Elizabeth Stewart - Stray Thoughts (Ellora's Cave)

by Nicole

  “Fine. Skip it. I have to get back to my desk.”

  Sheridan felt silly and a little ashamed of her behavior as she walked back to her desk. After all, realistically, Pat’s explanation was not only plausible, but probably exactly what had happened. Still, it had been unsettling and she was mildly miffed that Pat had made light of it. And that crack about Nick picking her up, undressing her…

  Stop it, she told herself firmly. Nick is a stray tomcat, albeit large enough to be a mini panther. Period.

  As she sat down to resume typing the letter she’d been working on before the break, she tried to put the whole thing out of her mind. But before she could continue, Sheridan had to put on her sweater. It seemed her work area had suddenly developed a chill.

  *

  “So what is it exactly you do all day while I’m at work?” Sheridan asked, looking down at Nick as she latched the window.

  Nick ignored her and made straight for the kitchen. As she followed him, she stopped only long enough to turn on the early news. Usually she didn’t watch the news. Especially at dinnertime. Ruined her digestion. But she was anxious to find out what the weather forecast for the next day would be.

  “We’re having steak tonight,” she remarked, coming into the kitchen. “I’m afraid it’s top round and not T-bone but if you’re going to live with a working girl, you’ll have to adjust. However, as soon as I’m a rich, best-selling writer, I promise you filet mignon and lobster three times a day.”

  With a dismissive flick of his tail, Nick adjourned to the hearthrug to await a warm fire.

  “Brat,” Sheridan called after him.

  As she was preparing the steaks, the doorbell rang. It was Brian, her superintendent’s oldest son.

  “Good evening, Brian.”

  He was tall, thin, gawky. Twenty-something, dirty blonde hair worn below his ears, pale blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing a pair of old, paint-spattered jeans and a much-faded University of Kentucky Wildcats sweatshirt.

  “Evening, Miss Phillips,” he replied, flashing a shy grin and studying his black high top sneakers. “My dad sent me up to bring you some wood from Mr. Fielding.”

  “Thank you, Brian,” she smiled. “If you’ll just set it in here by the door, I’ll move it to the fireplace later.”

  “That’s okay,” he answered quickly, looking down at her. “I’d be happy to bring it in. These bundles are heavy.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I can manage. Really.”

  “Uh-uh,” he shook his head. “Dad’d skin me alive if I did that. Besides, I can manage better than you. Been lifting weights.”

  “All right,” she relented, and opened the door wide for him. “And thanks.”

  “No problem.” With a grunt, he picked up a carrying strap in each hand and raised the two large bundles of wood.

  “Please just put them down there,” she pointed to the side of the fireplace.

  With another grunt, he lowered them slowly to the rug, pushing them up against the wall, side by side. “Bring the others right away.”

  In a moment, he was back, stacking two more bundles on top of the first two.

  “Uhm…Miss Phillips. Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?”

  “Sure, Brian. Why don’t you sit down and rest for a second?”

  “Thanks.”

  As she closed the fridge door, Nick ran up, tail held erect, waving frantically. Stretching as tall as he could, he pressed himself against her, his eyes wide and darker than she’d ever seen them.

  “Meow!” he yelled loudly. “Meow!”

  Sheridan had never seen him so agitated and was at a total loss.

  She reached down with her free hand and tried to pet him but he jerked his head away and yowled more urgently.

  “Anything wrong, Miss Phillips?” Brian appeared in the open archway between her little kitchen/dining area and the living room.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted uncertainly.

  Spying Nick, Brian grinned, squatted down and reached out an open hand. “What’s his name?”

  “Nick.”

  “Well hi there, Nick,” Brian called brightly to the cat. “How ya doing, boy?”

  Nick’s head swiveled between Brian and her and she knew he was trying desperately to tell her something…something he obviously thought was important, but which she just couldn’t understand. Finally, as if he sensed his mistress wasn’t picking up his message, Nick lowered himself back to the floor and turned to face Brian.

  Crouching almost flat on his stomach, ears flat against his head, teeth bared, Nick launched himself past the young man, clawing his hand as Brian made a grab for him. Sheridan caught a glimpse of him dash toward the bedroom before her attention was drawn back to Brian.

  “Ouch!” he yelped, shook his left hand vigorously and stood up.

  “Oh, Brian,” Sheridan gasped. She set the pitcher of cold water on the counter and went to the young man. “Let me see that.”

  “It’s okay, Miss Phillips,” he responded, sticking the top of his hand in his mouth. “It’s nothing.”

  She took his hand and examined it. Two thin, deep scratches about two inches long oozed blood, and a pair of twin red welts were already beginning to form.

  “I don’t think it’s serious.” She finished examining the injury and looked up at him. “But let me put some antiseptic and a Band-Aid on it.”

  “Oh no. It’s all right.” He grinned again. “Cats usually like me. Guess I must’ve scared him.”

  “Yes, well, Nick’s not your average cat. I mean, he’s really a stray. Just kind of drops in for food and a place to sleep out of the cold. I’m sorry.”

  “Like I said, no big deal.”

  “Well I feel awful just the same. At least let me give you that glass of water and a Band-Aid. Please.”

  “Well, okay. If it’ll make you feel better.”

  “It will.”

  She handed Brian the glass of water, and watched as he folded his long frame onto the sofa. She went to bathroom to get the first aid items. As she crossed through the bedroom, she made a cursory search for Nick. Not seeing him, she got the antiseptic bottle, cotton balls and a Band-Aid from the bathroom. When she paused again in the bedroom to get something out of her nightstand, she felt her errant pet’s presence even though she couldn’t see him.

  “Don’t you think this is over, you contemptible little monster,” she hissed. “Not by a damn sight. You’re going to be yowling soprano when I get finished with you.”

  In the living room, Brian was sipping at his water and watching television. Calmer now, she sat down beside him and put the Band-Aid and all but one of the cotton balls on the coffee table. She flipped open the plastic antiseptic bottle, and drenched the soft material.

  “Okay, this might sting a little.”

  It only took about three minutes to clean the scratches and apply the Band-Aid.

  “There you go,” Sheridan smiled when she was finished. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But maybe this will help.” From her pocket, she took a five-dollar bill and proffered it to him.

  “Oh no, Miss Phillips,” he protested, “I couldn’t take that.”

  “Of course you can,” she insisted, and pressed it into his palm. “Not just because Nick behaved abominably but because I really do appreciate you bringing the wood in and stacking it so nicely. Please take it.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He stared down at his shoes again.

  “And on the local front, another woman in the Fairview Heights area was discovered this morning in her apartment, having been raped and beaten.”

  The announcement by the newscaster drew their attention to the television.

  “Mary Dennis, thirty, of 52 West Elm, was found by police at about eleven o’clock this morning when, having failed to arrive at work or answer her phone, her worried co-workers phoned the authorities. When officers arrived, they found Ms. Dennis tied up in her bedroom, bruised, bleeding and unconscious. She was take
n to St. Luke’s Hospital where she’s listed in stable condition.

  “Ms. Dennis is the third woman attacked in her home in the Fairview Heights area in the last two months. The attacker is described as having blue eyes, approximately six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds, muscular, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and shoes and wearing a black ski mask and black gloves.

  “All three attacks have taken place in broad daylight, two in the morning and one in the early afternoon.”

  “West Elm?” Sheridan repeated nervously. “That’s less than four blocks from here. Two blocks closer than the last one.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Miss Phillips. Especially not with that killer guard cat you got.”

  They both laughed and said their good byes. Then Sheridan went looking for Nick. She didn’t have to go far.

  “Olli, Olli oxen free, you miserable little bastard.” She stood in the middle of her bedroom, arms folded across her chest, all the cold fury she was feeling reflected in her voice. She waited a few moments.

  “Don’t make this any harder on yourself. Trust me, this apartment…hell, this universe isn’t big enough for you to hide in so you better just shag your sorry little ass out here and take what’s coming to you. If you make me come looking for you, it’s just gonna give me that much more time to think of how many different ways there are to skin a cat.”

  Slowly, a black pointed nose, whiskers and wary blue eyes emerged from the foot of her bed.

  “What was that supposed to be?”

  She’d expected him to slink out of hiding, cringe at her feet and begin begging for forgiveness. Instead, he still seemed to be nervous, agitated. And he made no move toward her.

  “I don’t know about you, but where I come from, attacking total strangers who haven’t done anything but say ‘hi’ to you is considered very bad form.”

  Nick watched her, his whole body tense as a coiled spring.

  “Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself at all?”

  Suddenly, something uneasy rippled through her, breaking up and dissolving her anger. And Nick’s anxiety seemed to be contagious. Concerned now, she took a step toward him. The face immediately disappeared back under the bed.

  “Nick?” Sheridan called softly. She got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath the bed.

  He’d retreated farther back, just out of her reach. There seemed to be nothing except two huge sapphires shining in the shadows.

  Slowly, she slid her hand toward him.

  “What’s wrong, Nick?” she whispered. Suddenly, she was gripped by a strong need to touch him. He needed her and somehow, she needed him.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’m sure you had your reason. I’m sorry I yelled at you. Just come out from there. Please.” Sheridan’s fingers stopped within inches of him and she laid her hand out flat, palm up.

  Seconds dribbled by as she held her breath, waiting for this mysterious, independent, wild creature to decide if he was going or staying. As she looked into those eyes, she felt his need. And her own.

  “I want you to stay,” she told him sincerely.

  More seconds. At last, he put out a tentative paw and laid it on her palm.

  Fighting down an incredible urge to grab him, instead, she brushed her thumb gently across his paw, trying to reassure him with her touch what she apparently couldn’t with her words.

  Gradually, Sheridan felt his paw creeping up her hand to her arm. He moved toward her. There was nothing for her to do but wait. Inch by inch, they moved out from the bed until she could sit up and hold him in her arms.

  For several more minutes they sat there on her bedroom floor, Sheridan rocked him gently, and felt his body slowly release its tension.

  “How ‘bout I finish getting our dinner and make a fire?” She grinned down at him. “But no wine tonight. Agreed?”

  Nick stretched up and put his cold, wet nose on hers. Then he scrambled out of her grasp and scampered toward the living room.

  Chapter Four

  Nick and Sheridan fell into a comfortable routine.

  No matter the weather or how late she worked, at the end of her day she’d find him on the fire escape, waiting for her to open the window.

  Sheridan bought a litter box and tried to convince him to stay in the apartment during the day. “It’s winter,” she explained. “There’s snow on the ground and that wind’s like ice. And with my unpredictable schedule, you could freeze your cute little ass off waiting for me to come home.”

  But it was no use. Every morning, just before she was ready to leave for work, he’d go to the window and wait to be let out. A couple of mornings the weather was so bad she’d seriously considered just not opening it. For his own good, of course. But always he’d look at her with those eyes…part trust, part wild need and she’d relent. And no matter what she tried, she never seemed to be able to see where he went. It just seemed that one moment he was there, the next he wasn’t.

  Occasionally, on the weekends when she was home, Nick would choose to stay in during the day, only asking to go out to answer the call of Nature. Other times, he would leave at his accustomed hour in the morning, not to return until night.

  “If I didn’t know better,” she once scolded playfully, “I’d say you had another woman somewhere. Good thing for you I’m not any more insecure than I am.”

  Early on in their relationship, Sheridan discovered that for a stray, Nick’s eating habits were, to put it mildly, eclectic. For one thing, he didn’t do commercial cat food. Period. No matter how expensive the brand or enticing the label, all she got from him was a disdainful sniff and a dirty look. Raw meat was another no-no; everything had to be cooked - hamburger, roast, steak, chops. Apparently, he felt if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for him.

  Beyond the expected taste for meat, Nick had other culinary peculiarities. Milk was for kittens and other sissies. Yet vanilla ice cream, banana pudding and cheese in any form sent him into rapture. Canned salmon? Certainly. Canned tuna? Not on your life. Meatballs with marinara sauce? Fine. Swedish meatballs? Don’t be ridiculous. Mandarin chicken? Terrific. Sweet and sour pork? Forget it.

  Sometimes after dinner they’d sit on the sofa and watch a little television. Nick liked for her to sit in the corner so that he could put his head and front paws in her lap and stretch his whole length, lying on his side. As they sat, she’d pet his head or stroke his body. Other times, they’d lie in front of the fire. Even on the nights when she’d adjourn to her computer in the bedroom to write, Nick would curl up contentedly on the left side of the desk and doze. Sheridan was amazed at how quickly and completely this little stranger had become such an important part of her life. And how lonely she’d been before his appearance.

  No matter how long or rotten the day, she could close her apartment door now and not be alone. Nick gave her a companionship she hadn’t admitted even to herself that she missed. He gave her someone to talk to and share a comfortable intimacy with.

  In fact, since Nick had come into her life, Sheridan increasingly found herself at odd moments thinking that perhaps Pat was right. Perhaps it was time for her to try and make a new relationship.

  “I’m glad you decided to stay,” she told him one evening during a commercial break. “I enjoy having you around.”

  Instead of his accustomed lounging position, tonight, he’d curled himself in Sheridan’s lap, his head on her stomach. At the sound of her words, he raised his head and gazed at her. A moment later, he stretched a bit and put his head between her breasts. The warmth of his body seem to warm her, too. She felt content and happy. Leaning down, she lightly kissed that adorable little nose.

  “Thank you,” she told him softly.

  As if in response, he snuggled against her, stomach to stomach. His right front paw eased up and gently brushed her nipple. Immediately, she felt a very unexpected and very pleasant tingle.

  The thought both surprised and disturbed her. It wa
s ridiculous to have such a…a sexual response to something so innocent.

  After all, Nick was just like any other cat; he enjoyed being stroked. That was one of the ways she expressed her approval, her caring for him. Wasn’t it natural that he’d show his approval, his caring in the same way? And being a cat, he couldn’t know what part of her he was touching. Licking. To him, skin was skin. It was the physical expression of their relationship, communicating their companionship and pleasure with each other’s company.

  The television program ended, the closing credits, squashed to unreadability in one corner of the screen, rolled quietly as the local news anchor appeared.

  “Ahead on the news,” she intoned seriously, “we have more highlights from today’s press conference held by Police Chief Robbins concerning the Fairview Heights rapist. With the number of victims now five in less than three months, there are still no clues and no solid suspects.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Sheridan laughed as she clicked off the remote, “but I’m not interested in hearing about the Fairview Heights rapist right before bed. You ready to go?”

  *

  The stack of papers landed on Sheridan’s desk with a heavy thud, the large black clip at the top making a sharp “ping” as it hit the laminate.

  Startled, she jumped and turned her head from the computer. The Prince was standing just on the other side of the desk, his face a cold, mean mask.

  “I’ve made the changes to this report,” he announced pompously, nodding once toward the papers. Obviously he didn’t think she was bright enough to figure out which report he meant. “There are major revisions. I have to have it before close of business.”

  Shit, she thought angrily. Out loud, she managed to keep a respectful tone. “I’ll try, sir. But…”

  “Don’t try,” he replied flatly. “Do.”

  Asshole.

  “What I meant, sir, was that I’ll do everything I can. But I can’t stay late tonight. I have an important appointment.”

  Those beady little eyes glared down at her like a coiled rattler. “And I have to have this report. It’s very important.” His imperious tone and irritated grimace told her the rest. There was no doubt in his mind that his needs superseded anything in her trivial little life.