Page 146 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Nope—cats sleep all day every day, idiot . . . when they’re not plotting your death.
Excuse: Henry’s allergic.
Nope—She’s seen him in the office multiple times.
Excuse: I don’t know anything about cats.
Nope—I know TOO much about cats.
I had nothing. Just one last lousy excuse . . .
“I don’t think I’m financially capable to provide for Sir Licks-a-Lot’s needs at this time.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Gladys waved her hand to brush my excuse away. “I will increase your salary by three hundred dollars biweekly to take care of him.”
That was one hell of a significant raise; how could a girl turn that down?
“You’re the only one I trust, Rosie. Please do this for me. I already had a courier drop off cat supplies and some of Lickey’s favorite toys. Say yes.”Oh. My. God.
Right before me, Gladys’s eyes transformed into giant saucers, begging and pleading with me to do this “tiny” little favor . . . for Lickey . . .Shoot me now.
I turned to the crate and stared Sir Licks-a-Lot down, trying to form some kind of bond with the cretin. His yellow eyes didn’t blink as his whiskers twitched from his paw running over them in a deranged way. I gulped and thought maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. He’s just a cat . . .
* * *
“Go ahead, scratch the sofa one more time; I dare you,” I called out, holding a spray bottle with both hands and pointing it at the culprit. It’d been five hours since I’d gathered my things at the office and hauled “Lickey” across Midtown to my apartment. Just like Gladys said, she had a large box waiting for me at the apartment full of catnip, scratchers, a litter box, a pooper scooper, feeding bowls, and of course, smelly wet cat food.
The taxi ride to the apartment had been a real treat. One would have assumed I was slowly killing him inside his crate, maybe twisting his leg off—wishful thinking—by the crazed meows coming from him. The cab driver kept looking in his rearview mirror until I told him the cat was in heat and searching for someone to bang her. That warranted a middle claw from Sir Licks-a-Lot, and I thought that comment was the reason I’d been dealing with kitty tornado ever since I got home. Apparently, he didn’t like to be called a she . . . Noted.
With one sock on my foot, hair tossed into a side pony—not by my doing—and clothes askew, I was fighting an epic battle of human versus feline, skin versus whiskers, claws versus hands. We’d fought for our freedom, for our rights in the apartment, for the upper hand in this creepy ménage of furball and homosapien. I’d battled with him incessantly about his boundaries, his designated space, and mostly on how many times I could squirt a cat before he got it through his teeny-tiny cat brain that he was not to scratch the damn couch.
His paw was midair as I screamed, “Do it!” My hands shook, ready to squirt the little bastard across the apartment. I could feel sweat start to trickle down my back in anticipation of a squirt-a-thon that consisted of me screaming like a banshee, squirting the cat, while he ran around in circles, trying to avoid Hurricane Rosie.
Right when I thought he was going to lay his paw on the couch, Henry came through the front door, scaring the jerk away from the bullseye I had aimed between his eerie yellow eyes.
“Hey, love,” Henry started to say, until he stopped and took in my appearance. Shutting the door, he said, “Whatcha doin’?” The sexy side smile of his eased the tension in my shoulders just enough for me to lower the water sprayer.
“He’s here,” I shout-whispered, looking around, waiting for him to attack. “Cover my six.” I backed up, searching the room for an orange blob ready to pounce, but my eyes deceived me, sending me into a full-on water attack on an orange pillow on the floor from one of the runarounds I’dsharedwith Sir Licks-a-Lot.
Henry carefully set his work bag down and looked around the living room, while lowering my squirting hands away from the pillow. “Who’s here?”
Crouch walking, I inched closer to Henry, scanning the room, waiting for the hellion to pop out. “Lucifer himself. He’s here.” I felt the crazy in my eyes commencing, the day of chasing him around, plucking him off the furniture, and screaming bloody murder to make him stop his incessant crying had finally taken over. I was losing it.
“Love, you’re scaring me. What are you talking—?”
Mrrrrrrrrrrooooooowwwwww!
From behind the curtains, Sir Licks-a-Lot pounced into the air, fanning his body out to impersonate a flying squirrel, propelling him across the living room and onto Henry’s chest.
“What the fuck?” Henry screamed as he spun in circles, trying to get rid of the phantom clawer. “What the fuck is happening?”
Spiraling around the room, Henry pulled on Sir Licks-a-Lot, trying to remove the carrot-colored clinger.
“Get off my man, you orange pussy.”
I lifted the bottle of water, aimed the best I could, and sprayed water rapidly while screaming for Sir Licks-a-Lot to declaw himself from Henry.
“Why am I getting wet? Rosie, aim at the cat, for the love of God, aim at the cat.”
