily. In a house full of dudes with no boundaries, this is the fastest, most discreet way to deal with them.

Sometimes people just want things–to be pursued and taken with such single-minded intensity, to have all the control and overthinking stripped away.

“Looking for a snack.” After a long pause, he leaned in until his forehead almost touched mine. “I’m a snack.” “You’re a bag of rancid prawns. You give everyone the shits.”

I’m not ready to share the irrational joy I get every single morning when he lifts his head, squints at the daylight like it ruined his life, and grumbles, “Make it stop, Dal.”

“But I’m your favorite. Fuck them.” Then I hit him with the pillow, because I’ll never admit to him that I’d consider letting the planet fall into ruin just so he could get another fifteen minutes snuggled under my covers. His ego’s big enough as it is.

My clothes are the only folded things in this entire house of twenty-two-year-old hooligans.

Scout has a very loose relationship with speed limits.

Sometimes I see my mom when I look at myself. I miss her so fucking much it makes me want to tear out my insides to make the hurt stop.

Sometimes I see a version of me whose name I will never say again, but who will always be there. She carried my soul for fifteen years, until I could set it free.

One of my small hands slips on the hot vinyl siding and I tumble onto my ass in the prickle bushes. Good thing I’m unbreakable.

Tell them I did everything while you stood around bitching, or else I’ll cut off your nuts, chop them into a bowl of lettuce, and make you eat ‘em with fucking ranch dressing. Yeah?”

Over my shoulder, the most recognizable Civic in Fort Holden pulls up to the curb. Rust is eating away every part it can reach, and the four of us have scratched a million profanities and doodles all over the paint job. My dad would roll over in his grave to see what we’ve done to his precious car, and that thought makes me happy every single day.

I squeeze Roman’s shoulders. “Buddy. Tell me what’s up.” The big guy must not be talking today, because he launches into our messy, cobbled-together sign language that’s half ASL we learned from the internet and half shit we made up.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” “I got in a pushup competition.” It’s the most random excuse ever, but no one even questions my madness.

“You’ve gone to five whole meetings.” He peers up into my face, his brown eyes solemn. “We’re all so proud of you, Beck. I know it’s not easy.” I meet his stare, just for a second. This close, between the two of us, he almost pulls the truth out of me.

Paradise was a hellhole, but I fit there. I could be wild and unchained, without the constant knowledge that I’m not good enough. I became a man in that place. I watched my dad die and met all my best friends. I got drunk and got stabbed and got laid there. Out here, I don’t know what I am.

During the long talking parts, we discuss which Marvel characters we’d want to fuck. Everyone thinks I’d be into someone snarky like Star-Lord, but I’m torn between Bruce Banner’s sweet nerd energy and Loki, because his hair reminds me of Dallas’. I don’t say the last part, though.

Roman does some Googling before holding up a picture of Black Widow. I raise an eyebrow at him, and Dallas giggles. “Hate to break it to you, pup,” Scout teases, nuzzling his shoulder. “But I think you’re gay.” I don’t care, Rome types emphatically into our group text chat. She’s way better than those other losers. She doesn’t even need powers.

The main character shoves his alien-head buddy into the wall as they argue, and Dallas pipes up in a screechy, pissed-off voice. “Get the fuck out of here, Bob. I can’t fuck that blonde when she’s only hot for your nasty purple alien head. How do you do it?” Grinning, I voice the other guy with a sexy growl. “Maybe you’re hot for the purple alien head, George. I’ve seen you looking at me all day. You want me to invade your galaxy, huh?” “I’ll explore every fucking black hole you have,” Dallas purrs as the guys’ faces get closer and closer together. “Wait, are they actually gonna kiss?”

I broke down into hysterical tears and stumbled around the house until I found my mom weeding her tomato bed in the backyard. I fell on my knees in the grass and sobbed out that I was a boy. No explanations, no reasoning, just the raw screaming of my heart. The poor woman had no idea what I was talking about, but she pulled me into her arms and whispered that she loved me more than anything.

A man chased me out of my home with a gun at my back because of my identity. Today, it might happen again. I open my mouth, get stuck, and just stare at him. If he hurts me, it will break my heart in so many ways. Just when I start to stammer “never mind”, he reaches across and wraps one big, rough hand around both of my slim ones, like it’s nothing. His forehead creases as his eyes search mine. “Don’t be scared,” he says, squeezing a little.

“I’m trans.” The words come out so fast I can’t control it, because I’ve been choking on them for weeks. If he’s going to be my first real friend, I want him to know my truth–that I’m built of stories and scars, not chromosomes. Beck blinks, confusion etched into his face. “What’s that?”

Beck stalks across the room and grabs my shoulders. The spring green of his eyes has gone dark and dangerous as he tilts his head to examine the scrapes on my face. “I–” I flinch when he grabs my wrist hard and turns my hand over, exposing the torn skin. “I promise it’s not as bad as it seems.” “Look at me, Dallas.” When I meet his gaze, his stubbled jaw tightens. “Who touched you?” he asks in a terrifyingly quiet voice.

“Tell. Me. Who. Fucking. Touched. You,” he growls, like the warning snarl of a predator waiting in the bushes to rip your head off. I can feel his heart going crazy in his chest. I’m so shocked that I almost start laughing. I’ll never be able to date anyone; Beck won’t let them within twenty feet of me.

“The muggers left it behind. I didn’t want it to die. Do either of you want to touch it?” Scout holds up his hands, and Beck takes a step back. “Roman?” Scout hollers at the top of his lungs. “I have a present for you.” After a long pause, clunking footsteps give way to a sleepy-looking Rome, who must have just crawled out of a nap in his hoodie and boxers. As soon as his golden eyes land on the table, he gasps, “Oh shit.” “Do you know how to take care of…” I quit mid-sentence, because the man isn’t listening to me. He shoves past Scout, scoops up the kitten with no hesitation, and cradles it to his chest with a series of gentle crooning noises. Scout raises his eyebrows at me, like see?

Roman kisses the cat between its ears. “I’m gonna look up what to feed you, Rambo.” It looks comically tiny in his huge arms as he carries it out of the room and down the hall without another word. “Rambo?” Scout waves a finger up and down my disheveled body. “Because he can beat up people a hundred times his size.”

“Roman knows he can’t just keep it, right? I think it belongs to the muggers.” He shrugs, adjusts his towel, and wanders back down the hall toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to try taking it away from him. Good luck.”

don’t see anyone looking for the cat.” “Good.” I glance up at Beck. “Because you’d go down there, rip out all their fingernails, set them on fire, and bury them in a shallow grave.”

“If you show me who fucked with you, I’ll go set them on fire right now.” Surprise crosses his face and then, when he realizes I’m not kidding, a small but dazzling smile. “Let’s eat first. Macaroni doesn’t reheat well after a human bonfire.”

“Tell Rambo he needs to look less like a chicken nugget.”

“You’ve seen both their penises before,” I point out, scrolling through thumbnails while Dallas sneaks peeks between his fingers. “Yeah, but I’ve never seen them…you know.” He sticks out two fingers on each hand like floppy dicks and slaps them together.

“Why did you save all these?” I shrug one shoulder. “I like looking at them. What do you think?” A shy, unconscious smile tugs at his mouth as he studies the screen.

“Good job.” Roman picks up Rambo and solemnly bumps the kitten’s tiny, wet nose against mine. “He says good job, too.”

“I just don’t understand why some people are born with the soul of one person and the body of another, and then get punished for it their whole lives.”

“I think I’m just gonna kill everyone,” he offers happily, when we’re a quarter of the way around the lake. “The whole world, except you and Scout and Rome and your mom.” When I realize that’s the extent of his thoughts, I glance up at him. “Thanks, I guess? That’s not a solution I’d considered.”

close enough, I dodge and turn around, walking backward so I can enjoy the sight of him stumbling and grabbing at empty air. “Do you need something?” “Give. me. my. fucking–” He dunks his hand in my pocket, but I easily spin out of his grip and keep walking. “You’re not even trying, baby.” “Goddamn you.”

I stumble into the store with him wrapped around me. When he gets another hand in my pocket, I grab his arm and spin him until he’s trapped in a tight hug from behind. We look like a couple of drunks as he tries to waddle forward with me on his back, then breaks down into giggles. “I give up, you win. Get the fuck off me.” Pushing my luck, I squeeze him to my chest. “Say it again, louder.” “You win, you filthy turd.”

“Can I light stuff on fire now? That’s what manly men say, right?”

I’m not a smart guy, and I don’t know a lot, but I’ll never understand why his mom didn’t burn the entire world down to get him back. Because he’s the only perfect thing there is.

“Uh-oh,” Scout murmurs, turning off the Kidz Bop Ultimate Hits CD he put in the disc player for a joke two years ago and couldn’t get out again. We superglued an old bluetooth speaker to the dashboard so we can play music on our phones, but sometimes when we’re feeling lazy we go back to “Party in the USA” sung by twelve year olds.

Rome fires off a fast, messy series of signs. I know most of them, like Tubbs and play, but he and Scout have their own made up shorthand I can’t interpret.

“Are you serious right now? You still have a giant bruise on your forehead.” “He said he was sorry.” I’m trying to come up with a way of saying “I’m gonna have to lock you in my closet until you promise you’ll never leave my sight again” without using those words

I always nibble each side of my cone evenly, watching for drips. Beck inhales the ice cream in two bites, then tears through the cone like a rabid beaver.

Scout never wants anyone between him and Roman, but I think Rome can smell grief, like an animal.

“I told you a million times, dude. You don’t matter to them,” he offers with his usual brutal bluntness.

“I’ve given those pricks everything. Ten years. I almost lost Dallas for them.” He raises his eyebrows, his tongue playing with the silver ring in his lip. “That was a bad idea, genius.” A noise bursts out of me that’s half a lame-ass sob and half a bark of laughter. “You’re gonna be a dick now?” The corner of his mouth tips up. “I’ve always been a dick.”

Grabbing his half-empty package of Oreos, he sticks one in his mouth, then flicks one across the bed to me. To him, that’s as generous as giving a dying person his kidney.

“What makes you a needle expert? Do you do intravenous drugs or something?” The corner of his mouth twitches up, his eyes playful as he sounds out the word. “Intravenous? You’ll find out soon that I don’t do drugs and I don’t know any words longer than three syllables.”

“Shhh.” He squeezes a strip of flesh, and my whole body tenses. “I got it, baby.”

And for the last two years, he’s done my shot for me every week.