Page 121 of Fish in a Barrel

“No, but we have crab delight for the salads.”

“Jackson, we can’t give the cat—”

“Ellery, do you want me to rescue Baby Satan there from every curtain in the house before he nests in your hair?”

The kitten started kneading biscuits on Ellery’s bare chest, having managed to find his way between the lapels of the robe.

“No.” He winced.

“Then we’re going to make that other furry asshole feel like the king of fuckin’ American River Drive, you think?”

“Sure,” Ellery gasped, trying to detach the ecstatic kitten. “Sounds like a plan.”

He fell asleep with the kitten literally nesting in his hair on top of the pillow, waking up when Jackson slid in next to him.

“How’s Billy Bob?” he mumbled and was rewarded by a bigwhump! on the bed and Jackson’s “Oolf!” as the cat marched across Jackson’s stomach.

“Fuckin’ peachy,” Jackson replied, and as Ellery peered through the darkness with slitted eyes, he saw the cat curl up behind Jackson’s neck and, of course, start making biscuits in Jackson’s hair.

“So,” he said as the room filled with purring, “this is pet ownership.”

“Yup.”

Ellery smiled softly at him, remembering his street-smart, shoe-leather-tough lover mediating a dispute between the alley cat and the kitten and trying to help them both reach an accord.

“It suits us,” he said, kissing Jackson on the mouth.

“Mm….” Jackson responded to the kiss and then jerked back. “It does,” he said, hissing as Billy Bob kneaded some more. “It will suit us even better when these two morons let us have sex again.”

“Tomorrow,” Ellery told him, already making plans to buy something the kitten could climb up, like a rope or a cloth they could secure from the ceiling. “Right now, let’s savor the peace.”

“Fine,” Jackson muttered, closing his eyes. They fell asleep like that, facing each other, while the rumbling of happy felines filled the room.

Like so many things, I blame this completely, unequivocally, on Jason Russell. You’re welcome.

Jackson’s Christine

A Fishlet

JACKSON ANDHenry stood by the once-new Honda CR-V, stunned and in shock.

“This isn’t my fault,” Jackson said, taking in the completely concave driver’s side and rear quarter panel.

“We parked it in a parking place,” Henry said, looking around the grocery store parking lot with eyes haunted by ghosts of traffic misdeeds past. “For once.”

“I… I… this isn’t my fault!” Jackson almost moaned. “Dammit! Henry, this isn’t my fault!” He had lost track—lost track—of how many new vehicles he’d gotten in the past year. Was this the fourth one? The fifth? It didn’t matter. After the first one had been shot up, the rest had been on Ellery’s dime, and on his insurance. But it didn’t seem to matter. Shot up, shot upandrolled down a hill, smashed in by a drunk driver,blown up,then refurbishedandthenused in a demolition derby race that had yet to be classified, every vehicle had somehow met its unholy and untimely demise. Jackson, while not always the driver, was somehow the catalyst that had doomed them all.

“I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles,” Henry told him, nodding seriously.

“I… I don’t know how to fix this,” Jackson mumbled, watching as the rear bumper fell off. Almost frantically he tried to think of a thing to do that wouldn’t bother Ellery, wouldn’t inconvenience him, wouldn’t get himkicked off his insurance plan.Jesus, how could he be so reliant on Ellery Cramer after only a year? What would he have donebeforethey—and Ellery’s seemingly inexhaustible trust fund—had hooked up?

Jackson smiled.

“What?” Henry asked suspiciously.

Jackson clicked the key fob and gestured to Henry, who had access to one of the doors that worked. “Start pulling shit out,” he said. “There’s grocery bags in the back. I’ve got an idea.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. He’d been put in an uncomfortable spot before when Jackson had tried a workaround with Ellery. Jackson had never told him how that had fallen out. Henry probably had his suspicions that it had been bad, but whatever they were, he hadn’t even scratched the surface. So bad. Relationship-breaking bad.