Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

his soft brown eyes blinked and he pulled lush lips into a sleepy smile. Evan was sex on a stick. Jackson's heated blood rushed to his crotch as he remembered what those lips felt like down there.
    "Hello." Jackson thought himself civil and neutral. Now if he could only escape without a scene…
    "Hey! Look who's here!"
    "Uh… gotta run," he said hastily as Burtie yanked on his leash and pulled Jackson away towards The Commons.
    Jackson followed the dog good-naturedly, amused at his exuberance as they headed towards a group of tables and chairs set up on the patio of one of the city's best barbeque joints. People were sitting and chatting and sipping icy drinks while country music twanged softly in the background, and all of them had dogs with them. The fragrant smoke made his mouth water.
    "Hi Nuri! Hi Duffer! Isn't Miss Pretty tacky today?" Burtie barked excitedly at his friends.
    "Good evening, Burt. Pray stay downwind from us tonight."
    "I'm getting better." Burtie informed them.
    Burtie barreled up to a man sitting at an end table with a German shepherd lying at his feet. From the back, all Jackson could see was neatly clipped dark hair, broad shoulders draped in a beat-up leather jacket, and jean-clad legs ending in scuffed motorcycle boots. Burtie launched his front paws onto the man's lap.
    "Burtie! Get off! I'm so sorry. He's usually very well-behaved," Jackson apologized. The man turned in his seat, and Jackson choked back a gasp as the face of the star of his recent daydreams crinkled in a genial smile.
    "Nice to have a patient remember me fondly," laughed the man. Jet Wyman. Jackson cringed inwardly as his carefully considered evening plans, designed to help him get this gorgeous man off his mind, came crashing down.
    "Uh… good evening, Dr. Wyman," he stammered and cleared his throat. "Is your wife here tonight as well?" Jackson asked politely as he looked around.
    "My wife?" he asked, puzzled.
    "Jessa? Burtie's usual vet?"
    Jet grinned, all white teeth and luscious lips. "Jessa is my sister. I'm not married. And please call me Jet," he offered warmly. "Would you like to sit down? Have a beer?" He waved his own frosty bottle at an ice-filled bucket with several bottles of the local microbrewery's best nestled within. Jackson grabbed a beer and nervously sat down, barely allowing himself to hope there was a possibility he had a chance with Jet.
    "This is a popular event for local dog owners. I haven't seen you here before," Jackson noted with forced casualness.
    "It's my first time here. I don't know too many people in town yet, so I've been sitting by myself for the past half hour. This is Ingo," he added as he reached down and stroked the German shepherd at his feet.
    "Hey Ingo. Call me Burt." Burtie greeted the dog with enthusiastic sniffing.
    Ingo raised his head and gave a few half-hearted sniffs in Burtie's direction.
    "Are you okay? You seem kinda beat." Burtie worried .
    "Sometimes I'm tired when I've walked too much." Ingo told him.
    Jackson smoothed his fingers along the scars between Ingo's ears, both of which were reduced to tattered lumps of flesh. "What happened to him?"
    "An IED. Ingo is a war dog. Retired, of course."
    Burtie stilled and then laid his head companionably against Ingo's scarred shoulder.
    "Thank you for your service."
    Ingo wagged the tip of his tail.
    "These guys seem to be getting along," Jackson observed, pleased that Burtie was not attempting uber-alpha mode tonight. "How did you end up with a war dog?"
    "I was an Army veterinarian, treating the military working dogs in Baghdad. I was on duty when Ingo and his handler were brought in." A barely noticeable tremor painted Jet's voice. "Ingo made it; his handler didn't." Jet was quiet for a bit. Jackson had no idea what to say, so he simply murmured polite sympathy noises. Jet swallowed some beer, and then he continued. "Even though he survived, Ingo wasn't fit enough to return to duty. The Army typically euthanizes animals as badly hurt as he was, but he'd been through so much I figured he deserved a chance, so I arranged for his care. I told the Army he could still be used in their breeding program. When I rotated back stateside, he came with me. And when I separated from the service, the Army released him to me. All told, he's been with me almost two years." Jet drained his beer and silently watched the activity at the other end of the patio, absently peeling the label from his beer bottle.
    Jackson wondered what