Eat Crow (Cheap Thrills Series Book 6)

by Mary B. Moore

  “Is it a werewolf? I don’t know who to call for that. I don’t think Animal Control will know how to catch it.” I’ll give myself credit for the fact I genuinely did think hard about who would be the people to call about one.

  “Call fucking Twilight, Bex,” he snapped, still thrashing around. “Tell them one of their cast members escaped.”

  It took all of ten seconds for me to realize he was being sarcastic.

  “There’s no need to be an asshole, Richards,” I yelled. “I’m trying to save your sorry ass here, and you’re—” I stopped, waving my hand at his feet. “You’re— What are you doing?”

  “Trying to stop this cat from taking my head off. What does it look like?”

  “Like your feet are tap-dancing on an old stepladder,” I mumbled to myself. Then I realized what he’d said. “Oh my God, there’s a kitty? Is it cute?”

  The sound of something scratching the floorboards up there in the direction away from us sounded as he came quickly back down the steps.

  His face and arms matched my house. I shit you not. He was covered in bleeding scratches and tufts of fur, meaning that a Saran wrapped house fit for a slasher totally suited him.

  “What the hell?” I breathed, reaching out to carefully pick a chunk of hair off his shoulder. “What did you do to it?”

  He’d been examining his arm, but when I asked that, he glared at me. “I didn’t offer it pot roast, Bex. Apparently, that’s a feline offense.”

  I was tempted to stuff the hair that was still in my hand in his mouth for his sarcasm, but I held back. Just.

  Pretending like I didn’t hear it instead, I pursued possible lines of insult for the cat. “Did you scare it or touch its stuff?”

  “It’s stuff?” he asked incredulously. “You’ve got a feral cat living in your attic who lost its shit when I went up there, and you want to know if I pissed it off by touching ‘its stuff?’”

  Throwing my arms up in the air and losing the hair in my hand, I snapped, “I don’t fucking know, Logan. I wasn’t up there to witness the exchange between you both. All I’m doing is trying to see if there’s a way to prevent it from happening again. The poor thing must be scared out of its mind.”

  Way the wrong thing to say, apparently.

  “Scared out of its mind?” he yelled. “It’s a fucking psycho! Why don’t you look at my arms and compare how many wounds I have to how many it doesn’t and tell me who’s scared out their mind.”

  I didn’t want to add insult to injury, but I felt it pertinent to point his face out to him.

  “You’ve also got some of them on your face. A couple on both cheeks, two on your chin, one on your forehead, and what looks like a puncture on your nose.” He raised his head to glare at the ceiling as I cataloged his injuries, enabling me to see three that I’d missed. “Oh, and there’s some on your neck, too.”

  Lowering it back down, he glared at me like he was trying to melt ice with laser beams. “You done?”

  I could neither confirm nor deny because a good friend would point out things like that to another, wouldn’t they?

  Growling, he caught my hand and started pulling me toward the main bathroom. There were four bedrooms up here and three bathrooms, but the largest one was between mine and Pops’ room.

  Once we got there, he pulled open the medicine cabinet and looked at its contents before plucking out the hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and a box of BandAids, putting all of them on the counter.

  Nudging him out of the way with my hip, I leaned into the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the cotton balls that I’d need for the adventure ahead.

  “Are you still a big pussy when it comes to pain?”

  The sound of the toilet lid closing and the creaking of wood as he sat on top of it followed my question. “Given that it’s been like fifteen years since then, no.”

  The ‘then’ he was talking about was when we were climbing around his parents' garden, and he’d skidded down a muddy hill onto the gravel of their driveway. His parents had pulled out a lot of small pieces of the stuff, and you could hear his screams where the rest of us were seated in their backyard as they cleaned the wounds out.

  Washing my hands, I prepared myself mentally for the job. I hated causing people pain, so I was dreading what I was about to do. Picking up the bag of cotton balls, I pulled a couple out and then opened the bottle of peroxide.

  With a sigh, he held his arm out, signaling that he wanted me to get it out of the way. So, with my teeth clamped firmly into my lower lip, I tipped it slightly and let some pour out onto the first cut.

  His scream wasn’t the same as it’d been fifteen years ago, but the muted adult version had the same impact all these years later. After the first four, we realized that it would be better for me to just saturate the balls with it and then wipe in long sweeps down his arm, so that’s how I did it, biting my lip each time he made a noise.

  After that came the Neosporin drama. I thought it felt soothing when I had to use the stuff, but Logan had always said it felt just as bad as the peroxide, except it didn’t dry off and stayed stinging for longer.

  Halfway through the first arm, I threw the cotton ball I’d been using on the floor and glared at him. “If you keep flinching and wincing, I’m going to knock you out. Take it like a man.”

  He had the audacity to look hurt by this. “It fucking stings, Bex. Not just a small sting, but like you’re putting acid on them. Multiply that feeling by however many cuts I’ve got, and I think I’ve got a right to make a noise.”

  Biting my tongue, I went back to the job and managed to switch off to his noises until I got to his face and neck. It was one thing to deal with his arms, but another altogether to do his face.

  Reading me correctly, he picked up the tube of cream and a cotton ball and looked in the mirror. “I can do these.”

  I didn’t argue with him because I was emotionally drained. Yeah, hearing the noises had been hard, but a big chunk of it was also guilt because I was the one hurting him. It wasn’t just a couple of cuts, I’d counted seventeen on his forearm alone. That was a lot of pain to inflict on someone you cared about, so not having to do it to his face was a relief.

  At least, that’s what I thought until he didn’t even blink as he applied the shit by himself.

  “You’re a freaking fraud, Richards,” I hissed, throwing the balls that’d missed the trash can earlier into it.

  “I don’t know if it’s because I’m doing it or if I’m just immune to the sting after years of shaving,” he shrugged, screwing the lid back onto the tube. “It just didn’t hurt like my arms and hands did.”

  I was about to turn around and call bullshit when I saw a couple of small rips in his shirt. “Did you go to work in a torn shirt today?”

  “No, why?” he asked, looking down at it and trying to see what I was talking about.

  Because he was looking down, the small rips weren’t immediately visible, so I pulled it away from his body and stuck my finger through one—admittedly making it worse than it’d been initially.

  Lifting it, he stared at his torso in the mirror, inspecting it to see if any of the damage on the item of clothing had made its way onto him. I probably would’ve done the same thing, but the area of his body that I’d seen as a kid wasn’t the same as it was now.

  Back then, he’d been slim but had some definition on his stomach. Now, he had a nice level of definition that was more than before but didn’t border on ‘harshly cut.’

  I’d never caught onto the trend of super-defined six-packs and fitness like that, it just seemed like a lot of work to be hidden under clothing all day. By all means, work out and be fit and muscular if it’s your choice, but many of the guys who did it that I’d met had done it to get the attention of women.

  Logan obviously did workouts and kept fit. With a job like his, I assumed that was a given so he was more able to deal with the bad guys. He hadn’t taken it to extremes, though, and I’d be lying if I didn
’t say I was almost hypnotized by what I saw in the mirror.

  “Shit, there’s more,” he muttered, and I nodded, thinking he was talking about the muscles that moved on his back when he lifted his arm to point at some more scratches.

  To be fair, he hadn’t been specific about what ‘more’ actually was.

  “Are there any on the back?”

  Figuring this went hand in hand with my thoughts at that moment, I nodded happily. “A lot.”

  “Damn it. Are they bad?”

  “No, they’re good. Oh, so very good.”

  “What?” he spun around and looked over his shoulder in the mirror, putting his chest only inches away from my face.

  His skin looked like he moisturized it hourly it was that smooth, and the movement of his muscles was completely different in this position to how they’d been before.

  I swear I’d just found my happy place.

  “Did you get something in your eye? Why are you blinking like that?”

  Mental snapshots, those things were real, and in a couple of hours when I went to bed, I wanted these at the front of my mind.

  When he drew in a loud breath to sigh loudly, I almost started begging him to do it again so that I could watch what his chest and stomach had done all over again.

  “I don’t see any cuts on my back. I’ll clean these if you want to wash up?” When I didn’t answer, he clicked his fingers an inch away from my nose, snapping me out of it. “You okay?”

  I could lay my thoughts out to him, I’d already been embarrassed more with Logan than anyone should be throughout their whole life, so I lied.

  I, Bexley Anne Heath, set my own panties on fire with what I came out with.

  “I think the fumes from the peroxide are affecting me. I’ve got an allergy to it, you know, and it just makes me hazy. I’ll go, and…” I trailed off as I tried to think of something. “Do something out there, and maybe order some takeout for us.”

  Judging by the amount of twitching his lips were doing, he knew I was lying my ass off. Then he had to go and make it worse. “What about ordering Chinese? Check and see if they do banana fritters, too, but not Sake for me.”

  So, with my face burning, I shot him the bird and stumbled out of the bathroom.

  I was desperately trying to take my mind off it as I went and started thinking about how I was going to help the poor feral cat in the attic—which sounded a bit like a sinister Dr. Seuss book title.

  I’d seen programs on television where they set traps with cans of food in them, but I didn’t want to risk having my arm taken off when I tried to pick it up. Potholders probably wouldn’t be enough protection judging by what it’d done to Logan.

  Did I buy it toys and spend months doing some sort of African wilderness move, where I befriended a lion until I could ride its back?

  When I got downstairs, the solution was made for me and found the animal curled up on the hoodie I’d worn on the plane yesterday. I’d been so tired when I’d gotten home that I didn’t care where it had landed after I took it off.

  Actually, that was another lie. I’d taken it off and dropped it on where I’d assumed the couch was, forgetting that they’d moved it when they’d shrink-wrapped the place. I’d also seen it this morning as I drank my coffee, but I was too lazy to pick it back up again.

  And the cat had benefitted from all of that because it looked like it’d claimed it.

  It wasn’t until I was squatted down beside it, with my hand only inches away from its gray fur, that I realized how stupid I was trying to touch it, but I was desperate to let it know that I didn’t mean any harm. I had no idea how it had gotten into the attic, but obviously, it liked living in Pops’ house, and he would have done the same thing I was, so…

  It didn’t lift its head as my hand got closer, but its eyes were focused on what I was doing. After the third gentle sweep of my thumb over the top of its head, it finally raised it and started purring.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “It’s nice to meet you. I don’t mind you staying so long as you don’t try to fillet me like you did to Logan. I don’t know what Doyle’s going to think about you, though.”

  The cat looked behind me like it was looking for either of them. I was about to declare it a feline genius, when I got the answer why it’d done it.

  “You’re insane,” Logan murmured, keeping his voice low, so he didn’t scare it. “No way are you keeping a feral cat.”

  “He’s not feral, he was just scared, weren’t you?” I cooed at it, giving it scratches under the chin.

  “Babe, he’s feral. He’s just waiting for you to blink so he can take your arm off.” He held his arms out to back up his words. Because of the number of cuts he had, we hadn’t put Band-Aids on all of them, just the worst ones.

  “Come and say hi, and apologize for scaring him.”

  Logan eyed it and shook his head. “No fucking way.”

  Apparently, kittykins felt the same way because he lifted his head and hissed at him.

  Pointing at the animal, Logan raised his eyebrows at me. “See? Move your damn hand away.”

  Ignoring him, I continued stroking the placid animal, even going so far as to scratch its belly when it rolled onto its back.

  Then something occurred to me. “I’m going to have to go to the store.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed distractedly. “I’m looking up what you need to get rid of the smell of ammonia from the attic. Baking soda seems to be a popular one, but there are sprays with enzyme things in them that do the job as well. If not, you’re probably going to have to—”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I interrupted, frowning at how much work it was going to be on top of what I already had to do. “Okay, I’ll add the sprays and some of those bad smell-absorbing things to the list of stuff I need to get.”

  Looking confused, he asked, “What do you need to get at the store?”

  “Well, cat stuff. I can’t have a cat without food, a bed, toys, and whatever else they need. Hey, can you look up what cats need online, please? And Doyle’s as grumpy as Pops was, so see if they know what I can get for him. He’s only two and a half, but he acts like he’s ninety.”

  “You need to go to the store to get cat shit?” he drawled. “For a feral cat?”

  “Stuff,” I corrected, “and he’s hardly feral.”

  At that moment, he was purring and rubbing his face on the hoodie as I scratched his stomach.

  “Check under his nails, and you’ll find my flesh and blood from where he tried to kill me.”

  Rolling my eyes, I made a point of holding a paw and pressing, so the nails came out. Seeing the length of them, though, I winced and let go again.

  Probably best not to draw attention to the tiger length talons.

  “I need a name for you,” I said, watching him watching me. Were those song lyrics?

  “Diablo?” Logan suggested, glaring down at us.

  “Bunny?”

  “Fuck no. That thing kills those poor animals, you’ll give it blood lust or something. Lucifer?”

  “Tinky-wink?”

  “Mephistopheles?”

  Raising my head, I looked over my shoulder to see him looking at his phone. “What’s that? A flower?”

  “Another name for Satan,” he muttered. “Beelzebub?”

  “Be serious, will you,” I snapped. “I don’t even know if it’s a him. How do I find that out?”

  “I’m being very serious,” he assured me. “Look between its legs. If it has a dick, it’s a boy.”

  “Oh, well, I never thought of that,” I said sarcastically but got up onto my knees to look at the area the cat was proudly displaying to the world. “Wow, you’re not bashful, are you? Look at you letting it all sway in the breeze.”

  Squinting, I turned my head to the side, then back again. The only one I had as a point of reference was Doyle, and I couldn’t say I’d ever looked closely at his crotch. There were laws against that type of thing, weren’t there?


  “Can you look up what a cat penis looks like?”

  “Hell no.”

  Turning my head to the other side, I made a choice. “I think it’s a boy that’s been neutered. Aw, baby, did somebody do mean things to your poor body?”

  The cat meowed and purred even louder, apparently loving the sympathy.

  “In that case, I’m going with Prince of Darkness for him,” Logan mumbled. “I’ve got a list of cat shit you need here. You getting a litter tray for it?”

  Okay, as a kid, I’d had bunnies, a cockatiel, and I’d babysat a dog for two months for my friend while her parents had to go away on business, and she was staying with her grandma. I’d seen cats, played with cats, even thrown them bits of ham from my sandwich, but I genuinely had no idea what they did or needed.

  “What’s that for?”

  “For it to shit and piss in.”

  Standing up, I turned to look at him, checking to see if his nostrils were flared. I knew his tell—when Logan was lying, his nostrils gave him away. At that moment, they weren’t doing it, though, and that confused me.

  “What’s litter? Do I have to go to Home Depot or something?” Wasn’t that the stuff you put down when the roads were icy? Why would a cat need it?

  “It’s a thing you put in a tray for a cat so it can go to the bathroom without going outside. You get it from grocery and pet stores.”

  Chewing my lip, I thought about it. Could I put up with the smell from the attic in my house?

  What Logan said next kind of sealed the deal for me. “If you don’t, you’ll have it pissing on the furniture and curtains while you’re out, or you’ll have to cut a hole in the door to put a cat flap in.”

  “I’ll get a litter tray and anything it needs so I don’t have to do any of that.”

  I could deal with poop in whatever litter was.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts, that I didn’t think about what was going to happen when Doyle met the cat, and just let him in the back door before we left.

  The good news was that they obviously knew each other or recognized each other’s scents, because neither of them attacked each other.

  The bad news was that they both still hated Logan, so he got corresponding growls and hisses as he walked past them.