Me: Great. The cat’s going to play hide-and-seek. As long as it isn’t planning a sneak attack, I think I can suffer through three seconds of checking on her bowl.
Abbott: If you’re tempted to play with her, I won’t be mad.
Me: THAT’S not happening. Dream on.
Abbott: I figured, but just had to say it. I keep forgetting you’re scared of a ten-pound cat.
Me: I’M NOT SCARED OF THE CAT!
Even though I am scared of the cat, just a little. I don’t trust the fucking thing. It looks like that damn cat from the movie where all the cats are evil and try to take over the world, whatever that stupid movie is called.
Abbott: Thanks, Brooks. I owe you one. Next time you need someone to grab your mail or whatever, I’m your girl.
If I ever went anywhere, yeah, that would be swell.
Me: Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the key and let myself in this afternoon.
Abbott: That’s perfect!!! Thanks!
I plunk the phone on my desk, upside down so there are no further distractions, and add Check on Desi the Terror Pussy to my ongoing list of shit to get done tonight.
Cat. Dinner. Laundry. Basketball game on TV.
Big night in, most likely with a set of blueprints and a bowl of popcorn.
No women.
No sex.
No distractions.
I stay productive most of the day and, at roughly three twenty-five, look at the clock then the side of my hand, which is covered in lead from sliding my fist over pencil markings. I push back my stool.
Stomach grumbling, I quietly put my things away, storing my expensive measuring devices and writing tools, and click off the light on my drafting table.
Grab my coat and give the room a once-over. Nothing amiss or out of place, I flip the overhead light off and call it an early day; I have a cat to check on.
Cutting out early isn’t the norm for me, and a bit of guilt churns in my gut as I pass Taylor’s desk.
“Oooh, going somewhere? A hot date you have to shave for?”
God this dude is so random.
“It’s just been one of those days, so I’m checking out. I’ll finish this up at home.” I give the rolled paper, stored inside a hard tube and tucked under my arm, a solid pat. “Game is on tonight and I have some errands to run first.”
“What kind of errands?”
My brows go up. What kind of errands does he think I’m doing? “The normal kind?”
“Like grocery shopping?”
“No.”
Taylor narrows his eyes. “So like, the post office?”
Huh? “No.”
“Grabbing your dry cleaning?”
“No.” I sigh, setting down the plastic storage tube. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just curious.”
That’s caring. “If you really must know, I have to check in on my neighbor’s cat.”
He sits back in his rolling desk chair and crosses his arms. “You’re running home two hours earlier than usual to check on a cat?” Now he’s looking at his fingernails. “Don’t cats usually fend for themselves or whatever?”
I thought so, too, but if Abbott wants me to check on McTerrorPussy and it only takes a few seconds, what’s the harm in helping her out?
“It’s not your average cat.”
Taylor considers this information. Then, “Wait—is this your neighbor neighbor, or just a neighbor?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? “It’s a neighbor.”
“Is this neighbor a man?”
Jesus, the way he says man makes me shake my head. “No.”
“Is this neighbor a hot little brunette?”
Sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Doesn’t she have, like, thirty servants to babysit the cat?”
“Because she’s from a wealthy family? Her apartment is the same floor plan as mine.”
With a better view, nicer appliances, more expensive furniture, and artwork on the walls that’s probably authentic and not a bunch of knockoffs from a discount store.
Other than that…
Our shit is mostly the same.
Mostly.
“So you’re racing home to watch her cat?”
“No, I’m going home because I’m tired and can work from my living room, and the basketball game is on tonight.”
A pen materializes from nowhere and gets tapped against Taylor’s pointy, intrusive chin. “You better be careful or you’re going to end up falling in love with this girl.”
That—that makes me laugh out loud, and the sound reverberates through the reception area with its polished marble flooring and tile walls.
“Take a picture of her apartment for me, would you?” Taylor’s request has me scowling.
“What the fuck, dude—no.”
“Bring me a lock of hair! Maybe I can become the next Margolis heir if I clone her.”
That makes absolutely no fucking sense, but oddly enough, I kind of get where he’s trying to go with that whole idea.
“Bye Taylor.” I walk to the elevator bank and punch the down button with my knuckle.
“Take a mental picture at least. I’m going to have a million questions tomorrow—don’t disappoint me.”
“I’m sure I will.” I’m sure Abbott Margolis has had people betraying her confidence her entire life; I don’t need to be tacked on to the end of that list. Wouldn’t want to be.
It’s not that I’m feeling protective of her, but she’s a nice girl. Clearly wants to fly under the radar, and I don’t actually give a crap how or where she was raised as long as she acts like a decent human being.
Which she does.
So, I’m checking on her cat, following a twenty-five minute commute from the office.
After presenting my driver’s license to the newbie manning the front desk in the lobby, I grab the key to her place and dump my work in my own place.
Change out of my work clothes, too, throwing on sweats, an NBA T-shirt, and flops. Pad across the carpeted hallway and let myself into Abbott’s apartment.
The lock unlatches easily, and I turn the gold knob. Push the door slowly—not sure why. I know she’s not home, but for some reason it feels like I’m about to invade her privacy. Her inner sanctum? It’s weird, so I move slowly, not rushing.
I also kick my flops off because entering her place with shoes on also feels wrong?
Whatever.
“Here kitty, kitty.”
Why the hell am I calling the cat? All I need to do is check its water bowl.
Wait—where is the water bowl?
I make my way toward the kitchen, head peering around the wall to the cozy galley, metal feeding bowls tucked neatly beneath the lower cabinets. One is full of food, the other…
Is empty.
A wet mess beside it.
Well shit, the little bastard did empty its water bowl—which has an engraved plate on it that reads Duchess Desi.
Groaning, I grab the hand towel that’s hanging from the stove and lower myself to the ground so I can soak up the water. Just as I start swishing the terrycloth around on the sleek tile floor…