Page 11 of Double Obsession

It was official: her vagina had come back to life.

She opened her eyes and giggled.

By the time Stacie returned with the kids, she had written two thousand thirty-five words.

She put the fruit of her loins to bed and texted Berta.

Sorry. I’m great. Book is great. Writing away. Be in touch soon.

Then she crawled into bed and slept like the dead.

Chapter Five

Since giving up the meds, Arkansas was back to her genius self, and navigating the house was a piece of cake. Her knees didn’t creak, and her hips didn’t lock when she lowered herself onto the floor. She picked up the frilly dust ruffle and peered under the bed. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Two glowing eyes stared back at her.

“I’m trying to help you.” She reached, but the Persian was too far away to grab. “Doctor Vincent says we need to take care of that paw so you don’t get an infection.”

The cat hissed.

“Well, you need to stop strutting around on top of my work.”

Hiss!

“And you need to stop running underneath my knife when I’m working. You lost a lot of blood, so you’re lucky you didn’t die.”

Peepers, the old yellow tomcat, used to run under Arkansas’s feet when she tried to climb the stairs. Once, he’d tripped her, so she’d stepped on his head so many times he no longer had a face. It had taken her three days to clean the stairwell.

And then there was Puffers and the unfortunate shovel incident. She’d refused to stop meowing.

“Fine,” Arkansas grumbled. “Just get an infection and die. Then I’ll leave your body where that delinquent down the street can find it.”

The two intelligent cats on the stairwell gave her a wide berth. One went so far as to sprint to the spare bedroom.

Her first stop was at the front door. She sighed in relief. Her social security check was the only thing in her mailbox.

Since government agencies played head games with the little guys, she handled the envelope carefully, holding it up to the light to make sure some bigwig hadn’t sent her a decaying mouse. They couldn’t fool her. Send her carrion, and she’d send something more disgusting back.

Her second stop was under the crucifix. The trickles of blood coming from the nails in Jesus’ hands and feet were all wrong since the injury was old. She retrieved a black Sharpie from the table and colored over the red. “That’s better,” she assured him.

The next stop was the coffee pot. She fixed herself a cup with lots of cream and sugar. Then she situated herself in her workspace. While her computer powered on, she organized her pens and notebook and wrote the date in her sweeping ornate script. Someone should hire her to take professional notes.

She checked her direct message box. There were a few unkind messages from her stalkers telling her to stop stalking them. She fired a few quips to the haters. She’d explain the error of their ways when she had more time.

She had two messages from Hunter’s bitchy ex. She’d deal with her after she checked on the more important people—Hunter Stone himself and Jenna Gibson.

The author hadn’t responded. “Jenna, stop being self-centered. Hunter needs us,” she grumbled to the screen.

She shook off her grouchies because Hunter didn’t deserve negative energy. Then she switched to his InstaFriend feed. An hour ago, he had posted a photo from a mountaintop, and the caption said he planned to hike again tomorrow.

Chasing after the stupid cat caused her to see the post late. She slapped a hand on mint-green Formica and the kitchen table rattled.

Hunter wore a baseball hat, a pink t-shirt, tan cargo pants, and hiking boots. The straps of his blue backpack caressed his shoulders. His arms were outstretched, and he flashed two thumbs-up and a huge smile. It was a wonderful photo, except his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

Overcome with joy that hiking brought him happiness, she sent him a message telling him as much. She recorded the time and exact words.

She was so organized and so wise. Her chest puffed with pride.