Honey

by Jenna Jameson

  Sitting on an overturned milk crate nursing a tiny kitten with a bottle, the rescue lady looked up. Gaze alighting on Honey, her lined faced lit. “You haven’t been around in a while. I’ve been wondering where you took yourself to.”

  “Nowhere, just keeping busy,” Honey replied, grateful for once to have something to report that was real.

  Studying for her GED was challenging her in more ways than one, especially since she was hiding it from Drew for obvious reasons. Her reasons for not telling Marc were subtler but no less real. Admitting you were a high-school dropout was hard enough under the best of circumstances. Making that admission to your highly educated “friend,” who also happened to be a doctor, would be a serious hit to what was left of her pride.

  Aware of Marc watching her, she took out the five dollars she’d folded into her Prada bag’s inner pocket, all the cash she’d managed to squirrel away from what Drew doled out as her “allowance,” and discreetly slipped it through the slot of the plexiglass donations container.

  The woman’s smile broadened. She reached out to Honey with her free hand, the palm cracked and callused, the fingernails clipped short and peeling, no doubt from the bleach she constantly used in cleaning the carriers and cages. “God bless you, God bless you. You’re an angel.”

  Fallen angel, Honey mentally added.

  The praise, so undeserved, shamed her. If this God-fearing, animal-rescuing woman knew who, or rather what, she really was, she might well throw Honey’s five dollars back in her face.

  And Marc? He was so good-hearted, so principled. The severity with which he berated himself over their movie theater make-out, which had been as much her “fault” as his, had made her determined to do nothing more that might drag him down to her “level.” It was bad enough he knew she was a kept woman. If he were ever to find out about her escort days, he wouldn’t want to be friends with her—or anything else.

  Going to work at the agency had been a monumental mistake; leaving it for Drew an even stupider move. Though he lavished her with expensive clothes and jewelry when he was feeling generous or, more often than not, guilty, he gave her very little cash. The apartment rent he paid directly as a debit from one of his many accounts. Groceries and incidentals such as cab fare, mani-pedis, and the occasional tea or lunch out were paid with the credit card he’d set up for her. The bill, however, went to him. At the end of every month, he pored over her statement line-by-line, questioning anything that suggested she might have a life outside their relationship.

  “I wish it could be more,” she said sincerely. Avoiding looking at Marc, who seemed to be watching her intently, she bent down to peer inside the cage. “Who do we have here today?” she asked, knowing the question would be the lead-in to the most recent heartstring-pulling rescue story.

  Only today the cage was empty.

  The rescuer held out the kitten she was feeding. “Here, hold him.” The towel slipped away, revealing the top of a tiny marmalade-colored head. The kitten yawned—and Honey’s heart squeezed in on itself.

  “All right, but only for a minute.” Honey reached out and took the kitten, whose eyes still had a faintly bluish cast. Poor little mite must not be quite six weeks old. “Where’s his mother?” she asked, though she suspected she wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Taxi,” the woman answered with a grim shake of her turbaned head. “Damned fools drive too fast and then they hit something—someone—and don’t have the decency to stop.”

  Honey nodded. Homeless and motherless; that was a tough path to tread, and well she knew it. She went to hand the kitten back when it let out a loud mew. “Oh my, that’s quite an impressive pair of lungs for such a little kitten,” she said, cuddling him back against her. He might weigh under a pound, but clearly he had a big personality to grow into along with his paws.

  “Do you like cats?” she asked Marc, angling her arms so he could better see the kitten.

  He hesitated and then admitted, “I’m more of a dog person.”

  Finally an actual flaw—thank God! “You have to admit, though, he’s adorable, quite the cutie.”

  “Most baby animals are.” Reaching out with his forefinger, he used it to gently rub the crown of the animal’s downy soft head.

  “He’s the last of the litter,” the woman broke in, dividing her watchful gaze between them. “It’s always that way with the runts.”

  “Runt, why I never,” Honey said, holding up the kitten as though he were speaking, not her.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught Marc smiling. He had the most beautiful smile, his teeth white and straight and banded by lips that she knew for a fact were as soft and kissable as they seemed. A few months ago at Tea & Sympathy, it had seemed great fun, good craic, to tease him by pretending to the waitress that they were a couple. Now she found herself wishing that were the truth.

  “Take him—please,” the rescue lady implored. “You seem like you have so much love to give and he needs a home.”

  A lump lodged in Honey’s throat. They were skipping ahead to phase three—the begging portion—not that Honey blamed her. The poor woman deserved a medal—and a break. What an enormous responsibility it must be to nurse a never-ending stream of creatures so cute and needy.

  Honey opened her mouth to trot out the litany of well-worn excuses, only she never got the chance.

  “My granddaughter in Atlanta is getting married this weekend, and I promised her I’d be there to see her walk down the aisle.” She gestured to the kitten Honey still held. “I don’t have anyone who can keep him while I’m gone, and I can’t take him with me on the bus. If I don’t place him today, I’m going to have to give him up to the shelter.”

  The shelter! “Oh, no! But he’s so small.”

  The woman nodded. “He needs to be bottle fed every two to three hours. Unless they can find a volunteer to foster him, he’ll likely be—”

  “I’ll take him!”

  The words were out before Honey even knew she’d spoken them. Both Marc and the rescuer stared at her; the latter with relief—and triumph. “Oh, thank you! Giving a home to this blessed baby, you won’t be sorry.”

  Honey wasn’t so certain about that. If Drew discovered her new “roommate,” the kitten wasn’t the only one of them at risk for being skinned. The saving grace was that he was logging in incredible hours at the office these days, ramping up for a big Investor Day bash he was throwing at the Waldorf for a pool of mostly out-of-state clients. With luck, his work responsibilities would keep him away for at least another few days.

  The rescuer was already on her feet and tossing cat care items into a plastic bag. “I’ll give you a few of these syringes and his towel to wrap him up in ’til you can pick up a carrier.”

  Feeling perspiration breaking out, Honey flung her free hand, palm out. “Wait, just to be clear, I’m fostering, not adopting him. I need to know that you’ll take him back once you’re home from the wedding.”

  The woman waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “Trust me, once you have this sweet baby angel for a day, you won’t want to give him up ever.”

  Honey suspected that was true. Feeling him burrow against her breast, she felt as though she and the kitten belonged to one another already. But she couldn’t afford to forget that she was not a normal person with a normal life, not yet anyway. Given Drew’s mercurial moods, keeping Cat—she’d already decided on a temporary name, God help her—would only endanger him.

  “Do I have your promise or not?” Though it tore at her heart, she was prepared to hand the kitten back and walk away, if need be.

  “Yes, yes, all right, you know where to find me if you decide you don’t want him—only you won’t.”

  Silent until now, Marc turned to Honey. Dropping his voice, he asked, “Are you sure about this?”

  Honey shook her head, vaguely aware that most of her hair was tumbling
down her back and her bangs were in dire need of trimming. Since meeting Marc, she’d definitely become a lot more casual about her grooming. Funny thing was she actually felt prettier.

  “No, but a few days I should be able to manage. I have a soft spot for all animals but especially cats. The orange tabbies are my favorite. This little one reminds me of the cat in—”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess—Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Why yes, that’s right,” she said, surprised. “How did you know that? I thought you’ve never seen an Audrey Hepburn movie?”

  Expression sheepish, he admitted, “I maybe saw part of it flipping channels or something.”

  Honey hid a smile, brushing a light kiss atop Cat’s head. Forget not-entirely-perfect. Dr. Marcus Sandler—Marc—was as flawless as mortal men might come.

  Chapter Five

  “I believe in pink. I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and … I believe in miracles.”—Audrey Hepburn

  Twenty-four hours later, Honey was a mother—a cat mother, and only temporarily. Still, she reasoned, it counted.

  Yawning, she drew the feeding bottle nipple from Cat’s mouth. “Good boy,” she praised, setting him down and giving him a nudge toward the litter box, one of several cat-related Petco purchases she—Marc—had made before leaving Union Square the other day.

  Sleeping in two-to-three hour snatches wasn’t the same as logging in a solid night’s rest, but the sense of accomplishment, not only of doing a “good deed” but of being truly loved and needed, more than made up for any grogginess. Having a pet to care for seemed to really ground her. Tired—okay, exhausted—though she was, she’d made really good progress in studying for her GED exam.

  A ding announced that a text message had just landed. Assuming it must be Marc, and excited to compare schedules for when she might come over for a look at his place, she hurried across to where she’d left her phone charging.

  The text message wasn’t from Marc. It was from Drew.

  On way, prepare to celebrate.

  Oh, no!

  She eyed the time. If only she had more of it, she would call up one of the FATEs and ask them to take Cat for a few hours, if not the whole evening. Liz’s Jonathan was crazy about cats, seeking out any excuse to go downstairs and play with their neighbor’s two. Who knew, maybe after several hours of kitten-sitting, Liz might consider keeping Cat permanently. Now that her chemo treatments were well over, she no longer had to panic about possibly being scratched. At least that way, Honey would get to see him once a week.

  But she was getting ahead of herself. There wasn’t time and unfortunately there was no one in her building she could call on for a favor. Because of her embarrassment over several loud fights with Drew, she’d made a point of ducking her neighbors. In retrospect, she saw just how isolating being a mistress, and an abuse victim, could be.

  Panicked, she paced the apartment, gathering up any “evidence”—cat toys, dishes, and stray tufts of fuzzy orange fur. There was no help for it. Cat and his accoutrements were going to have to go into hiding until Drew left.

  Picking up the kitten, who’d just dutifully done his business, she carried him toward the pantry closet, not a walk-in but roomy enough. “Don’t take this personally, Cat, but you’re going to have to go in the closet for a few. But don’t worry. Mr. Pinky will take good care of you.”

  *

  Drew showed up forty minutes later in an uncommonly good mood, bearing a bouquet of calla lilies and a takeout bag of Chinese. Honey had just finished checking on Cat, tummy full and curled up fast asleep around her stuffed animal.

  Praying that he would stay that way, she pasted on a smile. “You said we’re celebrating. What’s the occasion?” she asked, carrying the flowers into the kitchen.

  “Can’t a man bring his girl flowers without there being an occasion?” he asked, shooting her a wink.

  He really was in a good mood. Still, to be safe, she prefaced her reply with an apology. “Sorry,” she said. “These are lovely. Thank you. It’s just that you texted something about celebrating—or did I maybe misunderstand?” she added quickly. With Drew, she’d learned not to take any chances.

  Still smiling, he came toward her, joining her at the sink. “Remember I told you about that Investor Day I wanted to throw? Well, the funding came through and it’s happening: a blowout bash at the Waldorf for my key out-of-town investment clients, and I want you there.”

  Caught off guard, she nearly dropped the vase she’d just finished filling. “Me? Really?”

  For years she’d prayed to the Powers That Be to be more involved in his life, not only set on the sidelines of it. Now that it seemed he was prepared, even excited to include her, she wanted no part of any of it—especially him. Arranging the flowers, she only hoped that the date wouldn’t conflict with her Monday night FATE meeting. Or the online GED study group she’d joined. Or, above all, her meet-up with Marc. Decorating his apartment was something to which she was truly looking forward. Who knew, maybe she’d even confide in him about taking her GED. She’d recently bit the bullet and told the other FATEs. Predictably, they couldn’t have been more thrilled for her.

  “You bet, babe.” Stepping behind her, he glided his hands lightly up and down her upper arms, caressing her as he’d used to. Still, she steeled herself not to flinch. “I want to show you off. Together we’ll show those schmucks what real success looks like.”

  “That is a lot to celebrate. I’ll just … pour us some wine.”

  She turned away and went to the refrigerator, mostly as an excuse to break free and put some space between them. On opening the side door, she spotted Cat’s formula—crap! She shoved it into the vegetable crisper and brought out the bottle of pinot.

  Carrying it to the counter, she decided she might as well take advantage of Drew’s good mood to test the waters on another subject. “So I was thinking of maybe taking a class.”

  A class would serve as an excellent cover for those times when she needed to spend time at Marc’s. Feeling as though she were scheming her escape from Alcatraz, she turned to the cupboard and took down two blown crystal wineglasses. Circa 1960, smoky-hued, and striped with 24 karat gold, the set of six had been a housewarming present picked out by her and paid for by Drew. With his drinking escalated to hard liquor, the glasses hadn’t gotten much use these last few years. Averting her eyes, she poured out the white wine and handed him the fuller goblet.

  “What kind of class?” he finally asked. He took his wine and the carryout bag and headed into the main room, leaving her to follow.

  Passing by the pantry closet, she caught Cat’s meow. He must have heard their voices and awoken.

  Drew looked back at her from where he’d plopped down on the sofa. “What was that?”

  Honey’s heart thudded. “What was what?”

  Scowling, he tilted his head to the side. “I thought I heard a cat.”

  “Oh, that,” Honey said, striving to smooth out any tremble from her tone. “The neighbor may have mentioned something about getting a kitten.”

  He turned away toward the TV but not before she spotted him scowling. “Well, she’d fucking better keep it quiet, or else I’m complaining to the management company. With the rent I pay on this place, I’m not going to put up with the building being turned into some kind of pet hotel.” He slugged down a gulp of the wine. “A cat, Jesus. Where’s the rat poison when you really need it?”

  Rushing across the room, Honey picked up the TV remote. “Why don’t you relax and watch something while I set dinner out?”

  She turned it on and punched the volume-up arrow several times. Takeout dinner with minimal conversation (for them both), scotch (for him), and sex (also for him), Honey had their “date night” drill down pat. If only she could find a way to speed things up. Cat would need to eat i
n another two hours. She needed to get Drew out in time before hunger prompted the kitten to start crying in earnest.

  “Not so fast.” Drew swiveled to look back at her. “What kind of class?”

  Of all the times, did he really have to pick tonight to finally show some interest in her as a person? She shrugged, as though she was still figuring things out. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe something to do with … interior design or—”

  He rolled his eyes. “Baby, you’re hardly Parsons School material.”

  Once the demeaning comment would have prompted tears, but she was past caring what he thought of her. Used to him beating her down emotionally as well as physically, she sometimes felt as if her soul wasn’t only scarred—it had grown calluses.

  Modulating her tone to meekness, she said, “Well then, what about photography?”

  “What about it?”

  She shrugged again. “It might be fun to learn to take better pictures.”

  One sandy brow lifted. “And who’s going to pay for this hobby?”

  “I could get some sort of part-time job.”

  It was ironic how flipping burgers had once been a fate she’d been willing to do just about anything to avoid. Considering all she’d since done to survive, asking “Fries with that?” no longer seemed like such a monumental humiliation. Instead she’d let herself be seduced into taking the ultimate dead-end job: mistress. She had absolutely no security—no medical benefits, no savings, and no job security. At any time, he could announce he’d grown tired of her and turn her out. Just please, God, let her get her GED first.

  Finished with the wine, he got up and went over to the bar to pour himself, what else, a scotch. “Just what kind of … job do you think you could get?”

  Even though she was taking positive steps to fix things, she mentally kicked herself for not sticking around Omaha long enough to complete high school. New York wasn’t going anywhere. Another few months of living under Sam’s tyranny wouldn’t have mattered in the long run. But all the shit going down at home took its toll. Her grades bottomed out. Being held back and made to repeat her sophomore year had badly battered her self-confidence. Instead of finishing, she’d fled, arriving in the Big Apple with no diploma and no job skills. GED or not, she wasn’t qualified to do anything lucrative, at least nothing legal. Getting her feet wet in the workforce with a part-time job wasn’t just about money. It was about freedom. Like her weekly FATE meet-up, a job would be a safe haven, an outside place where Drew couldn’t control or intrude.