by EJ Whitmer
Steeling my resolve, I inched my way toward the bedroom door, pressed my ear against the cool wood and listened. Nothing. Silence. I reached forward, turned the doorknob, eased the door open and counted to twenty. No masked psycho raced out to kill me. The room was still silent. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open the rest of the way before peeking in. The room was empty. The only thing out of place was my floor lamp lying broken on the floor, the light bulb shattered into a thousand pieces. I took a tentative step into the room and my eye caught a flash of movement on the floor by my bed. Upon closer inspection, Figaro’s brown bushy tail swished about, the rest of his body hidden under the bed.
A moment later, he backed his rotund body out from under the bed and crept toward me, his tail still swishing. The tail in his mouth was not swishing. What?! A thin white tail draped down from Fig’s mouth. I could just barely make out the white rump of what had to be a mouse. I guess that explains the scurrying.
“Figaro!” I hissed. “You spit that out!”
He replied by flattening his ears and giving me his version of the stink eye.
Here’s the thing about mice: They absolutely petrify me when they’re scurrying around my loft and I’m wearing long pants. I’m scared to death that a mouse is going to race up the inside of my pant leg and bite my butt. Same goes with spiders in the toilet. Or public restrooms with toothpicks in the toilet bowls. (My brother told me that crabs can pole vault.) So yes, like most women, mice scare the bajeezus out of me. However, the thought of killing a mouse makes me a bit weepy and queasy. When they’re not trying to bite my butt, mice are kinda cute. The one hanging from Figaro’s mouth had a cute little white booty. There was no way I could let him be devoured by my obese cat.
I marched forward, scooped Figaro up and gave him a slight shake. “Spit him out! Right this instant!”
Cats aren’t known for their listening skills, so obviously my lecturing didn’t yield any results. I heaved a heavy sigh and carried Figaro to my kitchen in search of a piece of Tupperware. I fished out an empty whipped topping tub and set it on the counter before returning my attention to Fig. “Please, Fig?” I begged. “Just spit him out, buddy. I’ll give you a bowl of ice cream.”
He stared at me, obviously less than impressed. I was going to have to pull it out. Just because I wanted the mouse to live didn’t mean I wanted to touch it. I shuddered and focused on not throwing up in my mouth. My gaze rested on an oven mitt hanging from the oven handle. I tucked Fig under one arm and wrestled the oven mitt onto my free hand. Before I could think twice, I reached forward and grabbed the mouse’s tail, wiggling gently to dislodge it from Fig’s mouth.
I swear the cat rolled his eyes as he finally opened his mouth and let the mouse go. As soon as its head was free, the mouse sparked back to life and began wriggling frantically as I held on to its tail. I screamed at the sudden movement and would have thrown the mouse across the room had I been able to figure out how to open my fingers in the oven mitt. Apparently in my moment of panic, I had forgotten how to use my hands. After a short “I’m scared shitless” dance, I regained enough consciousness to drop the mouse in the plastic tub and slam the lid on top. I continued to scream for a good ten seconds before my brain caught up with the events. It took another five minutes for me to calm down enough to carry the tub down the elevators to ground level.
The mouse and I exited the building and traveled the short distance to the closest marina. There, I found a grassy patch of land and bent to let my little friend free. I lowered to my knees and set the plastic tub on the ground gently before using my fingernails to gently pry open the lid. No sooner had I lifted the lid an inch than the little shithead launched himself through the opening and scurried up my arm. I screamed like a banshee and flailed my arms as I danced in a tight circle. The possessed rodent went flying, landing with a soft thump on the grass before bolting to safety. Again, I continued to scream for much longer than was necessary.
“Uh, lady, are you okay?”
I halted my screaming and whipped around to see a homeless man staring at me from his perch on a bench.
“Yes,” I called back in a shaky voice. “Sorry. Demon mouse. Tried to bite my butt.”
The man stared at me for a moment before shaking his head and grumbling something inaudible as he hunkered back down to sleep. I picked up my empty cool whip container and made my way back to my loft, the image of a tumbler of Cabernet motivating me to pick up my pace.
4
Apparently Figaro was a little more miffed off about the mouse episode than I thought. I woke up the next morning nursing a dull headache from my friend Mr. Cabernet, swung my legs over the side of bed and planted my foot smack dab in the middle of cat vomit.
Most cats vomit. This isn’t abnormal. Figaro, however, vomits out of spite. He normally has a gastrointestinal system made of steel. The only time my furry little demon vomits is when he’s extra honked off at something I have, or more often haven’t, done.
If he’s annoyed, Fig sits on my chest in the morning and points his butt in my face as a fun surprise when I wake up. If he’s really pissed, he vomits in strategically placed spots; usually beside my bed, inside my closet door or on the floor in front of the coffee maker.
To avoid tracking half-digested kibble across my bedroom floor, I hopped on my clean foot to my attached en suite and stuck my foot in the shower. This is my life. Cat butts, cat vomit, butt biting mice and Cabernet headaches. The next time I throw myself a pity party about dancing dangerously close to age thirty and still not being married for an unknown reason, I will remind myself of this moment.
As soon as my toes were vomit-free, I rushed out to clean up the mess on my floor, grabbed clothes and raced out the door. Tuesdays and Thursdays are resistance training days at Vance Publishing’s gym. A few months ago I would have had to show up twenty minutes early to find a decent spot. Hot Ian, a.k.a. Captain Zinger, was our instructor and his irresistible physique drew in massive amounts of women to each of his classes. Once Ian was out of the picture, the gym hired a truck-sized behemoth named Vlad as the new weight training instructor. His classes are noticeably less full, but I must admit my biceps are looking pretty fierce lately.
I rushed into class just as people were partnering up for circuit training. I frantically searched around the room, looking for someone who hadn’t yet partnered up and found myself with two options: Gia and Carl. As much as I didn’t want to spend any more time than was necessary with Gia, one glance at Carl was all it took for me to race to her side.
Carl was decked out, yet again, in head-to-toe workout gear. We very rarely lifted super heavy in our classes, but Carl sported a giant, leather weight belt that was at least four sizes too big for him. The belt dangled from his skinny waist and spanned from his flat butt to his chest. His hands were covered in fingerless weightlifting gloves and a white sweat towel hung across his shoulders.
As soon as I reached Gia, I plastered on a fake smile and greeted her. “Good morning, Gia! Do you have a partner yet?”
She looked a bit taken aback. Perhaps my friendly smile was a bit overkill. “Good morning, Anna. I don’t have a partner. Would you like to pair up with me?” She leaned in close to whisper in my ear. “Thank goodness you got here when you did. I was afraid I’d end up with the Schwarzenegger wannabe over there!” She gestured toward Carl and covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
I laughed with her as we made our way to the first circuit. “I was thinking the same thing. That’s Carl. I love him to pieces, but he’s a lot to handle!”
Unfortunately for Carl, he was left without a partner, forcing him to pair up with Vlad who was already shouting at him like a drill sergeant. “Get your scrawny rear over to that weight bench and man up, varmint!”
“Yikes. Okay, now I feel bad for the little guy,” murmured Gia. “That Vlad is one scary guy! How do you deal with him twice a week?”
I groaned and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, he’s a bit intense.
He’s still new here, so hopefully he’ll simmer down after a few more weeks.”
“He’s new? Who taught class before him?”
I chewed my lip, warning myself to tread lightly. “A man named Ian Watts taught before him.”
“Did you like him better? What happened to him?” Gia asked, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“I did like him,” I answered. And that was the truth. I liked Ian a lot. I was still struggling to understand how underneath his friendly exterior, he was a deeply evil man. “He left a couple months ago. I’m not really sure what happened to him.”
“You mean he didn’t announce that he was quitting or anything? Has anybody heard where he went? Did he have any enemies?”
I raised an eyebrow at her. Why was she so concerned? It’s not like she had been in any of his classes. She just started at Vance Publishing one day earlier.
Gia caught my suspicious eyebrow and laughed to herself. “I’m sorry. I watch too much Dateline. Ignore me!”
I forced a chuckle and began setting up for our first circuit, the bench press. Gia was kind enough to let me go first, so I loaded ten pounds on each side of the bar as a warm-up. I swear I saw a slight smirk on her face as she reached for the ten pound weight on her side, but it was gone before I could double-check. After my set, I got up to let Gia take a turn. Instead of hopping down on the bench, she motioned for me to grab another ten pound disc on my side as she loaded another on her side. A warm-up of 85 pounds is nothing to scoff at for a woman.
Gia quickly finished her reps and motioned for me to take my turn. Not wanting to be outdone, I added five more pounds to my side and nodded at her to do the same. Ninety-five pounds was the most I had ever done, and even then it was only three reps. Vlad had instructed us to perform three sets of ten. I took a deep breath, sat down on the bench, channeled my inner Hulk and busted out ten extremely painful reps. By the time I slid the bar back in its holders, my arms were limp noodles and my chest was on fire. I struggled to hide my heavy breathing as I got up to let Gia have her turn.
Gia raised her eyebrows in appreciation and pulled off the five pound weights at the end before adding a ten pounder to each side. We were in triple digits and the woman hadn’t even broken a sweat. Once Gia completed her set, I hopped on and attempted to match her. There was no way I could do more than 105 pounds and I have a major fear of being decapitated by a weight bar.
I am extremely proud to say I finished all ten reps. However, once we changed circuits, our competitive dance continued. By the end of our workout I was absolutely drenched in sweat and I wasn’t sure I would be able to hold the hair dryer long enough to completely dry my hair after my shower. Luckily, I always kept emergency curling gel in my locker. I squirted on enough gel to lube an elephant and worked it into my long hair before half-drying it and leaving the rest to air dry and curl on its own. After a quick makeup application, I made my way to my office.
Unfortunately, that morning wasn’t nearly as quiet as the day before. As soon as I stepped off the elevator I had interns and designers swarming me, firing questions at me like the paparazzi. I speed-walked toward my office, answering questions along the way and collecting rough drafts needing my revisions. I finally made it to my door, only to find the lights on and a smug-looking Italian man sitting behind my desk.
“Good morning, Ms. Jennings,” greeted Dominic Flacco, Vance Publishing’s COO and member of Blake and Emmett’s super team. Dom had the swarthy Italian mobster look down perfectly. He was tall, a couple inches over six foot, with longish dark brown hair that just reached his shoulders. A slight kink in his nose gave him a dangerous look that many of my female coworkers swooned over. He wasn’t outrageously good-looking in a typical way, but he definitely had some major mojo going on.
“Good morning, Mr. Flacco,” I replied as I set down my purse and briefcase. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” I had a feeling I knew already, but I wanted to see what he’d say.
“I just wanted to check in on you. See how your Tuesday is going and all that jazz,” he replied smoothly.
“Hmmm… Are you sure you’re not checking up on me? Making sure I’m behaving while the big bad wolves are away?”
Dom grinned at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can’t I just check in on a friend?”
“Of course you can,” I replied. “I’m just curious why you chose today to check in instead of any other time in the past few weeks.”
“I missed you.” The corner of Dom’s mouth twitched before he could contain it.
I snorted as I made my way around the desk and nudged Dom in the shoulder. “Out of my chair, bud.”
His mouth fell open in mock outrage as he rose to his feet. “I’m going to forgive your crassness just this once. I was warned you wouldn’t be approachable until after you’ve had your coffee.”
“Ahha!” I shouted as I claimed my chair. “You admit it, then. You were asked to check in.”
Dom smirked and leaned a hip against my desk. “While I do always jump at the opportunity to see your shining face, yes, I was asked to check in on you.”
“Well I’m fine,” I replied curtly. “I didn’t snoop. I didn’t pout. No one tried to kill me. Well, except a killer ninja mouse, but I took care of him.”
Dom’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but before he could comment, Mae came bustling through the door.
“Good morning, Anna! I brought you your – ooo! Well hello there!” Mae beamed at Dom, who was still leaning against my desk. “I didn’t realize you had an appointment, Anna.”
“I don’t,” I replied. “Mae, this is Dominic Flacco, Vance Publishing’s COO. Dom, this is my assistant, Mae.”
Dom, ever the flirt, strode slowly to Mae, shook her hand and batted his eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mae.”
A giggle erupted from Mae’s gaping mouth before she could tamp it down. “Indeed it is!” She peered around his shoulder to raise her eyebrows at me before returning to her gaze to Dom’s. “No ring, I see.” She motioned to his bare left hand. “You don’t happen to be on Tinder, do you?”
I lowered my head into my palms and moaned. “Mae. Honestly.”
“What?! I was just asking.”
Dom chuckled and slung an arm around Mae’s shoulders. “I am not on Tinder, no. But, my dear, if I was I would definitely right-swipe you.” With that, Dom sent her a wink and made his exit.
As soon as he was out of sight, Mae flopped into a guest chair and fanned her face with my morning memos. “Good gracious, that man could melt an iceberg. I think I’m sweating. What’s that phrase you use sometimes? A she-boner? Yes. I totes have a raging she-boner.”
I shook my head and took a deep breath. “Too much information, Mae. And he’s not that good looking.”
“Well of course you don’t think so,” Mae replied. “You’re the one dating Emmett Vance and avoiding the inevitable with Eric Blake. Some of us aren’t so lucky.”
“What do you mean avoiding the inevitable with Blake?!” I exclaimed.
“Never mind, dearie.” Mae reached out and patted my hand before standing. “Now then, I brought you your coffee and granola crunchies. Here are your morning memos and don’t forget you’ve got to approve a layout by eleven o’clock.”
I shook my head clear. “Fine. Yes. Thank you. But seriously, what did you mean about me and Blake?”
“Nothing!” tittered Mae as she made her way to the door. “Nothing at all. Have a good morning, Anna!”
I glared at the now empty doorway. Avoiding the inevitable? What’s inevitable when it comes to Blake? That I will inevitably punch him in the face? That I will inevitably tell him to shove a stapler where the sun don’t shine? That I will inevitably think something so horrendous that he ends up firing me? That one was most likely. I did my best to shake it off and booted up my computer. I needed my coffee and quiet before someone lost their head.
5
Forty-five minutes later, I pushed
back from my computer and lifted my arms to stretch. Or at least I attempted to. As soon as my arms reached chest-level, what felt like a rush of molten lava rushed down my shoulders to my biceps. I bit my lip hard to stifle my groan and slowly lowered my arms. Usually when I overdo a workout I don’t feel the stiffness for at least a day. Apparently I more than overdid that morning's routine. It hadn’t been three hours since my showdown with Gia and I was considering chewing my appendages off. There was no way I could function around people. I gingerly reached forward to buzz Mae and asked her to print and bring me the layouts for proofing.
Five minutes later Mae came sashaying through my door, one hand clutching the layouts, the other holding her cell phone five inches from her nose. “Here you are, dear!” Mae navigated her way through the office, around my guest chairs and laid the papers on my desk, all without tearing her gaze from her cell phone.