TUESDAY TALES - WORD PROMPT "CRY" BREAK MY HEART

Welcome! This week we're back at the vet's office, where Breaker, oh, excuse me, Rick Winslow is having an argument with the doctor. We continue with Break My Heart. The word prompt is "cry". Scroll down for the link to return to Tuesday Tales. Thanks for stopping by. 

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Panic captured his breath. He couldn’t lose this little critter. Pain rocketed through him. As quickly as it came, it morphed into anger. He snatched the dog back.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve! He’s mine. I found him. I’m keeping him. We’ll find another vet.”  He headed for the door.

“Don’t talk to me like that. Get out!” She stood rigid, hands on hip.

He turned.

“We come to you for help and you try to take the dog away? What the fuck? This little pug has been tossed aside, dumped. I know what he’s going through. I brought him to you to save him and this is how you treat me?” He resumed his path to the door, cursing himself as tears burned at the back of his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady his emotions. Nope, he surely was not going to cry because this woman was a class A bitch.   

“No, wait. Wait!”

Rick stopped. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You don’t have to get mad. I was only thinking of the animal.”

“Were you? You don’t want some repulsive man to get his hands on this nice little dog?”

She stepped back. “What? No. I never thought that.”

“Then what did you think?” His nostrils flared, adrenaline flowed through his veins. His body prepared to do battle to hang on to his small companion.

“I’m sorry. I just thought. I mean. Well, you are Breaker Winslow, aren’t you?

“Breaker Winslow is dead.” His tone was harsher than he intended.

“Oh. Guess I made a mistake. Come here. Let me take a look at him.” She placed a stethoscope around her neck. You’re right, he needs help.” Her tone had quieted. She shot a tentative smile his way.

Fear slowly seeped out of his body. “You’re not going to take him away again, are you?”

She shook her head. “No, no. I believe you. But this boy is malnourished. He needs medical attention.” She wrinkled her nose. “And a bath.”

“Okay then. Fix him up.” As he handed her the dog, his gaze connected with hers. The blue that had been a haughty frost a few minutes earlier, had softened. He dropped his gaze to the floor. Pity. He recognized it the second he saw it. He hated it worse than derision. Nobody needed to pity Breaker Winslow. He was a rich son-of-a-bitch. If he had lost his profession, his total, identity in the fire, at least he had enough money to lick his wounds in high style. 

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