Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “How long does it take to train a bird?” Hunter asks.

  “Long enough. You have to work at it every day, and when you start up you work with your mentor and such, so they help you train your first bird. But each bird has its own personality, and will take its own amount of time to get to the point where you can hunt with it.”

  “And that’s what you do here, at the meetings? You take the birds out for a hunt?” I swallow. I wanted to see birds flying around with bells on and stuff, I didn’t really bargain on seeing said birds tear other birds to pieces. There goes my lunch.

  “During hunting season, sure, but that just ended.”

  Thank goodness.

  “And now?” Hunter asks, holding a switch back for me now as I pass him and enter into a clearing behind Bill.

  “Now, we get together and fly. Enjoy the outdoors and the camaraderie.”

  The field is large, about the size of a football field, and filled with knee-high, golden grass that hangs over in broken clumps. About ten or fifteen men and women loll about, hooded hawks on their arms or unhooded hawks off in flight, while dogs race along below.

  I scan the faces of the people, to see if I can see some kind of a pattern, and there, in full-body pink camouflage and holding a rifle fit for Rambo, is Aunt Elise.

  What the hell? She sees me and saunters over, casually swinging the rifle back and forth as she goes. “Honey!”

  The rifle swings around and I take a step back. “Aunt Elise! What are you doing here? And why do you have a rifle; don’t they hunt with hawks?”

  Bill grins at my aunt as she responds, “I met Bill on GrayDate.com. Can’t join match, too many thirty-somethings that are all enthusiasm and no talent. Older men know how to take their time, right, Billy?”

  Bill grins and I swear I’m going to actually die.

  Hunter beams, but before he can grab her hand to shake, she says, “Not that I’m insinuating that boys your age are bad in bed, it’s just I’ve got specific tastes, you understand.”

  My cheeks flame. Please, someone shoot me. Now.

  Hunter says, “Oh, I understand. But I’m still going to dream about your cooking.”

  Oh boy.

  Elise grins and throws the gun on the ground, wrapping her arm in Hunter’s. “You know Bill tells me that I don’t need the rifle? Apparently it’s illegal to use out here without a permit. I was hoping to bring home a nice pheasant to cook up in some white wine. Are you a fan of wild game?”

  “If you’re making it-“

  I turn away as they stride around, followed by a hoard of yipping dogs.

  Do I pick up Aunt Elise’s rifle? How did she get one of these things, anyway?

  Please tell me it’s like a BB Gun and not the real thing. Aunt Elise’s mouth is dangerous enough, a real weapon would seem a tad bit extraneous.

  The tinkling of bells and hearty laugher fill the crisp afternoon air and I can’t decide if it’s like wandering into the middle of a renaissance festival or an episode of Duck Dynasty.

  A group of men and women gather their hawks to their arms and walk in our direction. I introduce myself and shake hands all around. I take mental note of each person, shaping them into a character that I can bring to life on paper.

  After taking a ton of notes, add that to all of the research I’ve done beforehand, I can probably put together a great article. I cross the field and turn back to Bill, "You said that hawking takes a while to learn, is there any particular trick to flying one of these things that you can share?"

  "Well, the first thing to remember is that you're dealing with essentially a wild animal and that you can't let it intimidate you. Before you release one from your arm, you have to make sure he's going to want to come back. There's nothing more embarrassing than losing your hawk."

  "So some might fly off your arm and then never come back?"

  "Not if you do it right." Bill spreads his legs to stand in a defensive posture.

  I thank him and walk over to the center of the field and snap some pictures, Gump the dog never leaving my side.

  Gump is something of a camera addict. He leaps up at the camera lens and sniffs around the buttons. He’s hardly vicious. He looks, well, sort of pathetic, really, with his shagged hair and hopeful eyes. I reach out a shaky hand and pet the top of his head. He licks my hand and before I know it, both of my hands wrapped around his big, slobbery, silly skull.

  Rubbing dog slobber off the glass of the lens with my shirt, I snap a quick picture of Gump. Wow, he’s sort of adorable, isn’t he? I take some more pictures and find that he is an excellent subject. He sits, wagging his tail, letting me let me snap as many shots as I want, without complaining or asking anything in return.

  I could learn to love him.

  Walking through the picturesque meadow, the dog trailing happily at my feet, I make my way around the field sure to get shots of the birds and the dogs and their owners from different angles. The sun blazes across the crimson and amber tufts of the surrounding trees, the afternoon reverberating with the sharp cry of the hawks and the faint sound of laughter.

  Hunter and Elise, make their way across the field towards me, with Elise only pausing momentarily to retrieve her weapon.

  “I think I’m going to leave. Not sure Bill and I are going to work out if he doesn’t let me shoot anything. Too bad, we had a few wild nights together. He didn’t need that Viagra or anything.”

  “Eww. Too much information!” Can I scrub my brain clean? Tell me there’s a way to forget everything she just said.

  “Does he know this?” Hunter asks, indicating Bill on the other side of the field with his hands on his hips.

  “I told him I had a headache. It’s a universal code. See you later, honey.” She reaches up and kisses my cheek and then lands a good solid kiss on Hunter’s, too.

  As soon as she disappears into the parking lot, Hunter says, “Universal code, huh?”

  “Poor Bill. I have a feeling that Aunt Elise has a long trail of broken hearts behind her.”

  “Must be a family trait.” He mutters and my stomach sinks. We stand in the field as the sun bleeds gorgeous reds and oranges across the horizon. After a while, he asks, "Have you been avoiding me?"

  "No" -I take a step back to steady myself and square my shoulders- "Why would you say that?"

  Staring at my neck like a regular beast of prey he answers, "No reason."

  He grins, the smile spreading across his face like a drop of food dye in a pool of clear water, slowly, brilliantly.

  "You know, as a news man, you’re supposed to be curious, not paranoid." I say.

  Gump parks himself to my left, giving Hunter a rather sideways glance.

  Hunter comes closer, to stand on my right and I step away-

  I trip. Throwing my hands out in front of me to break the fall, Gump bursts out from the fall zone forward into a cluster of dead grasses.

  My hands scratch as I land, the camera hitting the dirt. I roll so I don’t crush it.

  Gump yelps and his sudden foray into the clumped grass rouses a pheasant that had been nesting there when for all intents and purposes it should have been in Florida with the rest of his birdie friends. The stupid thing shoots up into the air and suddenly all of the hawks flying through the field zero in on the pheasant and swoop towards me.

  Oh no.

  There is going to be crazy carnage if I don’t-

  I leap up, waving my hands in front of the low flying pheasant, "No! Shoo! Go back!" I shout.

  A hawk, swooping to follow the pheasant, tangles in my hands. I scream, my hair now a tangle of talons and feathers and that sticky bird smell. The beast backs off and-

  My head. Oh man, my head. Is that blood? My blood? I shriek and the only thing I see is a smiling happy dog-face coming my way and the rough-soft feel of a tongue licking my forehead. This is so not happening, maybe Hunter didn’t see, maybe. Oh my God it hurts. A sick, sinking fills my stomach and travels down to my legs. I turn my head from
the dog and blindly move my hands in front of my face. I don’t want to see, don’t want to know-

  “Piper? Are you ok?”

  No. No I am seriously not ok. I stand up and my blood rushes down and it’s cold and wow so sick, “Hunter, I don’t feel so-“

  My legs give and I hit the ground.

  Again.

  “You seriously thought that telling a hawk, bred to hunt and kill ground fowl, would listen when you told it to ‘shoo’?” Hunters voice is low and way too calm. Like that angry calm that can be unleashed by parents everywhere with spine-chilling precision.

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I’m not patronizing. I’m asking out of a clear sense of concern. You need to think about working on your self-preservation skills.”

  “You seriously need to shut the hell up or you can pull over. I’m totally fine to walk.”

  “Begging to differ, over here.” He shakes his head in a dark, almost angry manner. “You realize how dangerous that was? You can’t just leap up and try and tell a carnivore, mid-hunt, to stop. It goes against every natural instinct-“

  “I get it.” I grip the handle of the door, cheeks and forehead and brain burning. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you weren’t-“

  “Stop it, ok? I have parents, and you are eerily starting to sound like all three of them.”

  “You could have been hurt.”

  “I am hurt!” Grasping my head in my arms, I choke back the bile that’s threatening to boil over. “And yelling doesn’t help, ok? Every word, every movement of this stupid car hurts, Hunter. Yes, I realize freaking Bobby could have gouged out my eyeballs, but my scalp is torn-“

  “I’m taking you to the clinic to get those sewn up.”

  “I hope my blood stains your car.”

  “That’s unnecessarily vindictive.”

  “Don’t tell me how vindictive to be. You’re not the one getting a safety first lecture when clearly I’ve just failed hawk safety 101.”

  Silence.

  Blissful silence fills the leather-flocked space in between us.

  Oh wow, wait, silence makes it hurt even more. As my brain attempts to exit my skull via my eye sockets, I focus on my breathing.

  “I bet you’re going to turn this into one heck of an article, though,” he says.

  My breath comes out in a huff. Ugh. “You think people are going to want to read about me being mauled by a hawk named Bobby and then slobbered all over by some dog? A dog who probably put innumerable amounts of bacteria into my open wounds so that I’m going to be lucky if my scalp doesn’t turn green and then fall off.”

  “Your whole scalp? It would do that? Well, that would be something to write about.”

  “You’re a jerk, you know it?”

  “I’m not a jerk, and yes, I think people would definitely want to read about it. Makes you seem like a human and not just some robot.”

  “Or some crazy cat lady, as the case seems to be.”

  “Oh, make no mistake, you are totally a crazy cat lady. You define the term.”

  “You need to be quiet.”

  “If you look up crazy cat lady on Wikipedia, your face is right there. Miss Behave, the crazy cat lady advice columnist. Date cats, not men, says Piper-“

  “You’re just jealous because you are not a cat.”

  “You caught me.” He winks and I go from feeling bruised and slightly sick to feeling bruised and slightly woozy.

  “God, you are cute, though.” I say as I lean over and vomit on the floor of his car.

  “Dad, are you home? Call me when you get this.” I leave the message and hang up. Bet he’s out with Bunny. Hunter’s voice hushed and low as he talks with the doctor on the other side of the curtain. We’ve been here for hours and hours and I am so ready to leave.

  The Lake County Hospital emergency room would be almost cheery if it wasn’t in the business of judging who is and is not in danger of immediate death.

  I lie back on the bed, pulling up the light blankets.

  After they cleaned and stitched up my scalp they asked maybe a gazillion questions and had me follow the beam of at least ten pocket flashlights, they declared that not only did Bobby get me with his claws, he somehow hit me with enough force to give me a concussion.

  Yippee.

  They won’t let me go home unless there is someone who agrees to watch over me for twenty-four hours in case of something-something concussion something-something. Sucks that Gen’s traveling for work this week.

  Hunter’s on top of it and I’m sure he’ll tell me whatever the danger symptoms are so I can pass the info along to Dad when he calls.

  If. If he calls.

  I close my eyes. When did I get so sleepy? They must have given me something. I tuck my knees up into my chest. Man, this bed is soft. And warm, and-

  “Is someone home? Did you get your father?” Hunter’s weight lowers the side of the cot. “Or how about your aunt or your mother?”

  “No, Ted is at a conference and Mags says that Elise is dragging my mother to go to New York to see the Thunder From Down Under. I know better than to get between Aunt Elise and her eye candy.”

  The doctor says, “She shouldn’t be allowed to sleep for more than two hours without someone shaking her awake to check on her. I can’t release her until we-“

  I open my eyes, Hunter blinking into focus, his dark hair and piercing green eyes ready to send me right off to dreamland. “Guess I’m going to have to sleep with you, hotstuff.”

  Hunter stands and clears his throat.

  “I’m sorry. I mean, Mr. Hotstuff. Or maybe Sir Hotstuff. Sir Hotstuff and the Cat Lady. We’re like a punk band.”

  “Okay, then. I’m going to take her home. I’ll watch her tonight and give you a call if I see any symptoms.” Hunter says, his voice tight.

  “He’s going to take me home. That should be the first track on our album. I can’t really play any instruments, but whatever, because, well, internets, right?”

  “Did you give her something?” Hunter asks, placing a large, cool hand on my forehead. I purr. Just like a kitten. Only more drunk-like.

  “A little Percocet for the pain.” The doctor says.

  “Let me just clean up my car.”

  I grab the doctor’s hand. “I vomited in his car. Probably don’t want to ride in it. Might smell.”

  “Are you kidding?” Hunter asks. “Who doesn’t love the smell of vomit? Nothing says ‘party’ like a little bit of Percocet and a whole lot of vomit. Am I right, doc?”

  The doctor does not look amused.

  His face scrunching into this contortion that makes his complexion look gray and pigeon-like. Oh God, not another bird. I release his hand and lean back into my pillows before he can do some damage with that beak. I’m tired of beaks. And claws.

  “I’ll get your discharge forms together.”

  Chapter 15

  Domestic Bliss or Something

  Dear Miss Behave,

  My boyfriend’s house is cleaner than mine. It’s spotless. He tells me he even washes his drapes once a month. When he comes over to my place, he cleans. What do I do?

  Help me,

  -Cantankerous

  Dear Cantankerous,

  Marry him, darling. And have lots and lots of babies. Us dirty girls need you to tilt the gene pool in our favor, sugarpop.

  Love that Mr. Clean,

  -Miss Behave

  To my great surprise, Hunter doesn’t live in a Bat Cave. Or anything even resembling a Bat Cave. I’ve always sort of assumed that hot, wealthy guys like Hunter must have some cave lair where they groom themselves and practice their hotness. But there was no Christian Bale, or even Adam West in sight, just a contemporary ranch house on a cul-de-sac overlooking Bee’s Pond.

  Rhododendrons like a thousand feet tall line the short driveway. We glide past them and into the garage.

  “You okay, there, tipsy girl?” He gets out of the car and o
pens my door.

  “I’m not” –the garage racks swivel- “why is your garage moving?”

  “That’s it, no walking for you.” He swoops me up and carries me into his house, Prince Charming-style, and I dissolve into a puddle of giggles.

  “I bet you carry every girl you bring home across the threshold.”

  “No, just the ones who’ve been mauled by flying Bobbys.”

  I tuck my head into his chest. Damn he smells good, like fresh baked cinnamon buns.

  Oh man, his buns, I bet they look great while he’s carrying me up these stairs. I wonder if I stretch out I may be able to see-

  “Hey! What are you doing? Do you want me to drop you?”

  “Your buns. Cinnamon. Wait, why are there stairs?”

  “Because the garage is in the basement. And unlike those dudes in Pulp Fiction, I don’t believe in keeping guests in the basement.”

  I laugh. It kind of sounds more like a bark, or maybe the cough of a dying elephant seal. Oh man, please don’t let me vomit on his stairs, too. Because really, bandaged and woozy and covered in blood is so the epitome of fashion. Totally hot.

  “Are you allowed to feed me?” I ask as we reach the top of the stairs and he places me in high-backed, uncomfortable wooden chair.

  “Why, are you hungry?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you promise not to vomit on me if I do?”

  “I can make no such promises. But I will say that I feel more like napping than vomiting. But I’m hungry. Hungry napping? I won’t be able to sleep, wait, do you have a parrot?”

  “No.” He opens a cabinet door. “That’s my dog, Julius. He’s in the crate over in the sunroom.”

  “You keep your dog in a box?”

  “It’s a crate, they think it’s a den. He’s a puppy. Very slobbery. You’ll love him.”

  “I can’t believe you keep him locked in jail all day!”

  “Not jail. He goes to doggie day care. I drop him off on my way to work and they bring him back here every night around four. He loves it.”