The Bachelor Society Duet: The Bachelors Club

by Sara Ney

  “She’s old-school—that’s what Nan does.”

  “Right…” I draw the word out, because this whole conversation is borderline ridiculous. A nan sounds like a character from a damn cartoon movie—and along with cats, I hate cartoons, too. “Are you going to tell me what kind of food she had delivered at seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?”

  “Why?” Her eyes have gone to slits.

  “I’m starving.” Obviously.

  “Should you be eating? You just ran up twenty flights of stairs—won’t you want to puke? I mean, you look like you’re going to.”

  Meh. “Maybe, but I’m hungry and I should be eating protein. Got any?”

  “I might, but…” She gives me a once-over, eyeing my sweat-soaked outfit, scuffed jogging shoes, and perspiration-drenched headband.

  I know I look like I just ran the Boston Marathon, pissed myself running, and barely managed to drag my slack body across the finish line.

  “But what?”

  “I don’t even know you.” She’s chewing on her lower lip. I can’t help but notice that it’s pouty and pink, and though there’s no makeup on her face, she’s really goddamn pretty.

  That would matter if I were interested.

  Which I’m not.

  Besides, no fucking way am I going to lose that bet with the BBS. No. Fucking. Way.

  She doesn’t want me eating her food because she doesn’t know me? Fine. “I’m Brooks Bennett.”

  A laugh escapes her throat and she sputters, spitting a bit, which is kind of disgusting.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “Is that seriously your name? Brooks Bennett?”

  “Yes.” I take in her light pinkish yoga pants, soft gray pullover, and bare feet. Toes are painted a soft pink. “What’s yours?”

  A brief silence. “Abbott.”

  Abbott. “Abbott what?”

  “Just Abbott.”

  “God, don’t tell me you’re one of those chicks who’s an internet blogger with one name.”

  She laughs. “I have a last name, I’m just not telling you what it is.”

  I roll my eyes so hard I feel them in the back of my skull. “I’m not going to stalk you—don’t flatter yourself.”

  Now she’s the one rolling her eyes. “I’m not a blogger.”

  “Well, Abbott I’m not a blogger, if you feed me, I’ll super appreciate it, and I won’t bother trying to search you online later.” I have no food in my fridge and make a mental note to have something delivered later so I’ll have a meal to eat after work tomorrow. “Give me a few to jump in and out of the shower then I’ll be back to bang your door in.”

  Bang your door in—good one, Brooks.

  My pretty little neighbor scrunches up her nose, unsure about whether or not that was a sexual innuendo.

  “Fine.” She points an accusatory finger at me, and I notice her nails are light pink. “But you’re not staying long.”

  As if. “Fine.”

  I’m just using her for food, anyway.

  It takes me half an hour to wash the sweat from my body and throw on clean clothes before I’m back at Abbott’s apartment door. Three loud raps of my knuckles and she’s swinging it open with a huff.

  “Oh my God—I heard you.” She glances up and down the hall, yanking me by the arm. “Everyone heard you! Chill out and get in here before someone files a complaint.”

  I hiss at her.

  “Don’t you dare hiss at me,” she gripes, pulling the door farther open so I can follow her inside.

  The first thing that registers about her place is how good it smells; a candle glows on a compact table in her entryway, emitting a delicious—

  “Holyshitwhatthefuckisthat?”

  A demon lurks at the far end of the corridor, glassy eyes wide, white fur standing on end, the glow from the living room windows backlighting its stark white fluff, creating an almost supernatural glow. It’s eerie, unsettling, and…

  …are those fangs?

  “It’s a cat.” Abbott takes the keys for my place out of my hand, dropping them onto the round table. Flips on the rest of the lights as she goes deeper into the apartment.

  “A cat. Right.” I side-eye the beast suspiciously, glued to my spot in the narrow entrance. “But why does it have laser beams coming from its beady eyes?”

  It hasn’t blinked once, I’m sure of it.

  Jesus Christ, this cat looks like Satan’s mistress.

  “Oh give me a break. Desdemona doesn’t have lasers coming from her eyes. She’s sweet—look at her.” She points to her evil dictator cat, its tiny fur paws rooted to the floor, back arched. “An angel.”

  “I am looking at her. She looks like a holy terror that wants to shred my face off with whatever talons are buried in her hair.”

  “It’s called fur, and would you stop it? She’s as sweet as pie.”

  Doubtful. The cat chooses that exact moment to hiss when I make eye contact.

  Little fucker. “What’s its name, again?”

  “Her name is Desdemona. I call her Desi for short.”

  “Desdemona? That’s fucking horrible. Who came up with that?”

  “Technically, her registered name is Duchess Desdemona McPurrs-A-Lot, but obviously that’s a mouthful.”

  Obviously.

  And who the hell registers their cat? Rich people, that’s who.

  “Right, McPurrs-A-Lot. Purrs. Does that thing purr at all?”

  “Of course she does, don’t you little furball, don’t you my precious angel kitty?” Abbott coos to the mangy feline glaring up at me, a satisfied sparkle in its left eye. “She’s just wary of strangers.”

  I’m not convinced, taking another glance at the cat, who now has its white body firmly pressed against the wall at the end of the hall even as Abbott strokes its back.

  This cat isn’t fucking around. It’s out to get me.

  “Can I call it Lucifer instead of Desi?”

  “No!”

  “Captain McPussyPants?”

  “Oh my God. No.”

  “How about Desi McTerrorPuss?”

  I like that last one, settling on the nickname even though I know it’s going to drive my cute little neighbor nuts—or perhaps because I know it will.

  “Don’t you dare call her that.” She feigns outrage on the cat’s behalf. “It’s undignified.”

  Right. Because I’m worried about that.

  Not. “Pussy of Terror.”

  Abbott tilts her head in thought. “Okay, see—now your names are starting to sound like rides at a theme park.”

  “Pussy of Terror.” I laugh. “I dated a woman with one of those once. It was the worst ride I’ve ever been on,” I joke.

  Abbott stares blankly, too classy to take the bait of my barb. “If that was a sex reference, I’m choosing to ignore it.”

  “You do that.” It was definitely a sex reference, and I wish Abbott would bite at one of my jokes, because sparring with her is one of the most exciting things I’ve done all week. And it’s Sunday, which is saying a helluva lot.

  My week sucked balls but seems to be ending on a high note—free breakfast and company included.

  My eyes stray to the white cat now lurking in the corner.

  “Do you ever live in fear that he’s going to maim you in your sleep?”

  “She. Desi is a girl. I’ve referred to her as a she at least a dozen times.”

  Doesn’t matter—that pussy is pure evil; I can see it in her tiny, black stare.

  Angriest little pussy in the building, I’d wager, not including Abbott’s. Ha ha.

  “It already hates me.”

  Abbott laughs, a soft trill as she trails down the hallway and disappears into another room. I follow, cat glare beating on my back.

  Fuck. I’m actually scared to look over my shoulder to see if it’s creeping along after us. Slinking, sneaking—whatever it is cats fucking do when they’re being shady.

  I find my neighbor in a kitchen ide
ntical to mine, already prying open the refrigerator and leaning inside. She retrieves two bottles of water and hands one over without looking at me, digs through the crisper, and pulls out a brown paper bag with the name SmithStone’s on the side.

  Speaking of fancy—SmithStone’s is one of the bougiest places in town. Expensive and exclusive for a small eatery, I’m pretty fucking sure they don’t cater, or deliver, and certainly not so early in the damn morning.

  “Desi doesn’t hate you.” Abbott tears the bag open, breaking the gold sticker sealing it shut and peering inside. “And she won’t try to hurt you. She’s quite gentle.”

  Debatable.

  “She hasn’t attacked you yet.”

  “Yet?” My heart rate accelerates. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Another laugh, and this one has Abbott bent at the waist in a giggling fit. “Sheesh, Brooks, you should see the look on your face. I’m kidding! The cat isn’t going to attack you. She’s way too lazy for that. Take a look at her collar—the little gold plate says Lazy AF.”

  No way am I touching that thing.

  Abbott prods me. “Oh don’t be a baby. Take a look.”

  I shake my head. No. Nuh-uh.

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re a big ol’ chickenshit?”

  I cross my arms defiantly, like a petulant child. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  You couldn’t pay me to get within five feet of that pussy, and that’s a sentence I’ve never said in my entire life.

  Abbott roots around in a cabinet and retrieves two plates; next come napkins and forks. She grabs the paper bag of food off the counter and heads in the direction of the living room at the back of her apartment. I know that’s where she’s going because it’s the same layout as my place.

  I find her plopped down on a cream-colored couch, sitting cross-legged and grabbing the remote control for the television. “Wanna watch House Hunters?”

  No, I’d rather poke my eye out with one of her fancy forks. “Sure.” I’m distracted by what’s out the window. She has a view of the park, and her windows are fucking ginormous, while mine are…normal.

  “Why are your windows better than mine?”

  Technically we have the same apartment. Same end of the building. Same floor.

  So how the fuck did she get floor-to-ceiling windows?

  “Your view is fucking ridiculous.” A panoramic overlook of the whole city—the nighttime skyline must be absolutely insane. “What the hell, dude!” I stand and stroll to the window, hands braced on my hips, the green-eyed jealously monster rearing its ugly head. “How much do you pay for this place?”

  Translation: How the fuck can you afford this?

  Abbott’s pert little nose tips into the air.

  “None of your dang business.” She pops open a to-go container and steam rises; four eggs Benedict sit presented on a bed of asparagus and browns, hashed and spiced to perfection.

  Well dangggg. Gimme.

  I watch hungrily, mouth watering as she scoops out a serving and slides it on a plate. Sets the plate on the table.

  Repeats the process, then once again digs into the paper bag. Roots around and retrieves another identical container.

  Goodie, there’s more!

  She eyeballs me like her cat did earlier. “Are you going to sit or not? Because I’m starting the show, and if you’re going to just stand there, I’m going to start eating without you.”

  Grumbling, I kick my shoes off and flop down next to her. Sigh. Give her a sidelong glance. “Do you have any salt or anything? I don’t think I can eat veggies without putting something on them.”

  “Cabinet next to the fridge.” She barely acknowledges me, which is more than I can say for Desi McTerrorPuss.

  When I stand, the cat does too.

  I sit back down on the couch.

  Desi slowly lowers her ass to the carpet.

  Fuck.

  Checkmate.

  Abbott notices. “Jesus, are you being serious right now? The cat isn’t going to hurt you.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously enough!” I argue, stricken. Man I want that salt. But do I need it? Really?

  I make puppy dog eyes at Abbott. She makes puppy dog eyes at the cat.

  “Brooks, I’m not going to the kitchen for you.”

  “Please!” I beg, in a deadlock with Desi. “I’m hungry!”

  “If I go to the kitchen, you’re still going to be alone with the cat,” she warns.

  “Right, but at least I can keep an eye on her. She only moves when I move.”

  Abbott shifts on the sofa, tilting her body toward me, resting one arm on the back of the couch. “I dare you to go to the kitchen yourself and get the salt.”

  “You dare me? What do I get if I actually do it?”

  Abbott looks exasperated. “You get the salt, moron.”

  Fine. Fair enough. “You’re sure the cat isn’t going to attack me?”

  “She hasn’t attacked anyone so far today. I think you’re safe.”

  “But it’s not even eight o’clock—there’s still time.” The cat raises its hairy old man brows at me, taunting. “I swear, if that thing does anything…”

  Abbott scoops some eggs onto her fork and into her pink, pouty mouth. “You’re being so dramatic.”

  I rise. Point at the cat and tell it to, “Stay.”

  It stays.

  “Huh.” I square my shoulders back and puff out my chest, victorious. “Look at that, I’m the pussy whisperer,” I murmur, more to myself than to my neighbor, because now she’s blatantly ignoring me. Admittedly, she looks quite adorable perched on the couch with a blanket across her lap, nibbling on her breakfast.

  She finally spares me a glance.

  “Brooks: a regular magician. I’ll call you Houdini from now on. How would you like that?”

  “Actually…” I rub my chin, make for the kitchen, and quickly grab the salt and pepper from the cabinet. “I’d love it—even though technically Houdini was an escape artist and not an actual magician.” I haven’t had a nickname since college, and that one wasn’t even original—it was just my last name. “What about Copperfield?”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re starting to annoy me.”

  “You’re cute when you get worked up. No, seriously, how many people look that adorable with flared nostrils?” I finally relax on the couch, the cat having backed off enough to let me eat. “Like two tiny caves—a tiny little dragon could fly right up in there.”

  “Stop it right now, shut up.” Her hand flies to her nose.

  “Cool it, I’m fucking with you.” The eggs and asparagus go down my esophagus delightfully smoothly, taste expensive, and tantalize my taste buds. “Thanks for the free food.”

  I’m one cheap son of a bitch who never turns down a handout.

  “As if I had a choice? You barged in.”

  “We always have choices, Abbott with only one name.”

  “Stop it. I have more than one name.”

  “Maybe, but you’re not telling me what the other one is. What’s the big fucking deal?”

  Abbott sighs, loud and long. “It’s Margolis.”

  I glance around, somewhat expecting fireworks to explode and sirens to go off with the pronouncement. Or maybe that’s what she’s expecting to happen?

  Instead, I dig into my breakfast. “Okay.”

  There’s a long pause, and finally, my neighbor joins me.

  5

  Abbott

  Nothing happened when I told him my last name.

  I wait for more of a reaction, but it never comes.

  Admittedly, I may be hypersensitive to it. Or maybe you’re sheltered, living in a bubble, and only think everyone knows you—or cares—because that’s who you surround yourself with.

  I watch as my neighbor readjusts himself on the couch before shoving more food into his face, resting his ass on my soft cushions, and spreading his legs comfortably.

  Brooks.

&
nbsp; Bennett.

  What a doozy of a name—and here I thought mine was hoity-toity.

  He’s dressed casually in mesh basketball pants and a hoodie, looking cozy and relaxed in my apartment. Looking like he belongs in my living room.

  Not long after that firm ass of his hits the couch and he raises his plate, forking the breakfast I’ve served him, Desdemona pounces like the food enthusiast she is, like I knew the dang cat would. She has no manners and even less patience.

  My cat loves food, eggs in particular. And while she might not be keen on strangers or new people, she’s a slut for snacks.

  I watch, entertained, as my neighbor reacts to the cat, the entire scene playing out in slow motion, more beautifully than I could have scripted it.

  Brooks’ display is an Oscar-winning performance.

  “Holy shit! Holy fuck! I’m under attack, I’m under attack!” Brooks screeches from the depths of his soul. “Get it off!”

  It literally sounds like he’s getting attacked in a pool of sharks and can’t climb out of the water.

  Wow.

  I’ve never heard a man scream like a girl before. Well, once, my twin brother Stuart saw a mouse run through the living room of our lake cottage when we were young. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and had an asthma attack, but we were twelve, hadn’t hit puberty yet, and had never seen a live mouse in person before.

  The scream emitting from Brooks’ throat is one of sheer terror, and I’m shocked a puddle of urine isn’t soaking the cushions of my brand-new couch. He needs to take a chill pill.

  “Help!”

  I yawn. “You’re fine.”

  He squeals, “How can you say that?” and that’s when I begin to laugh. “How?!”

  He’s serious.

  Tears stream from the corners of my eyes, streak down my cheeks, and Lord, I know I shouldn’t be laughing—because he’s freaking out—but there’s no stopping it now. “Shhh, calm down. Calm down.” I’m sputtering with a snort, tears, and also some spit, doing my best to soothe him. “You’re scaring her.”

  My poor little boo-baby is crouched next to Brooks, torn between her want of a treat and the urge to escape into her kitty house.

  “I’m scaring her? I. Scared her. She scared me! What the fuck, Abbott—whose side are you on?”