It takes me half an hour to wash the sweat from my body and throw on clean clothes before I’m back at Abbott’s apartment door. Three loud raps of my knuckles and she’s swinging it open with a huff.
“Oh my God—I heard you.” She glances up and down the hall, yanking me by the arm. “Everyone heard you! Chill out and get in here before someone files a complaint.”
I hiss at her.
“Don’t you dare hiss at me,” she gripes, pulling the door farther open so I can follow her inside.
The first thing that registers about her place is how good it smells; a candle glows on a compact table in her entryway, emitting a delicious—
“Holyshitwhatthefuckisthat?”
A demon lurks at the far end of the corridor, glassy eyes wide, white fur standing on end, the glow from the living room windows backlighting its stark white fluff, creating an almost supernatural glow. It’s eerie, unsettling, and…
…are those fangs?
“It’s a cat.” Abbott takes the keys for my place out of my hand, dropping them onto the round table. Flips on the rest of the lights as she goes deeper into the apartment.
“A cat. Right.” I side-eye the beast suspiciously, glued to my spot in the narrow entrance. “But why does it have laser beams coming from its beady eyes?”
It hasn’t blinked once, I’m sure of it.
Jesus Christ, this cat looks like Satan’s mistress.
“Oh give me a break. Desdemona doesn’t have lasers coming from her eyes. She’s sweet—look at her.” She points to her evil dictator cat, its tiny fur paws rooted to the floor, back arched. “An angel.”
“I am looking at her. She looks like a holy terror that wants to shred my face off with whatever talons are buried in her hair.”
“It’s called fur, and would you stop it? She’s as sweet as pie.”
Doubtful. The cat chooses that exact moment to hiss when I make eye contact.
Little fucker. “What’s its name, again?”
“Her name is Desdemona. I call her Desi for short.”
“Desdemona? That’s fucking horrible. Who came up with that?”
“Technically, her registered name is Duchess Desdemona McPurrs-A-Lot, but obviously that’s a mouthful.”
Obviously.
And who the hell registers their cat? Rich people, that’s who.
“Right, McPurrs-A-Lot. Purrs. Does that thing purr at all?”
“Of course she does, don’t you little furball, don’t you my precious angel kitty?” Abbott coos to the mangy feline glaring up at me, a satisfied sparkle in its left eye. “She’s just wary of strangers.”
I’m not convinced, taking another glance at the cat, who now has its white body firmly pressed against the wall at the end of the hall even as Abbott strokes its back.
This cat isn’t fucking around. It’s out to get me.
“Can I call it Lucifer instead of Desi?”
“No!”
“Captain McPussyPants?”
“Oh my God. No.”
“How about Desi McTerrorPuss?”
I like that last one, settling on the nickname even though I know it’s going to drive my cute little neighbor nuts—or perhaps because I know it will.
“Don’t you dare call her that.” She feigns outrage on the cat’s behalf. “It’s undignified.”
Right. Because I’m worried about that.
Not. “Pussy of Terror.”
Abbott tilts her head in thought. “Okay, see—now your names are starting to sound like rides at a theme park.”
“Pussy of Terror.” I laugh. “I dated a woman with one of those once. It was the worst ride I’ve ever been on,” I joke.
Abbott stares blankly, too classy to take the bait of my barb. “If that was a sex reference, I’m choosing to ignore it.”
“You do that.” It was definitely a sex reference, and I wish Abbott would bite at one of my jokes, because sparring with her is one of the most exciting things I’ve done all week. And it’s Sunday, which is saying a helluva lot.
My week sucked balls but seems to be ending on a high note—free breakfast and company included.
My eyes stray to the white cat now lurking in the corner.
“Do you ever live in fear that he’s going to maim you in your sleep?”
“She. Desi is a girl. I’ve referred to her as a she at least a dozen times.”
Doesn’t matter—that pussy is pure evil; I can see it in her tiny, black stare.
Angriest little pussy in the building, I’d wager, not including Abbott’s. Ha ha.
“It already hates me.”
Abbott laughs, a soft trill as she trails down the hallway and disappears into another room. I follow, cat glare beating on my back.
Fuck. I’m actually scared to look over my shoulder to see if it’s creeping along after us. Slinking, sneaking—whatever it is cats fucking do when they’re being shady.
I find my neighbor in a kitchen identical to mine, already prying open the refrigerator and leaning inside. She retrieves two bottles of water and hands one over without looking at me, digs through the crisper, and pulls out a brown paper bag with the name SmithStone’s on the side.
Speaking of fancy—SmithStone’s is one of the bougiest places in town. Expensive and exclusive for a small eatery, I’m pretty fucking sure they don’t cater, or deliver, and certainly not so early in the damn morning.
“Desi doesn’t hate you.” Abbott tears the bag open, breaking the gold sticker sealing it shut and peering inside. “And she won’t try to hurt you. She’s quite gentle.”
Debatable.
“She hasn’t attacked you yet.”
“Yet?” My heart rate accelerates. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Another laugh, and this one has Abbott bent at the waist in a giggling fit. “Sheesh, Brooks, you should see the look on your face. I’m kidding! The cat isn’t going to attack you. She’s way too lazy for that. Take a look at her collar—the little gold plate says Lazy AF.”
No way am I touching that thing.
Abbott prods me. “Oh don’t be a baby. Take a look.”
I shake my head. No. Nuh-uh.
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a big ol’ chickenshit?”
I cross my arms defiantly, like a petulant child. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
You couldn’t pay me to get within five feet of that pussy, and that’s a sentence I’ve never said in my entire life.
Abbott roots around in a cabinet and retrieves two plates; next come napkins and forks. She grabs the paper bag of food off the counter and heads in the direction of the living room at the back of her apartment. I know that’s where she’s going because it’s the same layout as my place.
I find her plopped down on a cream-colored couch, sitting cross-legged and grabbing the remote control for the television. “Wanna watch House Hunters?”
No, I’d rather poke my eye out with one of her fancy forks. “Sure.” I’m distracted by what’s out the window. She has a view of the park, and her windows are fucking ginormous, while mine are…normal.
“Why are your windows better than mine?”