Geek with the Cat Tattoo (Cool Cats #2)

by Theresa Weir

  Geek with the Cat Tattoo

  Table of Contents

  Geek with the Cat Tattoo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Geek with the Cat Tattoo

  Theresa Weir

  Geek with the Cat Tattoo is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Please purchase ebooks from reputable vendors and respect the rights and work of the author. It is against the law to pirate, copy, or resell copyrighted material.

  Copyright © 2013 by Theresa Weir

  Belfry Press

  the cat

  Chapter 1

  I’m on my third owner and he’s giving me a look I’ve become familiar with over the years. That look of suspicion. That look that says he knows. Or at least he thinks he knows.

  Oh, yeah. He’s going to ditch me. He’s already contemplating the how and where. Take me to a shelter? Been there, done that, have the T-shirt. Or pack me in a box, drive fifty miles from Minneapolis, and dump me on some country road? Neither of those choices scare me, I try to tell myself. Living in the country. That might be nice, right? A lot of field mice to eat. A big sky.

  Oh, my god. What am I saying? I’m a city cat through and through. I couldn’t survive out there. I’m already imagining myself falling in with a bunch of feral cats with rotten teeth and mange. Egads!

  “What the hell are you?” asks my third owner. He’s standing in the kitchen looking down at me, and the terror in his eyes has turned into something that scares me more than the possibility of life in the country with a pack of inbreds.

  “Are you the devil?” The words barely leave his mouth when Third Owner nods, as if coming to a decision.

  When he picked me out at the shelter he didn’t know anything about cats—that was obvious an hour into our relationship. And even today I’m not sure he likes cats, but lucky for me he isn’t around much. He works somewhere in downtown Minneapolis, and talks about the cubicle where he goes with his slicked-back hair and body spray that burns my nose. But like my previous owners, he’s finally figured me out.

  I put thoughts in his head.

  Nothing big. Just things like making him buy me gourmet food and awesome catnip. Change my litter box every day and leave the electric blanket on. The kind of things a cat cares about, but he finally figured it out. They always figure it out. But I’ve never had an owner look at me like he’s looking at me. With such resolve.

  I can read his body language, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to kill me. So I do what any other cat in my position would do. I attack.

  Luckily I still have my claws (I was able to mindmess him out of declawing me). The nearest body part is his leg. His bare leg, because he’s wearing jockey shorts. Not only do I dig with my claws, I sink my teeth into him at the same time.

  Understandably, Third Owner screams. He dances. He shakes his leg while continuing to shriek. I send him a message, hoping it will get through. Throw me out. Open the door and throw me out.

  I immediately regret my choice of words. I didn’t mean throw in the literal sense. Third Owner grabs me by the back of the neck.

  Pain. Paralysis. I let go of his leg.

  With angry pounding steps he carries me to the front door of his condo, opens it, and gives me a toss.

  I’m thinking several things as I sail through the air, one being how thankful I am to be out of there, two being an awareness of the beauty of the night, three being a reminder to land on my feet. Which I do.

  The door slams closed.

  The porch light goes off.

  I’m free.

  I sit down on the sidewalk and watch the cars go by. A lot of cars. A lot of lights.

  To my left, I smell restaurants and see neon lights and hear talking and laughing, along with the clatter of silverware. Ah, outdoor dining.

  Lucky for me it’s late spring, because winter in Minneapolis… I don’t even want to think about those thirty-below temps.

  I start moving toward the neon signs and the laughter. It’s a weekend. I know this because Third Owner said something about a date and having tomorrow off. I think about never having to wake up to the sight of Third Owner cuddling his newest girlfriend and I feel euphoric. Like a cat who just won the lottery.

  I’m walking along, minding my own business, when a door opens. Noise and heat from the bodies inside roll over me, then some guy lunges out. I sidestep into the shadows to observe.

  The last thing I need is another creep in my life, but there’s something about this guy… I’m curious.

  I follow him.

  Down the sidewalk.

  They say cats choose their owners. I’ve never believed that nonsense. Two times I’ve been picked up from the shelter by someone I wasn’t crazy about, so where’s the choosing in that? But I understand my duty, the duty of a cat, so I don’t complain. And who can complain about living inside and getting at least two squares a day? But maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I should take control of the situation and try to find a new owner rather than the other way around.

  I think this guy is younger than Third Owner. He smells like the bar he’s just left, and he smells like greasy food and beer.

  I follow him as he trips into a dark yard, falls to his hands and knees, and throws up. I wait patiently until he finally backcrawls a couple of feet, then drops on his heels so he’s kind of sitting, hands on his thighs. I have the feeling he’s going to start crying. I don’t want him to cry.

  I’m a nurturer. I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. And this guy needs some major nurturing. I let out a little meow, just kind of a question, a testing-the-water meow. Then I rub against his thigh—one quick pass.

  His breath catches. He turns and looks at me.

  Now I can see his face, or at least partially see his face, because dark hair falls across eyes that might be as blue as a Siamese cat I used to know. I can see I’ve gotten his attention. I’ve surprised him out of his sorrow for just a brief moment.

  In a romance novel this would be considered the cute meet. I know all about romance novels thanks to Second Owner, who was addicted to them and read more than one a day. I learned a lot about romance from her. I miss Second Owner.

  “Hello,” my new friend says, with wonder and surprise in his voice. He reeks of beer. I mean reeks like it’s coming out of his skin. But I can feel the kindness emanating from him too. This man/boy has a good heart. A smart cat knows these things.

  He reaches for me. My initial reaction is to dodge his hand, but I force myself to accept his touch because he needs to feel the comfort I can bring him. I might be an opportunist interested in food and a warm bed, but I can also comfort a human. A lot of people might not believe that about cats, but it’s true. We aren’t just selfish jerks interested in nothing but our own well-being. If that’s how I rolled I would have been happy with First Owne
r and Third Owner.

  The guy’s touch is light. Just fingertips running between my ears and down my back, which dips in a subtle urge to avoid contact. I can’t help it.

  He staggers to his feet, then stands there swaying and blinking at me. After some owlish contemplation, he scoops me up against his chest and marches down the sidewalk with big, confident steps…as if he knows where he’s going.

  And I wonder if this is it. Have I found my real owner? Will number four be forever?

  the cat

  Chapter 2

  I wake up the next morning to sunlight pouring in windows so dirty that at first I wonder if the beige coating is intentional, like some kind of faux art. I soon grow tired of trying to see through the glass because the life before me is more interesting.

  I’m sharing a bed with my new potential owner.

  In the light of day, while he’s still sleeping it off, I check him out. Male, as I knew. Fairly young in human years. Maybe twenty-five…twenty-six. Somewhere in there. I’m not good at guessing the age of humans. My first owner was in her fifties and divorced. Bitter. I tried to make her happy, but couldn’t do it. My second home was the romance girl. I liked her. I really did, but she started getting suspicious, looking at me weird, and off to the animal shelter I went. The third… Well, that guy. Businessman, working for the weekend.

  People don’t like it when their cats control their thoughts, but it’s not as if I chose to be this way, and yet I’m proud of my heritage. I’m one of three special cats with special talents, but I happen to think my skill is the strongest of my long-lost siblings, although I still say my brother, last I knew, had a lot of untapped potential just going to waste. And my sister might have been able to predict the future at times, but she’d been too sweet for her own good. A cat has to be tough to survive in this world, which brings me back to the young guy—an innocent babe.

  He’s really quite adorable. His dark hair is a little curly, his brows thick. He has hair on his face that I think is supposed to be there. Not a lot, and it looks good on him. He’s a little on the thin side, but not terribly so. Right now he’s tangled in a blue sheet and bare to the waist. Smooth skin. White skin. He doesn’t go outside much, that’s obvious. He’s not at all high maintenance, unlike Third Owner who spent a lot of time in front of the mirror, in the shower, and at the gym.

  I have the sudden urge to sneak up on the new guy and bop him in the face, maybe on his lips. Just a pat, with no claws. And, if he doesn’t wake up, another pat.

  But he’s a stranger. And I don’t want to do anything to endanger this new relationship. In order to resist the urge to give him a playful slap, I jump from the bed and explore the house. I checked it out briefly last night, but not as much as I would have liked. Now I slink down steps that turn in the middle, finally arriving on the first floor.

  A dude hangout, messy, dusty, but not filthy. Scratched wooden floors, high ceilings, dark trim, walls of various colors from red to cream. A lot of thrift-shop furniture. Stuffed book shelves, plants, record albums, more books on the dining room table, boots and tennis shoes near the door.

  The building has been here a long time—I can tell by the smell. Old people, young people, dogs and cats and even birds have hung out in these rooms at some point in the past.

  I hear a noise coming from the kitchen. Either someone else lives here too, or we have an intruder.

  I cross the wooden floor and peek around the corner to see a young guy with wild and tangled golden hair standing in front of a coffee maker. His legs are bare, his feet are bare, and he’s wearing a ratty plaid robe. From the way he’s staring slack-jawed and bleary-eyed at the machine, I get the feeling he’s not a morning person.

  I let out a little meow—the cat equivalent of clearing my throat.

  The guy spins around, and now I see that the robe is open. He’s wearing boxers with some kind of cartoon character, and he hardly has any hair on his chest. Another man-boy.

  “Jesus.” He steadies himself with the counter. “You scared the shit out of me, cat.”

  Sorry. I tuck my butt under me and sit down. The coffee maker chooses that moment to spit out a mouthful of steam and hot water. The guy in the robe blinks at me, then smiles a wistful smile.

  “Where the hell did you come from?”

  I don’t think he really expects an answer, because he turns his face toward the ceiling, and shouts: “Emerson! Hey, Emerson! There’s a cat down here!”

  That announcement is immediately met with a loud crash from above our heads.

  So, my new owner’s name is Emerson.

  I like it.

  I’ve had many names over the years. Right now my name is George, but I’m thinking of changing it to Sam. After Andy Warhol’s cats. Not that I’m an art critic, but I’m definitely a fan of pop culture, especially seventies pop culture.

  I really hope Emerson names me Sam. I’ll work on that.

  Emerson

  Chapter 3

  Emerson was only a little late to work at Let It Be Guitar Repair. He would have liked to blame it on the cat, but it was his stomach. And his head. Oh, god, his head.

  And the cat.

  His roommate, Chris, wasn’t crazy about having a cat in the house while nobody was home. A stray cat, so Emerson opted to take the animal to work with him.

  He didn’t know much about cats, like whether or not they liked to ride bikes, but since he hardly ever drove to work, he stuck the cat in the basket on the front of his bicycle and took off.

  The cat sat there for the full ten blocks. He sat there at stoplights, and he only let out one alarmed meow when they hit a bump and he bounced pretty high. At the next intersection, Emerson braced himself while waiting for the light. The people in the car next to him stared. At him. At the cat in the basket. He grinned, ducked his head, and leaned into the bicycle when the light turned green.

  In front of the guitar shop, he chained his bike to the rack. Before he could straighten, the cat jumped on his back. Emerson straightened, and the animal settled itself on his shoulder.

  Stepping inside, the door jangled and his coworker, Abe, looked up from the intense scrutiny of his cell phone. “Ahoy, matey. Don’t look now, but that’s not a parrot you’ve got there.”

  “It followed me home last night.”

  “I’m not sure sitting on someone’s shoulder qualifies as following.”

  The cat jumped to the floor with a loud thud. “Keep an eye on him, will you?” Emerson asked. “I have to run to the store and get some cat food.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The store was just across the street and down a block. One of those tiny little shops squeezed between an organic restaurant and a bar. Two narrow aisles packed with basic necessities. In a corner near the back, Emerson found several cans of cat food. “Salmon…tuna…beef. Beef, that seems wrong. Cats don’t eat cows, cats eat fish.”

  He carried the cans to the counter and was shocked at the price. More than the cost of his lunch, but he shelled out the cash, thanked the guy behind the counter, stuck the cans of cat food into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and headed back to the shop.

  There, he dug out some makeshift bowls, filling one with water and the other with the contents of one can. The cat scarfed down the food, making a lot of noise, obviously starving. Emerson felt bad. Should have fed him something last night.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Abe asked.

  They were both watching the cat lick the empty bowl.

  Emerson shrugged. “Put up flyers, I guess. I’ll make some today. And Craigslist.”

  “I don’t know about putting a cat on Craigslist. I’ve heard bad things about that.”

  They both stared at the cat.

  “Do they put chips in cats?” Emerson asked. “Maybe it has a chip.”

  “I don’t think so.”
/>
  They both stared some more.

  “I wonder if it has a name,” Emerson said. “I wonder where it was just yesterday. Or if somebody misses it.”

  “Wouldn’t that be cool if it could tell us? If it could talk?”

  They both laughed.

  Mornings at the shop were normally slow because musicians didn’t get up early, so Emerson had time to work on flyers. He took a photo of the cat and uploaded it to the store’s computer. Then he got creative and designed something that looked like a wanted poster. He’d just finished printing it out and was getting ready to make copies when the bell above the door rang.

  Emerson looked up to see a girl he’d seen a lot of times. In fact, he knew her name and knew she was a server at Mean Waitress, and knew she was a deejay at The Turf Club. Yeah, he knew all about her, but whenever she came into the shop he got so nervous that his palms sweat and he stammered. Stammered!

  Lola.

  Her name was Lola Brown.

  She stood in the doorway, as if hesitant to come any further. Like always, she looked beautiful. From her shiny burgundy hair that fell to her shoulders and framed her porcelain skin, to the brightly colored tattoos that covered her arms.

  As he watched, she pulled in a deep breath, stepped through the doorway and walked with purpose across the shop, gracefully winding her way around the amps and sea of instruments.

  Emerson swallowed nervously.

  With no expression, she pulled a cream-colored claim ticket from her canvas messenger bag, and slid the stub across the wooden counter that had been worn smooth and shiny. Her nails were purple today. “I’m picking up a guitar for my dad.” She said this with very little eye contact, something that relieved Emerson.

  Her dad was a well-known musician in town who’d been in several bands over the years. He always brought his guitars to Emerson for repair. The latest was a Fender Stratocaster—a pale blue beauty.