Page 6

Proud Mary

W hen I get home, I’m relieved to find that no one is waiting on my doorstep like a kid at a zoo exhibit. Given Aldous’ immediately latching on and the hottie vet, I’m peopled out for a while. I don’t mean that in an ‘I’m an introvert; I need to re-charge’ kind of way; I just have shit to do, and if I don’t get it done, I’m going to have trouble staying on schedule.

I hate feeling rushed.

Dumping my shit on the kitchen island, I pull out my sketchbook to finish the line art for my drawing while I eat. I’m pleasantly surprised by quality of the waffles and the milkshake—I wonder if Hazel would be open to trying more adventurous flavors? I sketch as I muse on flavor combos to suggest, and I get so absorbed that I almost miss the front door opening.

Almost.

“Who’s there?” I call, rising to my feet. Remembering the eyes from the night before, I tiptoe on bare feet to my bag, pulling the spiked brass knuckles out of the front pocket in a practiced motion. No one answers, so I creep towards the living room, staying behind corners and in blind spots until I’m sure there’s no one waiting for me on the other side. When I get to the living room, I look from left to right nervously, and a thump makes me jump three feet in the air.

“Holy Shit!” Looking around in full panic mode, I curl my hands in brass knuckled fists and get ready to defend myself.

Another thump is followed by a vase crashing to the ground and a large animal leaping towards me like a predator in a Discovery Channel show.

What the fuck?!

“Oooooooof!” I grunt, falling backwards onto the hardwood in a heap. A low rumble vibrates over me as the animal stands on my chest, making it impossible to catch my breath. An answering yowl echoes from upstairs, and before I know it, another monster joins the one pinning me. It looks down at me curiously, its furry face upside down over mine.

I’m being attacked by two gorgeous, full grown serval cats.

Where in the hell did these beasts come from?

These things cost a fortune , and usually, owners keep them close for fear of them terrorizing local wildlife. The one on top of me leans down and licks my face from top to bottom and the one above me makes another yowling sound. I reach up carefully—they are wild animals, even if someone is keeping them as pets—and scritch the heavy chest smasher behind the ears.

“Who do you belong to, buddy? You’re too pretty to be roaming my house like a lost kitten.”

The cats yowl in response, which tells me they’re definitely used to humans. Cats only meow to humans, and these guys are much more feral than a house cat. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me puzzle out who they belong to. Neither have collars nor obvious chip bumps I can see.

Whistler’s Hollow is a weird fucking town.

After a few more minutes, I finally move, adjusting the perched cat to the floor so I can get up. When I stand, they both look at me as if waiting for a command. I wrinkle my nose, unsure of what to do. We never had pets growing up and hell if I know what I’m supposed to do when someone’s wild animals break into my house. Giving them a stern look, I point at one and then the other. “Go home!”

They look at me, then each other, and trot over to the ugly, floral couch my mother loved so much. In a second, they’re perched on it, sprawled out like a Nat Geo photo shoot.

What the goddamned hell? This is not their home. Do they not know that command? Maybe they only know commands in another language? I knew several Yard boys in England whose K9s responded to orders in German. Could that be why they got confused?

“Okay, fine, guys. You can stay there. I’m going to put that ugly thing in storage for the estate sale, anyway. I don’t have time to figure out if you only know Cajun French or whatever. Hang out if you want—I have to go to the truck to bring in the stuff for the laundry room.”

The beautiful cats simply blink at me, content to lounge where they are.

Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ.

* * *

Looking out the window at the setting sun, I sigh.

Despite the rough start to the day, I set up the laundry room, clean out the formal living room and start the process of turning it into an office, and bring in most of the boxes for what will be my actual media room.

It’s interesting to see how the Boomer generation (my parents) built their houses to have several rooms that only get minimal use on special occasions as if that meant middle class folks were as fancy as rich ones. I have no use for a living room full of uncomfortable ‘receiving’ furniture that only gets used during holidays or events. I also don’t care to have a fancy looking ‘living room’ that isn’t a dual use room for vegging out and watching Netflix with a tub of ice cream.

My mother would be horrified, I’m sure.

I’m converting the formal dining room into a mini-studio tomorrow—it has excellent light and enough space to allow me to set up my desk, easels, and storage cabinets with room to spare. I have no intention of throwing fancy dinner parties here, and the kitchen table and bar are good enough for me.

Niecy is sending her grandsons tomorrow to help move the outdated furniture to the truck and bring my more functional, comfortable pieces inside. They’ll also help me arrange the upstairs once I get that far, and transport all the excess to the storage unit she arranged before I arrived.

Perhaps I can ask them who the hell my houseguests belong to. As if they can hear my thoughts, the cats yowl from the other room.

They’re probably hungry—I sure as hell am.

Walking into the room, I see the terror twins batting a fluff ball back and forth and a smile rises to my lips. They’re pretty cute when they act like real pets, I suppose. I put my hands on my hips and clear my throat. The cats turn, immediately sitting at attention with their eyes on me.

That’s kind of spooky, right? Aren’t cats billed as the ‘fuck you, human’ of pets?

“Okay… uh…” I fumble for a moment, squatting to see if I can verify their genders before I nickname them for my convenience. Shit, I can’t tell—my version of gender neutral it is. “Okay, Jekyll and Hyde, are you hungry?”

Jekyll stands on its hind paws, stretching up like a meerkat and bats at me. Is that a ‘yes’? Hyde does the same, and I tilt my head. They tilt theirs in the exact same direction. I raise the hand opposite of the paw they’re using; they change paws.

I keep saying it, but what in the actual fuck?

“Fine. Should we use DoorDash or go on a hunt in town?”

Jekyll yowls a response and bounds towards the door with Hyde in tow. Guess that means we’re going out on the town.

I may be losing my ever-loving mind, folks.

* * *

Exiting the Impala, I snap my fingers and my uninvited guests follow at my heels as I stride towards the Atwater’s grocery store. As far as I know, Percy’s parents have resisted all attempts to be bought out by mega corporations that are dying to tap a money spigot like the wealthy folks in the Hollow.

I’m sure a shiny new Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s would love to be in place of Atwater General Store, but the folks in town don’t like outsiders coming in to take over their old-world charm. I checked Google during my stint in traffic—there’s a Wally World, a Whole Foods, and a Joe’s within a short drive of town.

Yet on a random Monday evening, Atwater’s is humming with activity. Looking at Jekyll and Hyde, I frown. The cats have refused to leave my presence since they appeared in my living room like a miniature hurricane. I don’t know if Atwater’s allows animals inside, and even if they do, it might be limited to service animals.

Before I can address my furry stalkers, Mayor Cornelia walks through the electronic doors, nearly slamming into me. I look up at her, taking in her youthful appearance and striking features.

“Jolene! Aldous mentioned he ran into you this morning. I planned on contacting you later in the week once you were settled.”

I smile, feeling nervous about meeting the woman that my parents called a ‘juggernaut’ of local politics as a fully grown adult. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I’m doing well. I have lots to do, but I would love to connect with you once I’m moved in.”

Her raven brow arches, and she looks down at the two servals standing on either side of me. “What’s this? Souvenirs from your travels abroad? We don’t have breed specific laws in town, Miss Whitley, but exotic animals will require licenses and collars if you are bringing them into town proper.”

“You don’t know who they belong to? These guys broke into my house earlier today and have become my stalkers. Servals are fairly expensive, and rare in the States, so I thought they must be pets that got out on someone.”

Cornelia Sykes simply smiles at me mysteriously, her head shaking slowly. “No, I know all the exotic animals in town, and these two are not registered. The citizens of Whistler’s Hollow know they would only need to ask for a license—I would never deny them a…partner… of choice.”

My brows furrow in confusion at her wording, and I look down at the perfectly behaved, attentive cats at my feet. “Well, I’ll check around before I decide. I appreciate your advice, ma’am.”

Her raven tresses fly as she laughs. “Oh, Jolene! Stow that ma’am away for someone much more tightly wound than me. Call me Nelia. And…” she stops for a moment, as if weighing her words, “… you can ask young Wolfgang. As the town vet, he’d know if anyone had animals they were missing. However, I highly suspect that you, my dear, have been chosen.”

Chosen? What the hell does that mean?

But I give the Mayor a polite nod and my typical pasted-on ‘social smile’ as I reply, “Thank you, ma—Nelia. I’ll check with him and uh, think about what you’ve said.”

“Don’t worry, Jolene. No one will ask you to leave them outside. That’s not how we do things here.”

I blink, wondering how in the hell she knew exactly what I was thinking when we bumped into one another earlier. “Cool. And um, thanks again.”

She winks at me, gives the cats a stare, and flutters off towards the parking lot with the air of a woman who knows that she is in charge of the world she lives in. I watch her get into the Rolls Phantom and speed off, chewing on my lip. What is it about the people in this town that make me feel like they have locked me in an escape room?

“ MMrrrrrOOOW !”

“Oh, shit, Jekyll. You’re right. We need to get some food before we all waste away,” I reply absently. It doesn’t occur to me I’m talking to them as if we’re old friends and they speak English. I just knew he/she was trying to get my attention.

They trot behind me happily as I walk in, looking around to see if the store conjures up memories of when I was a child. Things should look familiar, but there’s a… haze… …around it all in my mind. I remember the registers—upgraded now to computer POS systems—and the produce section is sectioned differently because of the ‘organic’ craze but feels like it’s the same. Running my hands over my face as I stand by a display of bananas, I close my eyes and try to imagine coming here with my parents.

I can’t. And I know we came here all the time. It’s just out of my grasp in a fuzzy space in my mind.

Hyde pushes his head into my palm, and I come out of the trance-like state I was in. I shake my head, heading for the fruits to pick up some snack food. I love junk food—I truly do—but I have to make certain that I eat enough fresh food. Not because of my weight, but because I get really slow and off when I don’t consume the right amount of ‘real’ foods. I don’t mean sick, loafy, or anything like a normal person. I mean, completely off-balance in a way the docs in Europe never did figure out.

“What should we get for dinner, guys? Pizza?” I murmur as I stuff berries and melon and assorted produce in my cart.

“ Mow !” Jekyll answers.

Perhaps he doesn’t want pizza.

Shit. I reach into my bag, pulling out my phone to Google ‘serval cat diets’ as I walk over to the beverage aisle to load up on my energy drinks. I’ll need milk and ice cream for milkshakes as well, and some various flavoring to feed my habit. I’ll get a pizza for me to heat up in the oven.

Chips! I would kill for Doritos.

Whirling around, I head back to the aisle labelled snacks, and I run flat into yet another person.

I’m a one-woman wrecking ball today, I fucking swear.

“Easy there, Tíogair. No need to knock me into the bloody biscuits.”

My face floods with color as I lift my head to apologize to the dude with the lilting accent. For the second time today, I’m completely speechless. I lick my lips, stalling as my eyes rove over the tattooed, leather wearing redhead with the mischievous glint in his eyes. He looks like a Weasley got run through a bad boy blender and he sounds like a hitman in an IRA movie.

What the fuck is in the water in this goddamned town?

“I…” Jekyll and Hyde save me by letting out low growls, their ears pinning back as their bodies tense on either side of me. Tearing my gaze away from the hot fucking leprechaun, I look down at them sternly. “It was my fault. Don’t be dicks.”

“Aye, lass. It’s okay. Your wee caits don’t scare me.” His lips curl up as my stalkers take up their statue-esque seated poses and glare. “I’m glad you didn’t knock the messages out of my arms, or I would have to get banjaxed at the sodding pub instead.”

Luckily for me, I spent some time in Dublin on a project, so his pidgin English doesn’t throw me for an even bigger loop. “Um, sorry about… almost knocking you down. I was… well, I wasn’t watching where I was going because I have to get food for these guys. Seeing as we just met, I had to hit the web for answers. They didn’t seem keen on pizza.”

His chuckle makes me feel stupid, but he grins. “It’s grand, Tíogair. I’ve got my stout, you’ve got your beasties, and we’ll be on our way in no time.”

I finally gather myself, giving him an annoyed look. I don’t know what that stupid name means, but he’s an arrogant little shit for thinking he can nickname me when he doesn’t know my ACTUAL name. “Absolutely.” I look down at the servals, my head tilted. “Let’s go, Jekyll. Come on, Hyde. We have groceries to locate, and food to cook. No sense wasting any more time dilly dallying in the snack aisle.”

With that, I flick my ponytail over my shoulder with the confidence of a Valley girl, turn on my heel, and head for the dairy section.

I’m going to need two milkshakes to get over that bullshit.

* * *

“And then he just kept saying it !” I grouse, propping my feet up on the coffee table. “Can you believe that?”

Jekyll and Hyde are perched on the couch they seem to have claimed as their own, eyes wide and ears perked up as they listen to me rant about Mr. Lucky Charms from the grocery store.

We ate well after I sorted out their diet—or the best info I could find online until I go see Hottie McBabyVet on Friday—and now we’re in the media room with British mysteries on in the background. I love a good mystery, and the greatest ones are on the BBC.

You can’t convince me otherwise; don’t even try.

“Mrrrrp?” Hyde questions, opening his mouth for another mini meatball.

“Exactly!” I lob the cooked meat into the air, and he leaps like a tiger to catch it in his mouth. Jekyll gives me an expectant look, and I load another meatball up. “What a douche canoe. No, not a douche canoe, a failboat. A failboat full of douche canoes. A goddamned douche canoe navy , that’s it!”

Satisfied with my insult, I let the treat fly and this time, they both go for it. A minor scuffle ensues, and I wrinkle my nose. Greedy little shit, aren’t you, Hyde? “Hyde! That’s Jekyll’s. Get back to your throne.”

Amazingly, the little shit does just that.

The absolute bizarreness of everything that has happened since I set foot in this town is baffling. From the social media black hole to the hot guy parade to Hazel and now these guys, I can’t figure out why I feel like I stepped into an episode of Twin Peaks. It never felt like this growing up. I noticed nothing different than a normal—albeit snooty—Southern town full of rich twats who think they own the universe. Why is it that every encounter I have here feels like the start of another mystery?

Shaking my head, I launch another meatball for Jekyll and then pick up the remote. I’m in the mood for Gracie Lou Freebush to take me to giggle town while I chow down on this granny apple-honey-mango milkshake I made. Thinking about all of the unusual people I’ve met is giving me a migraine.

As if the Universe is conspiring against me, the bloody doorbell rings.

Jekyll and Hyde leap into action, skidding across the oak floor to stop in front of it, their bodies tensed like a hound on a fox hunt. I’ve been on fox hunts, though it was reluctantly, and with the caveat that I wasn’t killing a damned thing. The upper crust in England still participate in all sorts of ridiculous old traditions with business partners and when I contracted to the wealthy, I got roped into a lot of weird shit on client meets. The fetish club in Germany was one of the best ones, but that’s because I spent most of the night analyzing the psychology behind the members’ kinks in my head.

The doorbell peels again, and I huff.

Looks like I’m answering because the twin terrors are snarling at the door as if it’s going to attack them on the spot.

“I’m coming! Hold your effing bits, I have to get decent!” I don’t, but at least that declaration might stop the idiot at the door that has a fetish for button pushing.

I yank it open, my expression defiant as I cross my arms over my chest. When I see the person standing in front of me, I pale. The change in my posture makes Jekyll and Hyde snarl, and I reach down to touch each of their heads before they decide to tag team the giant on my porch. For one, given his size, I’m not certain they’d win, and secondly, knowing the power his family holds in this town, I worry he’d have my new amigos put down.

“Well, well, well. Looks like the Cotillion Catastrophe is all grown up.”