by Sara Ney
“It’s hilarious. I’m telling you, Abbott, we should quit our day jobs…”
I think at this moment, Brooks Bennett could talk me into just about anything, including quitting my job to begin a sex toy hair tie company.
12
Desdemona
What are those two idiots blathering about?
I crack an eye, two obnoxiously high-pitched screeches rousing me from a lovely slumber. Ugh, it’s those two again—my human and that other…thing…being noisy and doing whatever it is people do when they’re happy.
Do shut up, I moan, another eyelid opening.
Girl and her new friend are sitting a bit too closely for my liking, hogging my couch—the big, long sofa I’m able to perch on the back of, putting me near the window. I do most of my lounging when Girl leaves in the morning, watching the birds fly by, dogs being walked, people jogging in the big, green park below.
It’s warm during the day in my spot, when the sun is beating down through the window—the window that prevents me from catching birds or killing mice in the park.
My human laughs again.
Mine.
My eyes are open but they narrow at Boy.
At least I think it’s a boy.
I’ve seen versions of him on that square box Girl watches when she’s on the other end of my couch. And now?
Boy is sitting in my spot.
Screeching like an owl.
They both are. The sound has me covering my ears with a furry paw, and I bury my head in the soft, white blanket Girl lays on her bed for me. At least, I think it’s her bed?
It’s also my bed, so it’s really hard to say just who it belongs to. Most of the things in the house are mine, but she uses most of them, too.
I need something, and it appears.
Wait…what’s that smell?
My nose hits the air, face tilted up, searching for a waft of…
Food.
They’re eating, and my gorgeous nose twitches.
True, I have kibble or whatever that brown bullshit is, but I’ve barely touched it today, not in the mood for anything but shrimp, the fragrant aroma wafting out of the white container in Girl’s hands.
She hands it to Boy with a smile.
A gurgle erupts from her throat and it sounds like she’s choking on a hairball—except she’s making the same face at Boy she makes at me when she’s scratching behind my ears or under my chin, so maybe she isn’t dying.
I groan, rolling to my back, mouth opening in an exaggerated yawn, pink tongue licking the air.
Blink at the ceiling.
No one comes to scratch my belly.
An irritated ear twitches, and I crane my neck to peer over at Girl, who still has those loud noises coming out of her mouth.
I dig deep into my belly and push out a loud purr, glance over at Girl.
No one comes to scratch my belly.
Fucking A, how hard is this going to be? Am I going to have to get up and walk over? It’s cold in this godforsaken room and the sun isn’t shining anymore. It’s dark and chilly and Boy is sitting on my blanket.
Bastard.
Except.
There is that shrimp…
Clearly no one is going to hand-deliver it, more’s the pity, so a trip across the room seems to be the only way I’ll get my furry paws on a single morsel.
Screw the kibble.
Rolling to my feet, I manage to rise. Shake out my luscious mane like a white tiger on the Serengeti before stretching. Yawn.
Shake again.
Lick my paw.
Strut forward gracefully, amber eyes—the ones that have Girl spellbound—fixated on the white container in Boy’s large hand.
Give it up, pretty boy.
I lick my chops.
“Ouoiutoiua kitty, kitty.” Girl’s mouth is moving and sound is coming out; she finally gives me the attention I deserve, but I have no interest in her just yet.
I jump onto the couch, into Boy’s lap.
Another loud screech from his mouth hole and I startle, ears pulling back.
Keep your hole closed while you’re feeding me, human. The last thing I need to hear is your intolerable voice. I’m not as impressed with him as Girl is, groaning from deep inside my chest. I don’t like it when he talks, but I do like it when he feeds me.
I deserve better than to be kept waiting.
“Get him off my lap,” Boy whines, annoying voice more high-pitched than before. I’m surprised I can understand him; normally I can only pick up bits and pieces of what Girl is saying, unless it’s Good kitty or Pretty Desi or That’s my good girl.
All the words I’ve learned have been from the talking box Girl watches when she comes back to the house after leaving me to lounge all day.
I don’t know where she goes, but when she comes home, she changes her clothes, feeds me, then sits on her side of the couch and watches TV. Then when it gets dark and she begins yawning, too, we watch TV on the big bed in her room.
“It’s a she.” Girl corrects him for the hundredth time, but actually, Boy is right—I am not a girl.
I am, in fact, a male feline.
Problem is, I have so much luxurious, fluffy fur, they couldn’t find my balls when they were checking me, so—I’m Duchess Desdemona McPurrs-A-Lot.
Worst fucking name on the list of kitty names.
Desdemona? I have no choice but to occasionally exhibit a bit of evil…
Oddly enough, I’m partial to the name Boy has been calling me—Pussy of Terror.
I lick my paw. “Meow.”
“OIAuoiugoiug off me!” Boy cries, and I can barely understand what the fuck he’s saying, he’s speaking so fast. So high-pitched, so loud and panicked. His eyes are as wide as the time Girl stuck me in the bathtub and I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror before she snapped a photo of my bulging eyes and posted it on her little phone.
“IUOIUB afiougoiug gouddig precious Desi.” Girl pats me on the top of my head, stroking my supple fur.
I might not understand a fucking thing she’s saying, but Girl knows what’s up.
She thinks I’m wonderful and pretty.
Because I am.
I paw at the box in Boy’s hands and he makes another strangled sound, moving so fast I almost fall to the carpet.
Hmm.
Being coy and cute is not going to work on Boy.
He doesn’t like me.
No bother. I want shrimp, and no amount of noise from his face is going to stop me from trying to get it.
I dream about seafood all day, every day. That, and snacking on a delicious songbird. The occasional squirrel, though they look like they’d take too much effort to catch.
I swipe through the air with my paw, imagining my nails like tiny swords of glory.
Swipe, swipe—that’s how I’d go after my prey if I were let loose in the park…
“Shit, iouoijaoiut fjoiaug this fucking cat.”
“Be nice!” I understand Girl shouting that, albeit a bit too loudly. I do love her stinky face.
She reeks like perfume and whatever is in those bottles in the bathroom. I knocked them over once to see what was inside but couldn’t get the top off, then Girl came in bellowing and kicked me off the counter.
No matter. I hop up there when she leaves the apartment and the mood strikes me. Kitchen counter, too, to drink from the sink like a leopard on the African plains sipping from a watering hole before a hunt.
Trouble is, there ain’t shit to hunt in this apartment.
No mice. No birds.
Just the occasional white box of food.
I purr for Boy’s benefit, hoping to soften him up, and rub my face along his arm, coarse tongue licking the skin of his wrist.
“OFF!”
I lick again, knowing he’s going to yell.
He does.
“BAD KITTY!”
Bad? No one has ever called me that before, except maybe Nan the times she was in the apartment and I ruine
d what she was working on for Girl, like the flowers I tipped over when she was placing them in a vase, or the package of meats I tore through with my fierce claws.
I mean nails.
I growl, a fierce tigress.
Boy yelps. “Shit, it wants to eat me.”
It? How rude.
“OIUoiuoi your shrimp. Give her some.”
My ears perk up and I purr louder. Yes, please.
“No.”
I scowl, and growl.
“Okay, okay, okay.” He hurriedly rushes to reply, the shiny metal fork in his hand sifting through whatever else is in the container.
My mouth waters.
“Just one or two,” Girl tells him, and I growl again, displeased.
I want it all.
13
Abbott
“Does Desi look funny to you?”
“The cat always looks funny.”
“If you gave her a snack every once in a while, she’d probably leave you alone,” I suggest, knowing it’s not true. If Brooks gives my cat enough tasty treats, he’s going to become her new favorite and win her adoration, and I will become chopped liver.
Which, incidentally, Desdemona hates.
Desi is fickle like that, though that’s not how I raised her.
“I refuse to feed that cat from my lap. Look at her—her eyes are small beads of lava trying to melt my soul.”
“Or…she’s hungry and wants food. Or…she wants attention.”
Either way, she’s perched on his lap, pink tongue peeping out of her adorable mouth. Aww, my pretty kitty.
“I’d love her more from afar. Does she always have to be in my face?”
“You know, you’re super dramatic for someone so big.” It’s an odd mix. Brooks is an imposing figure, tall and fit with dark hair and a toned body, looming when he’s in my living room. A giant, really.
Frightened of my ten-pound cat.
My neighbor absentmindedly checks the watch fastened around his wrist then slaps both palms down on his thighs. “I have to grab something from my place. I’ll be back in a few.”
“I’ll come with you.” I push myself off the couch, setting my food on the coffee table, curious and bored with always being at my place.
If he’s not going to do it, I’ll invite myself over.
“What if I’m going home so I can take a shit in my toilet?”
I feel my nose scrunching up. “Are you?”
“No, but I remembered I have clothes I need to get out of the washer and throw in the dryer. I have one thing that needs to hang.”
A guy who line-dries his delicates?
I bite down on my lower lip from the mental picture of Brooks carefully shaking out a shirt or a pair of pants then hanging it over a cabinet door to dry.
“Well I’m coming. I want to hang out at your place—I’m bored with mine. Maybe I’ll stare at your embarrassingly small living room windows.”
He shoots me a salty glare. “Don’t insult my windows.”
Too late.
Why it bothers him so bad, I couldn’t begin to say. Nonetheless, I trudge behind him until he’s unlocking his apartment and ushering me inside.
The first time I was at his place, I didn’t make the effort to discern the little things. The details. The nuances. What makes his place distinctively more male than my apartment, but in a good way. Everything about Brooks is “in a good way.”
Same flooring in the entry. Same tile in the kitchen. Same kitchen countertop stone. Appliances. Same cream color on the walls. Not white, not beige—a basic color in between.
But that’s where the similarities end.
There is no table next to the front door for keys. No mirror hanging to make the space look larger. My neighbor’s shoes are lined up along the wall instead of inside the coat closet, like mine are, neatly displayed on a three-tier metal shelf.
I traipse along behind him toward the double doors in the hallway where the stacked washing machine and dryer are, craning my neck to peer into the living room as we pass by.
It’s dark, but I glimpse the couch (dark leather) and an ottoman (also leather). A huge television on the wall above our matching gas fireplaces. It’s a stark contrast to the wall color, but I guess it goes with the furniture.
When I pay special attention to the windows, my mouth tips into a satisfied grin.
It’s strange how it’s the same apartment with different things inside of it. No wonder he was so wigged out at the sight of mine.
He stands in front of the compact laundry room—a luxury in an apartment complex, even one as exclusive as ours—pulling open the door and flipping the light on. It’s a tidy space with a suspension rod spanning the upper length, a few dress shirts already hanging on black velvet hangers to dry.
Just as we enter, the washing machine chimes, coming to a complete stop, the bin inside done spinning.
“Perfect timing,” I comment, leaning against the doorjamb, crossing my ankles and arms to watch him.
A man who times his laundry so he can swap it out?
Unheard of.
Brooks gets to work, yanking open the washing machine, arm reaching in to pull out a few wet garments. Tosses them into the dryer.
Repeat.
He sticks his arm in again, rooting around.
A dark garment catches my eye as he pulls a bag from the washing machine, unzips it, then gives it a good, healthy shake. It’s a heavy fabric and looks like a blazer, but I can’t be sure.
Definitely a fancy jacket of some type, made out of a fancy material.
“What’s this?” I lean forward, stroking it. It feels like wet velvet.
Brooks ducks his head, embarrassed. “This is my, um—it’s a smoking jacket.”
Why does this not surprise me?
“I can see that now.” I laugh, able to make out the trimmings of rich brocade and detail work. “What’s it for? Halloween?”
“This thing I have with my friends.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah, we do this thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Guys are so strange.
“Just stuff.”
“And you need a velvet and brocade jacket to do it in?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you trying to tell me you and your buddies have a secret club?” I joke, not realizing I’ve hit the nail on the head. But I have. It’s right there, written all over his panicked face.
Brooks twists his mouth into a frown.
“Lordy, please do not tell me you and your buddies have a secret club.”
“I won’t.” He won’t even look me in the eye.
Dead.
Giveaway.
They totally do. I squint over at him. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know you’re making fun of me.”
“Because it’s a secret club?” Man, I love teasing him. It’s so easy.
He fidgets, buttoning the jacket up the front and laying it flat on top of the folding table. Pressing down on it with his palms so it dries without wrinkles. “Stop pestering me about it.”
If there is one thing that frustrates me, it’s when guys automatically assume you’re nagging them when all you’re doing is trying to find out information. To learn more about him so the two of you can become closer; what’s the harm in that?
Also, I’d make an amazing spy.
“Pestering you about what? The secret club you have with your friends?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to—it’s written all over your guilty face, and you’re pressing the wrinkles out of a sopping wet smoking jacket, weirdo.”
“Uh, excuse me, but this jacket is fucking awesome.”
It does look fucking awesome. Impressive, too.
“I never said it wasn’t fucking awesome.” I almost choke on the profane word but relish the expression on his face when I let the F-bomb fly. “I’m just saying it’s a strange thing to own for no apparent reason.” My blu
e gaze grazes up and down his torso. He’s standing in the center of his tiny laundry room, next to his stiff jacket that may or may not be for some dumb boys-only club. “Unless you’re a freak about Halloween and are already planning your costume—in which case, I can’t for the life of me figure out what you could possibly be.”
“Can we just drop the subject?”
“Your wish is my command, your highness.” I dip into a debutante curtsey, as if Brooks is royalty, but my expression is far from adoring. Then again, he’s the one who owns a blue velvet jacket like a complete and utter jackass.
Once he’s done starting an entirely new load of laundry and ignoring me, I follow him back through the apartment and back out the door, waiting until we’re in front of my door before asking, “You don’t want to hang out at your place?”
“No.”
“Why? I didn’t think you liked my cat. Besides, your leather couch is super comfy.”
“It is, but you have better pillows for snuggling on yours.”
“We’d better be careful or we’re going to make a habit of this. You don’t want a reputation.”
And you don’t want me to end up liking you…
“A habit of this? Hardly,” he scoffs.
“Um, honestly—we’ve done nothing but hang out this week.”
Brooks laughs as if I’ve just told a joke. “No we haven’t.”
Is he serious? Yes, we have.
“Brooks, do you even know how many nights we’ve hung out this week?”
“Two.” He is extremely confident for someone so wrong, butt planting itself in the center of my sofa, remote control already in his hand. He holds up the peace sign then says, “Two,” again.
I make a buzzer sound. “Uh, try four.” Then, for his edification, I explain so there is no question that I’m right. “Saturday we rented movies and had takeout, Sunday you came over for lazy Sunday, Monday was soup and grilled cheese, and today is reality TV Tuesday. So yeah, I’m right—it’s been four nights.”
Brooks sits up on the couch like a shot has been fired. “Fuck.”
I throw my hands up. “Now what?”
“I have to go.”