Untamable

by Jamie Schlosser

Instead, I focused on the new haircut I’d gotten yesterday.

  The stylists had finally decided to do away with the man bun. At first, I was excited. I missed having short hair. But they left it longer on top, then put a shit-ton of product in it to make it look ‘wild and effortlessly sexy.’ Judging by the thirty-five minutes it took to get it just right, it was anything but effortless.

  Some of the light-brown locks fell in front of my eyes and I growled. I shoved them back, but the persistent chunks blocked my vision again.

  Fuck this. Maybe I’d see if they would let me buzz it off.

  Just as I reached my Range Rover, my phone started ringing, and I let out an annoyed groan when ‘unknown caller’ flashed across the screen. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but I felt like I could use the entertainment today.

  “Hello?”

  “Can you tame me, big boy?” A deep purr came through the speaker.

  A dude this time. Interesting.

  “Sorry, man. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “You don’t hear me barking, do you? I bet I could make you purr.” He gave a shrill meow.

  Snickering, I fastened my seatbelt. “Tell ya what—I’ll make an exception this time. You pick up a pizza, I’ll get the beer. Meet me at my place in thirty minutes.”

  Several beats of silence followed as my prank caller processed the fact that I’d called his bluff.

  How sad was it that I kind of hoped he’d say yes? That I was willing to hang out with a complete stranger because I was so desperate for company? Anything sounded better than going back to my empty condo.

  “I’ll even chip in for a pay-per-view,” I added to sweeten the deal. “What’ll it be? UFC, hockey, porn…?”

  I heard frantic whispering on the other end, catching snippets here and there.

  …actually wants me to come over.

  Are you fucking serious…?

  …he said porn…

  Hang up! Hang up!

  They didn’t bother responding to my invitation and the line went dead.

  Sighing, I dropped my phone into the cup holder. Guess it was time to change my number again.

  At first the prank calls, sexual offers, and the occasional dirty pic had been flattering. But after a while it became annoying.

  They didn’t really want to talk to me.

  They wanted the guy I played on TV, just like all the women I’d tried to date since starting the show. Back when I was literally scooping shit for a living, girls weren’t exactly fighting for my attention. The instant fame from the show had made me a sex icon overnight.

  And I’d dated them all—vapid, shallow, greedy, desperate. Some wanted my money, others wanted bragging rights.

  All I wanted was someone I liked talking to. Someone to come home to at night. Someone who wanted me for me.

  I’d always preferred the comfort of a relationship over the excitement of a passing fling.

  I couldn’t seem to find it.

  Maybe my standards were too high. Or maybe dating was just awful in general.

  First, you had to meet someone. Then you had to be mutually attracted to each other. And that was the easy part. If, by chance, you hit it off, then you had to get to know each other.

  Then came the questions.

  Is she nice? Is she honest?

  What if I come on too strong? What if she’s too eager?

  When can we hang out at my place instead of going to a fancy restaurant?

  Does she like cats? If the answer is no, automatic deal breaker.

  And after jumping through all those hoops, what if we figured out it still wasn’t working?

  So after a year of models, groupies, and reality stars trying to get to the top, I gave up on trying to find the emotional connection I craved. Decided to concentrate on my career instead. I was fine on my own. Besides, I traveled too much to maintain a relationship.

  And the best part about keeping to myself? The tabloids had no scandals to report. A while back, one magazine falsely claimed I was doing steroids to stay in shape, but compared to some of the stories they made up about people, that was nothing.

  My condo building came into view in the distance, the shiny black exterior extending fourteen floors up. The last glimmer of daylight reflected off the pristine glass windows.

  When I drove into the parking garage beneath the building, I got the same feeling of unfamiliarity I always did. The fancy high-rise had been home for almost a year, but it seemed like I would never get used to the luxurious lifestyle.

  The bowtie-wearing concierge greeted me with a nod as I walked through the lobby.

  “How’s it hanging, Charles?”

  “Very good, sir,” he replied the same dry response as always.

  Maintaining the utmost professionalism was his thing, but it didn’t stop me from trying to get him to crack. I’d been trying to get a reaction—any reaction—out of my doorman for months and, so far, I’d failed miserably.

  I swung my keyring around my finger and stopped in front of the marble countertop. “What do you say? Drinks after your shift? I’ve got a bottle of Jack and Netflix. I’ll even let you pick the show.”

  Not even a ghost of a smile. “Sorry, sir. I’ll have to politely decline.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll break out the big guns, just this once—I’ll chip in for some pay-per-view porn,” I joked.

  It was the second time in less than thirty minutes that I’d tried to entice someone to my place with the promise of porn. I had officially reached a new low.

  Apparently, Charles didn’t think my joke was funny because the frown lines around his mouth deepened. “I’m afraid I have prior obligations.”

  Aaaand also the second time getting turned down.

  “You’re a tough crowd.” Tapping the counter twice, I strolled away and called, “But one of these days, Charlie, you won’t be able to say no.”

  The elevator took me up to the fourteenth floor, opening into the penthouse.

  Gleaming stainless-steel appliances and black granite countertops greeted me in the kitchen. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the living room wall offered a priceless view of the darkening sky. Fluffy orange clouds floated just above the horizon, throwing some much-needed color onto my bare white walls.

  I’d meant to add some decorations after I moved in, but never got around to it. The neutral color scheme of whites, grays, and dark tones made the open floor plan feel masculine, yet terribly impersonal.

  My keys landed on the island with a clank as I headed for the fridge. I popped open a beer, then sat down on the black leather couch with the client profile to do some research and preparation for the upcoming job.

  Taking a long drink, I scanned the front page.

  In bold letters, the main issue was listed: Cat hoarder (owner of nine cats)

  The second page was a questionnaire we had clients fill out to get a good feel for who we were dealing with. The messy chicken-scratch handwriting was just barely legible.

  Name: Estelle Winters

  Occupation: Owner/seamstress at Estelle’s Costume Shop

  Hobbies: Working, reading, and spending time with my cats

  Fears: Flying on planes. Ending up alone.

  It sounded like this woman didn’t get out much. I pictured a little old lady curled up on her recliner on a Friday night, hiding from the world under a pile of books and cats. If you asked me, that was no way to live.

  I made a note in the sidebar to have a therapist on hand. Sometimes the owners were a bigger problem than the cats.

  During the two seasons we’d filmed, I’d dealt with all kinds of feline problems. Aggression. High anxiety. Going to the bathroom in all the wrong places.

  But we’d never had a cat hoarder. Rhonda was right. This was a whole different ballgame, and I wasn’t equipped to handle human mental instability.

  I flipped to the next page and almost choked on my beer when my eyes landed on the location at the bottom: Remington, So
uth Carolina.

  No fucking way.

  Excitement made my heart pound as I read it again in disbelief. Turning the page over, I scanned the detailed itinerary to make sure there wasn’t some mistake.

  No mistake.

  I was going home.

  I knew the name of that costume shop sounded familiar. When I was a kid, I used to get all my Halloween gear from Estelle’s. That was many years ago, but I faintly recalled the eccentric elderly woman who owned it. She loved clowns and always smelled like lemons.

  I sent a text to my sister.

  Me: Hey, looks like I’ll be in town for a few weeks on a shoot.

  Her response was immediate.

  Nikki: Omg!!! No way! Lizzie is going to be so excited to see you.

  I smiled when I thought about my five-year-old niece.

  Me: Tell her Uncle E will be there in three days.

  Nikki: Eek! Text me as soon as you get here.

  Me: Will do. Have you seen Dad lately?

  Nikki: Last weekend.

  Me: And?

  While I waited for her to respond, I flipped through some old pictures on my phone.

  There were several from last Christmas. Lizzie on my shoulders while she held a red stocking. My sister and her husband, Tom, opening the new dinnerware set I got for them. My dad wearing his blue ballcap and a faraway smile.

  All the pictures had one thing in common—the background of the assisted living home where my dad lived in the dementia/Alzheimer’s unit.

  He’d been at Windsor Lakes Retirement Home for six years now, and it was worth every penny.

  And I’d given them a lot of my pennies.

  Using my college fund to pay for the upscale medical facility wasn’t a decision I’d made on a whim. Neither was getting a shitty job and moving into the shitty studio apartment where I lived for three shitty years.

  To say Nikki had been pissed about my sacrifice was an understatement, but I didn’t regret a thing. The decision had been simple for me—I was able to help him, so I did.

  Luckily, money wasn’t something I had to worry about anymore.

  Nikki: He was having a bad day. The nurses were talking about starting him on a new medication. I’m visiting him tomorrow.

  Me: Don’t mention me coming back.

  Nikki: You know I won’t. So have you applied for vet school yet?

  I rolled my eyes because she was always hounding me about that. No matter how old we got, she couldn’t seem to snap out of big-sister mode.

  Every year she gave me a calendar with certain dates filled in. Important birthdays, days she thought I should ask off for vacation—which I usually didn’t do—and all the cutoff dates for class signups.

  It was obnoxious, but as much as I liked to complain about her nitpicking ways, I didn’t mind it. Felt nice to have someone care about me, even if I didn’t get to see her very often. What she didn’t seem to understand was that I couldn’t just walk into a college, even if I was somewhat famous. There were prerequisites and an application process. I had to get accepted first.

  Me: That’s not until next fall. As in, almost a year from now. I think I have time.

  Nikki: Just making sure you don’t forget.

  Me: I’m a grown man who happens to own a kitten calendar, thanks to you.

  Nikki: Ha-ha. You love it. Text me when you get settled. We can meet for dinner and you can tell me all about vet school. Vet school. VET SCHOOL.

  Me: Relentless.

  Shaking my head, I drained the rest of my beer.

  Another text came through.

  Nikki: I just want you to be happy.

  Me: I am.

  It wasn’t a complete lie.

  My life hadn’t turned out the way I’d imagined, but I couldn’t say I was unhappy. For me, working with animals and successfully resolving difficult situations was what gave me satisfaction. Contentment had become about being good at my job, providing for my dad, and rebuilding my college fund.

  And I was totally kicking ass in all areas.

  Satisfied and content—that was good enough. True happiness was rare for me, but as I thought about the hoarding case and the challenge it would bring, I felt a flicker of the emotion.

  I was going to kick ass at this too.

  Going back to my pictures, I kept scrolling and paused when I came to the sunset on the beach—the one I’d taken the day before I moved to Chicago. Before I realized I was making the best decision of my life.

  Filled with uncertainty, I sat on that beach for hours, letting the sand slip through my fingers while I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

  It was the right thing.

  I took a chance, and it paid off. If knowing my dad was healthy and cared for came at the price of missing home, I’d choose it every time.

  But I guess I wouldn’t have to miss South Carolina for much longer.

  CHAPTER 2

  EMERY

  The rented luxury RV cruised down familiar streets as we made the ten-minute drive to the filming location.

  Remington was a nice city. Big enough to avoid town gossip or unfortunate run-ins with old acquaintances. Small enough that heavy traffic and crowded streets weren’t a problem.

  We passed through the business district and I caught a glimpse of the vet clinic where Steve had found me. I wondered if Dr. Carson ever got more comfortable in his position there or if he was long gone. I would’ve bet good money on the latter.

  Looking down at his phone, Steve made a sound of distress in the seat across from me in the booth-style dining table. As always, he was impeccably put together in a crisp black suit and tie. The rectangular black-framed glasses gave him a hipster vibe, but the graying combover gave away his age.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t get the result you wanted on your horoscope today?”

  He glanced up at me and shook his head. “I took one of those quizzes again. The one about which Disney princess I would play in a movie.”

  I held in a snort, because the guy was dead serious. “And? Don’t leave me hanging here.”

  Unsatisfied, he sniffed. “Aurora from Sleeping Beauty.”

  These pointless tests could ruin his entire day. Yesterday it was what kind of coffee beverage he was, based on his birth month. He got the latte and fretted about it for a good half hour at the airport while we waited for our flight. Because he was a cappuccino.

  It was ridiculous. It was entertaining as fuck.

  Honestly, it was one of his few redeeming qualities.

  You’d think being an animal lover would’ve been a requirement for working on the show, but it wasn’t. There was no love lost between Steve and the cats we worked with. This was strictly business to him—a fat paycheck that gave him the lifestyle he wanted.

  Just like I knew he would, Steve had booked himself and the crew the best hotel in the area.

  I stayed there last night because our flight got in late, but I would be spending the duration of our time on the job in the RV outside the client’s home. I liked being nearby in case any problems arose, day or night. Plus, it was convenient for the crew to have a place to lounge around during breaks.

  Although I barely fit in the tiny bathroom, the bed in the back was a good size and there was a kitchenette stocked with food and beverages. Not much else a man could ask for.

  I shot off a quick text to Nikki that I was in town. We’d made tentative dinner plans, depending on how much work the hoarder needed, but I was assuming it was going to be complicated. Quite possibly the most difficult situation I’d ever dealt with.

  Steve let out another muttered curse and something about his life motto results. We spent the rest of the ride in silence.

  Five minutes later, we came to a stop in a parking lot.

  As I stepped out of the RV, I studied the four-story apartment complex. It wasn’t fancy, but not a total dump either. My guess was that the units had either one or two bedrooms. Possibly three, but from the narrow size of the build
ing, that was a stretch.

  There was no way a cat hoarder could live comfortably in such a small space.

  The white-sided exterior was lined with patios on the ground floor and balconies on the upper levels. Most had chairs or potted plants outside.

  All except for one.

  My eyes lingered on the chicken wire that caged in the entire second-level balcony. I spied a carpet-covered cat tower and some peacock feathers dangling from the wire.

  Yep, there’s our hoarder.

  The vans full of stage hands, camera crew, and other staff pulled up behind us.

  Everyone started piling out, and I smiled at the cowboy hats some of them wore as part of their disguise. ‘Meemaw’s Rodeo and Cattle Show’ decals were slapped all over the vehicles, including the RV.

  As the popularity of The Pussy Tamer grew, keeping our filming location a secret had become increasingly difficult, especially if we were in one place for longer than a few days.

  And we were definitely going to be here for a while.

  Glancing back at the caged-in balcony, I imagined we were about to walk into some pretty crazy shit, and my biggest concern was overwhelming the cats.

  “All right.” I whistled to get everyone’s attention. “You know how it goes. Joel, you come in with us first. Everyone else can wait outside in the hallway until we’ve assessed the situation. Then get in, set up your cameras, and get out. We need to limit the number of people to keep the environment as stable as possible.”

  Having a few people on set during any given time was pretty much inevitable. I mentally calculated myself, a camera man, at least one producer, possibly a medic, occasionally a caterer, the hoarder, and nine cats. Tight fit for such a small space.

  “You ready for this?” Steve asked skeptically as he peered up at the balcony.

  “Don’t doubt my abilities now.” I smirked. “This is my moment to shine.”

  He just grunted in response, and we made our way to the entrance. He dialed a code number into the panel.

  “Hello?” A soft voice came through the speaker.