Chapter Twenty-Two: Cat-Tastic Party
chapter twenty-two
CAT-TASTIC PARTY
Kitty
S
o I know this is probably last minute, and it isn’t the dinner date I keep promising I’m going to take you on, but uh . . . one of the guys on the team decided to throw a Halloween party, and I wondered if maybe you’d be interested in coming. It’s okay if that’s not your thing, and you can say no, but I figured I’d throw it out there. No pressure.” Miles sounds nervous, and I bet that if I could see him, I’d see him fidgeting with something. Probably a pen.
I’m currently standing on the screened-in back porch, trying to get Prince Francis to stop impersonating Spider-Man. He’s splayed out on the window screen, desperate to get to the squirrel sitting on a tree branch less than fifty feet away. The squirrel is clearly taunting Prince Francis, and while it’s somewhat hilarious, I don’t want to replace any more screens.
It’s a real conundrum, because Prince Francis loves it out here
on the porch, but that squirrel has been playing hide-and-seek with him since he moved in last week.
“A Halloween party?”
Hattie, who is sitting in one of the chairs, sipping coffee and reading for one of her courses, looks up from her textbook and starts mouthing things at me.
I ignore her.
“Yeah. It’s a costume party. I guess it’s mandatory to dress up. Apparently, last year anyone who didn’t got slimed.”
“Slimed?”
“Well, it wasn’t actual slime, but it was neon foam. And it stained people’s skin until they showered. Or maybe it took a few days for the green to wear off. I’m sure there are pictures on social media about it. I’m not really doing a very good job of selling this, am I?”
“But if I wear a costume, I don’t have to worry about the whole neon foam slime situation?”
“No. Not if you wear a costume. Does this mean you’re interested in coming?”
“Sure. I think it sounds fun.” And I’d like to see Miles with his colleagues. His friend Josh is nice, and while Parker has more energy and ego than I’m used to, Austin was down to earth.
“Great. Okay. That’s awesome. I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday.”
“Should we coordinate our costumes?” I ask.
“Hmm. Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you have any suggestions?”
Hattie starts waving her hands around in the air.
“Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you? Or maybe you have an idea?”
“I’m not sure, but last year Josh went as a high schooler, and they tossed him in the pool because he didn’t put in enough effort. Granted, he just threw on old track pants and a too-small shirt and borrowed his niece’s kindergarten backpack. So . . . it should probably be better than that.”
This is starting to sound a bit like a raucous party. “Hmm. Okay. Well, let’s think about it and toss out some ideas and see if we can’t find something that works.”
I end the call, and Hattie claps her hands excitedly. “I know exactly what you should be!”
“I don’t know about this.”
“You look awesome. Now hold still so I can finish your eyes. This is the tricky part.”
When my sister suggested that I dress up as Catwoman for Halloween, I immediately thought it was an awesome idea. I mean, how much more perfect could it get? Kitty, the Kitty Whisperer, dressed up as Catwoman. It seemed like a no-brainer. And obviously perfect. But that was before she poured me into a non-breathable, skin-tight zippered bodysuit.
“There’s a lot of cleavage happening.”
“You’re a woman with boobs. And you’re Catwoman. You
need cleavage. Miles is going to love this,” Hattie assures me. “You’re a smoke show.”
“Have you seen some of those hockey players’ wives? They look like models. Some of them even
are
models.” I don’t know why I’m suddenly self-conscious.
“Those are social media posts. They smooth everything out and make them look perfect. They’re humans just like you and me.”
“You look like a supermodel, too,” I gripe.
Hattie keeps up with the eyeliner. “Just wait until Miles sees you. Then you’ll forget all about being self-conscious. I promise.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I mutter, then go back to sitting still so Hattie can finish my eye makeup.
When she gets to the lipstick portion, I try to push her away. “Ow! It feels like you’re putting cayenne pepper on my lips! What is this?”
“Can you stop, please? It’s a lip stain. You don’t have to worry about reapplying once it’s set, but if you keep moving around, I’ll have to start over.”
I stop moving and let her do her thing because I don’t want more lip torture than necessary. When I try to pop my lips, they get stuck together. “What is it? Some kind of glue?”
“No. Like I said, it’s a lip stain. Keep them parted. I’m not done yet.” She swipes over them with some clear gel stuff. I hope it’s not like a finish coat for nails, otherwise this is going to be a seriously uncomfortable night for my lips.
A few minutes and a couple of plucked eyebrow hairs later,
she lets me look in a mirror for the first time since I sat in her computer chair. “Ta-da! What do you think?” She props her fists on her hips and smiles widely, clearly impressed with herself.
I have to admit, I’m equally impressed. I pucker my lips. They’re bright red. They look full and pouty and kissable. “I look like me with a filter.”
“You look like you, but with makeup,” Hattie replies. She hands me the clear tube of lip gloss. After she put it on my lips they felt fine. Like my lips, not painted fingernails.
“I guess no making out in the car before the party,” I muse.
“Oh you can totally make out. That’s the whole point of a lip stain. You just have to remember to reapply the gloss regularly and that stuff will stay put all night long, even with make-out sessions.”
“Seriously?”
“Super seriously. It’ll make it through an entire blow job. Try to wipe it off,” Hattie says.
I rub my fingers over my lips and glance down at them. There’s nothing on them but gloss. The color is still on my lips. “What is this stuff?”
“It’s magic. That’s all you need to know. Now put your shoes on so I can take some pictures before Miles gets here. He’s supposed to pick you up in fifteen, but that guy has no chill when it comes to you, so he’ll probably be early.”
I gather my bag, which of course is cat themed. And I make sure my cat ear headband isn’t askew as I zip up my boots. They have three-inch heels, which I’m not accustomed to wearing, but
they complete the outfit and wearing flats with a shiny pleather full-body suit would be a terrible fashion statement and ruin this costume, according to Hattie. It’s hard to argue when my legs look like they go on for days.
She poses me and takes a ton of photos, airdropping them to me immediately. “You need to post on your Kitty Whisperer account. It’s too perfect a costume.”
I bite my lip, grateful for the lip stain and its ability to stay put. “I don’t know if I should. It’s not really business related.”
“You’re Catwoman on Halloween. How is that not business related?”
“Parker O’Toole, one of the guys on the team, took some photos when we were moving his mom’s stuff, and I guess he made a reel out of them, or maybe he has a social media person who does that. Anyway, he tagged me, so I posted it to my reels because he added a clip of Bumbles to it, but there were some comments on it about staying in my lane and posting authentic content.”
Hattie rolls her eyes. “There are always going to be haters, Kitty. You can’t let them dictate what you post and when.”
“They just don’t usually comment on my posts like that.”
“Your following is growing. It was one post, and it’s Halloween. Grab Prince Francis and we’ll post one about you and your sidekick, how about that?”
She takes a few pictures and a short video of Prince Francis doing what he does best, pretending he’s my scarf while biting my ear. I post that one with a happy Halloween message and head downstairs to wait for Miles.
He arrives four minutes early. He’s dressed as Batman, obviously. It’s a bit ironic, considering our beginning, when I’d pegged him for a cat-hating jerk. I smile as I take in his costume. The torso is made to look like rippling abs. His smile slides off his face like an egg off a greasy pan. “Holy fu—” He doesn’t finish the curse as his gaze lifts over my shoulder and his voice rises two octaves. “Oh, hello, Lucile and Hattie. It’s nice to see you again.”
I glance over my shoulder. My mother and sister are peeking around the door frame. They look like part of some cartoon comedy sketch with the way my sister’s chin rests on top of my mother’s head. “Seriously? Can you please have some chill?”
“We need a picture! You two look perfect together!” My mother rushes down the hall to the living room while Hattie pulls her phone out of her back pocket.
“You don’t need a picture,” I tell Hattie.
“I wouldn’t mind some photographic evidence of this,” Miles replies.
I arch a brow.
He lifts one padded, cape-covered shoulder. “You look amazing, and I definitely need a new screensaver.”
I wrap my arm around his waist, and he slings his over my shoulder.
“This feels a lot like prom. Or what I think prom would have felt like if I’d gone.”
“You didn’t go to prom?” Miles asks.
“Stop making weird faces and smile, Kitty!” Hattie takes a few pictures, and then my mom comes out with a Polaroid camera
and her phone and takes a bunch of her own. Finally, I’m allowed to grab my purse and escape. I’m grateful that my mom and sister do not stand on the front steps and wave as we pull out of the driveway. Instead, they stand in the kitchen, faux leaning against the counter, pretending they’re making tea when they’re really watching us leave.
“I need to know more about this. You didn’t go to prom? Why not?”
“I skipped it. Me and my friend Kat went out for ice cream sundaes and then hung out at the local cat shelter instead. Prom wasn’t my scene, and it wasn’t Kat’s either.” I answer the unasked question I know is coming. “Was there a little FOMO? Sure. But we stopped by one of the after parties to see what the fuss was all about on our way home from the shelter.”
“And? Did you regret the decision?”
“Nope. Half the girls were either crying or barfing, and all the guys were sloppy drunk. We decided we’d made the right choice and went home feeling satisfied with our decision.”
“I feel like this is the glossed-over version of the story.”
I give him the side-eye. It’s the abridged version, but the rest isn’t important, and the embarrassing parts don’t need airtime. “Did you go to prom?”
“I did. I took my girlfriend at the time. At the end of the night, she was one of the barfing and crying girls, and since I was the designated driver, I got to watch all my friends get sloppy drunk and then pray no one would hurl in the car on the way home.”
“Sounds like a bust.”
Miles shrugs. “It wasn’t the most ideal scenario, but Josh was there, and after everyone passed out, we went swimming in his parents’ pool and ate his older brother’s edibles, which made up for all the crying and puking I’d dealt with earlier.”
“If you’d skipped out on prom you could have gone directly to the fun stuff, though.”
“My story wouldn’t be quite so interesting, or nostalgic.” He arches a brow. “Who is this Kat person anyway? And is it coincidence or purposeful that you’re Kitty and you have a friend named Kat? And how often did people call you Kitty Kat when you were together?” Miles asks.
I chuckle. “People called us that all the time. The coincidence of our names was the icebreaker in our grade nine drama class. After that, we were basically an extension of each other through high school.”
“And you’re still friends now?”
“Oh yeah. She owns Kat’s Cat Café. I have an office in there that I use for paperwork and scheduling, and in exchange I help Kat with her social media posts. Which I need to remember to do this weekend. Anyway, the café is exactly what it sounds like: a coffee shop full of cats you can hang out with while you drink tea or coffee. It’s pretty popular.”
“We have a dog café close to the park, and I think maybe there’s a cat café close by, but I haven’t really paid attention since I only have Wilfred.” Miles taps the steering wheel.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there is one. Doggy treat bakeries have been popular for a while, but cat cafés are starting to gain
traction. If you weren’t at risk of exploding by going in one, I’d offer to take you.”
“I’ve only had that one reaction, and I have more tests coming up in a few weeks since my allergy to cats isn’t bad enough to put me in the hospital.”
“So they still haven’t figured out what you’re allergic to?” That makes me nervous, because it means it could happen again.
“Not yet, no. I’ve got the EpiPen with me until we figure it out.”
I tap my lips. “Hmm. I wonder what you reacted to.”
Miles shrugs. “Dunno. They told me to track my diet to see if it could be food related, but all I’ve deduced so far is that I eat a lot of salt and vinegar chips. And fries. Lots of fries.”
I poke him in the side. “It doesn’t show.”
“One of these days it’ll catch up with me, and my two-pack will become a zero-pack.”
I laugh. “You have at least a four-pack.”
“Tonight, I have a full eight-pack though.” He pats the foam abs that cover his torso, then turns right into a subdivision.
It’s in an estate subdivision outside of the city. The houses here are on huge lots, set back from the road, giving them ample room to decorate for Halloween. And decorate they do. “Oh wow, this is amazing. These houses are incredible!”
We’ve lived in the same house since I was born. It’s a quaint two-story, three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood in a small town about forty-five minutes outside of the city—without traffic, anyway. And there’s always traffic. It suits the three of us just fine, but this is a whole different level of house.
These are designed to be beautiful and to wow people with their long, winding driveways covered in interlocking stone, manicured lawns and gardens, and grand front doors. And every house on the street is decorated for Halloween. I don’t just mean there are a couple of fake RIP headstones stuck in the lawn with a skeleton trying to claw its way out of the earth.
One lawn has a carriage drawn by skeleton horses, driven by a skeleton wearing a suit and a top hat. Another has a group of witches in front of a cauldron that’s somehow lit up from the inside, casting a ghastly green glow over the witch faces.
“A bunch of the guys on the team live here, and they go all out for the holidays. There are a lot of families with kids, so they make it exciting for them.”
“I can see that.” I can only imagine what the collective income would be in a neighborhood like this.
Less than a minute later we pull into a circular driveway lined with cars. Like all the others, this one is also decorated for the holiday, but instead of being ghastly and full of scary things and skeletons, it’s whimsical and cute. There’s a girl skeleton with a bow in her hair walking a skeleton dog. Friendly ghosts hang from the trees, and spiderwebs with adorable spiders span the front porch.
My nerves kick in as Miles parks the car and hops out. His cape flares impressively as he rushes around the hood to open the passenger door for me. And my hormones flare when he holds out his hand and helps me out. He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he pulls me closer, and I tip my chin up.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve said this already, but you look amazing. Not that you don’t always look amazing, because you do. But I’m going to be totally honest. As a teen I had a serious crush on Catwoman, like posters on my walls beside my bed kind of crush, so this is like a fantasy come to life.”
“Batman was always my favorite superhero.” I run my hand over his foam pecs.
“Oh really?”
“I loved that he was a regular guy who wanted to make the world a better place and was a total badass doing it.” Miles is wearing the Batman mask, so only the bottom half of his face is visible. It draws attention to his strong chin and his full, very kissable lips.
His gaze darts down.
“I’d really like to kiss you, but I don’t want to mess up your lipstick.”
“It doesn’t come off, so you can absolutely kiss me without us both looking like clowns gone wrong.”
“Really?”
“Really, really.” I press my lips to the back of my hand and show him.
“What is this sorcery?” He dips down and presses his lips gently to mine, then pulls back and rubs his thumb over his lips. It comes away with nothing but gloss residue. He comes back in for another kiss, this time with tongue, but again it doesn’t last. He backs up enough to check the state of my mouth before he claims it again. This time I end up pressed against the
side of the car. His thigh finds its way between my legs, so I part them and hook one around his and loop my arms around his neck.
I don’t know how long we stand there, grinding on each other, but the only reason we break apart is because the flash of headlights coming down the driveway tells us we’re not alone. Miles does some rearranging in his spandex pants, and he grumbles about being glad he has a cape to cover his issue, and that maybe we should make a brief appearance so we can go back to his place and pick this up where we left off.
I’m not opposed to that plan. I prefer small, intimate gatherings where I know most of the people over big parties. And if there’s an animal in the house, I can often be found sitting with the four-legged creatures, since they’re always riveted by my conversation skills.
The other car pulls in behind Miles and cuts the lights. A guy gets out of the front seat, and a woman unfurls from the passenger side. Her hair is long and dark, and she looks like she just stepped out of the pages of a magazine. She’s clearly Belle in her huge yellow dress. It’s so elaborate she reminds me of a cake topper. Which means the huge, burly man is supposed to be Prince Adam. He’s wearing a suit, and his longish hair is slicked back.
The man looks between me and Miles, his brows pulling together as his eyes drop to the license plate on the car. His brows pop. “Thorn?”
“Hey, Beavin. Hi, Teresa, you two look great.” Miles tries to tuck a hand in his pocket as they approach, but he doesn’t have
any pockets, so he props it on his hip for a second before he drops it to his side.
I’m still trying to figure out if Beavin is a nickname or a real name or a last name.
Beavin claps Miles on the shoulder, then pats his foam chest. “You been working out, man?”
“Nah, temporary ab implants.” He runs a hand over them, then puts his arm around my shoulder. “Kitty, this is Mark Beavin. He plays defense. And this is his wife, Teresa. She runs a not-for-profit company that pairs children with support dogs.”
“Oh wow. That’s amazing! It’s so nice to meet you both.” I try to wipe my hand on my hip, but my outfit is pleather, so it doesn’t absorb the sweat at all.
She doesn’t say anything about my slightly damp palm as she shakes my hand and tells me it’s great to meet me. “You two are so cute! Have you and Miles been dating long? Why haven’t I seen you at a game?” Teresa hooks her arm with mine and guides me toward the house, leaving the guys trailing behind us.
“We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks,” I explain.
“Well, we definitely need to get you out to a game. It’s so much fun. And we have a box, and seats on the ice, so you can pick where you want to watch the action from.”
“That sounds amazing.”
The second we’re in the doors, a group of women converges on Teresa. It sounds a bit like a flock of chickens clucking at each other. And not in a bad way, just in an excited to see each other way. It’s clear that they spend a lot of time together and
that they’re good friends. I wonder what that must be like, to have a husband or boyfriend who travels half the year. I imagine it could get lonely, and that part of the reason they’re all so close is because they need the support of their friends to manage those away-game stretches.
One of the women hands me a drink, and Teresa introduces me to the wives and girlfriends, all dressed up as princesses. I feel like I missed the memo in my Catwoman costume. And I stand out more than I’d like to.
Another group arrives. These guys look younger, and none of them have brought dates. They stop to say hi to the women surrounding me, complimenting them on their costumes. Again, I’m struck by how close the team is, and how they include Miles like he’s one of them. There’s a family-like bond.
Hattie played team sports, but I hadn’t been good at them, so I stuck to clubs where getting hit by balls and potentially disappointing teammates wasn’t a problem.
Parker inserts himself into the group. He’s dressed up as . . . I’m not sure, but he’s shirtless and wearing a kilt. Maybe he’s a highland romance novel cover model. He gives me a once-over, his gaze lingering for a moment on my cleavage. “And who’s this?”
Teresa, who is standing beside me, links her arm with mine. “This is Kitty, Miles’s girlfriend.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Kitty? Oh shit. I didn’t recognize you. Maybe I should have, though. Bomb-ass costume, girl. Kitty, the Kitty Whisperer, dressed up as Catwoman.” He gives me a lopsided grin while nodding his appreciation.
“Wait a second. You’re Kitty, the Kitty Whisperer.” Teresa’s hold on my arm tightens.
And suddenly I’m bombarded with questions. Half the women in the circle apparently follow me on social media. And that picture Parker posted when we were moving Miles’s mother’s stuff got a lot of traction. My follower count has gone up by a good ten thousand or more since then, and I’ve gotten a couple new sponsorship opportunities. At first, I was shocked by the sheer volume of new followers, and of course there were a number of messages from guys making lewd comments. Which I expected, because I’m aware the name of my cat-sitting company is a euphemism. I didn’t make the connection until after the fact, and by then I was already established, and it was too late to change it.
Over the years I’ve gotten used to combing my posts for the juvenile kitty comments and deleting them, or responding with a polite redirect, letting them know that I’m not
that
kind of kitty whisperer and asking if they talk to their mothers with that mouth. That’s usually enough to shut them up. But I didn’t expect the mean ones about playing the game and elevating my social status with NHL players a decade younger than me. Maybe I should have, though. People jumped to conclusions that because Parker had his arm around me that I’d automatically jumped into bed with him. The women commenting were the worst, and extra catty.
There’s a sudden flurry of excitement as the women surround me for a group selfie. And of course, because I seem to be a divining rod for all four-legged animals, an adorable, chonky pug
lumbers over to introduce himself. He jumps up, his paws on my thighs, and sniffs my crotch while we’re in the midst of another round of photos.
“Barnaby! Where are your manners! You know better than to do that!” Sadie, the host of the party, scolds him, while pulling him away. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s how they say hello.” Big dogs jumping up on me can be a bit much, but this guy is too small to knock me over.
A black-and-white tuxedo cat comes trotting down the stairs, almost the same size as the pug, probably because he heard his four-legged housemate getting scolded and wants to watch the show. He plunks himself down beside Barnaby, who’s busy looking very guilty for his behavior.
“And who is this little guy?”
“That’s Cleveland. These two are best friends or total enemies, depending on the time of day,” she informs me.
I’m asked all sorts of questions about my cat-sitting business, how I got started, how I’ve managed to make it a full-time job. I discover that a lot of them are involved with volunteer and charity organizations, many of them animal related. All of a sudden I’m being offered introductions and new opportunities I never could have imagined. And all for agreeing to come to a party. I try not to let the comments on that post Parker put up bother me, but I worry there will be more if I accept some of these generous offers. Although the potential benefit of being able to take care of more kitties in need probably outweighs the negative comments.
Miles sidles up next to me and apologizes for taking so long.
I smile up at him. “It’s okay. I’m having fun.”
Parker pops his head between ours and holds out his phone, snapping a quick selfie.
“Hey, careful what you post, okay?” Miles tells him.
“Sir, yes sir.” Parker salutes him and moves on to the next couple to do the same thing.
I frown, and he drops his head so his lips are at my ear. “Everyone thought he was dating you after that last post, and he’s getting himself a reputation for being a ladies’ man,” Miles explains. “I just don’t want any more negative attention for you.”
I turn into him and tip my chin up. “I can handle a little negative attention.”
His smile turns wry, and his hand settles on my hip. “I know you
can
, but it doesn’t mean you should have to.”
I push up on my toes and kiss the bottom of his chin. “I need to use the ladies room.”
“Can I get you anything?” Miles asks.
“A water would be good.” That last drink was strong, and I’m feeling the effects. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He dips down to kiss me, the hard plastic of his nose poking me in the cheek.
Someone snaps a photo, cooing about how cute we are.
I’m accustomed to being called cute. I’m not particularly tall, and most of the time I wear cat cartoon–inspired shirts.
I excuse myself from the group and disappear down the hall in search of the bathroom. On the way back to the living room
I notice Barnaby and Cleveland sitting by the sliding glass door, looking like they want to be on the other side of it.
I check with Sadie to see if they’re allowed outside.
“Oh yes. Give me a minute, I’ll take them out. It’s getting close to Barnaby’s bedtime, and we always give him one last run around the yard,” she says.
“I can do it for you. I really don’t mind.” As fun as this party is, I could use a few minutes before I dive back into being social.
Her gaze shifts from me to her pets and their swishing tails. “You’re our guest. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Honestly, I would love to,” I assure her.
Her husband, Matt, pops his head in the kitchen and asks where he can find lemon slices. “Give me a second and I’ll cut up another one.” She bites her lip, then says to me, “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Totally paws-itive.” I wink. “You take care of your guests, and I’ll take care of the fur babies.”
She squeezes my arm. “You’re amazing, Kitty. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I leave her in the kitchen and grab a poop bag from the roll by the door, tuck it into my sleeve since this costume has no pockets, and let Barnaby and Cleveland outside. Barnaby runs across the deck into the expansive yard, which lights up as he trots across it, tongue lolling happily. Cleveland flops down on the deck and starts grooming his stomach.
A few seconds later Barnaby comes bounding back toward the deck, a Frisbee twice the size of his head in his mouth. He
skids to a stop in front of me, tail and butt wagging with his excitement.
“Do you want to have a little play?” I ask.
He drops the Frisbee at my feet and barks once, butt still shimmying back and forth on the deck. Cleveland pauses in his grooming to give him a disdainful look, then returns to his task.
I pick up the Frisbee, which Barnaby playfully tries to grab from me, but when I manage to free it from his teeth, he prances around a couple of times and then plunks his butt on the deck.
I throw the Frisbee, and he rushes across the lawn, jumping into the air to catch it before it hits the ground. I know I shouldn’t be gone long, or Miles will wonder where I’ve disappeared to. I’m not used to huge crowds, or this many people knowing who I am. Sure, I have a lot of followers on social media, and people in my town know who I am, but this is a different level of attention. It makes me wonder how intense it must be for the players, since they have so many fans who would recognize their faces.
I toss the Frisbee again and wait for Barnaby to bring it back. Cleveland jumps up on the railing and slinks across it, his focus on the tree that hangs over the edge of the deck.
I hear the taunting chatter of an animal, and Cleveland’s tail flicks back and forth. Barnaby drops the Frisbee on the deck and trots over to Cleveland, who is still as a statue, apart from his swishing tail. Barnaby whimpers, and Cleveland lets out a low growl.
I decide it’s time to take them inside. The last thing I need is Cleveland trying to scale a tree or Barnaby chasing down a
poor animal and using it as a chew toy. Not that he could do a lot of damage, but no one likes to round out a party with a dead squirrel.
I open the sliding door and call both of their names, but they either ignore me or can’t hear me over the chatter of voices inside the house. I whistle to draw their attention, but Cleveland’s back arches and his tail puffs up.
“Crap.” Whatever is in the tree has them totally entranced.
The sound of an animal scrambling in the tree is followed by the rustle of branches, and then something lands on the railing and skitters onto the deck. Cleveland yowls and hisses, and Barnaby barks, which scares the bejesus out of the animal—and me.
As the critter bumbles toward me, I realize it’s a raccoon. And not just any raccoon, but a baby one. Disoriented, it runs toward the sliding door. I dive for it, but I’m wearing heels, and I trip over my own feet, landing on the deck in a heap. Cleveland is the second four-legged creature through the door. I manage to snag Barnaby’s collar before he can launch himself after them.
His bark gets cut off abruptly and he jerks back. I feel bad, but a murder scene in their very lovely, very light gray and navy living room would certainly get me uninvited to future events.
Shouts and screams can be heard from inside the house. And despite how small he is, I’m struggling to keep my hold on Barnaby.
“Can I get a hand?” I shout, but I’m not sure I can be heard
over the ruckus inside the house. Parker notices me struggling with the dog and comes to my aid.
“Can you hold him? There’s a raccoon loose in the house!”
“Holy shit. Yeah.”
He picks up the squirming dog, and I slip inside, closing the door to keep them outside so Barnaby can’t join the hunting party. I glance around the room. There are women in dresses screaming and guys with their arms held wide. Someone has a laundry basket, and Austin has a pool cue.
I head for the fray.
But the chase isn’t on the floor anymore.
The baby raccoon has scaled the curtains and is sitting on top of the rod, and Cleveland has jumped onto the sideboard. It’s clear his plan is to get to the raccoon however possible.
I push my way through the crowd, assessing how best to corral the raccoon while doing the least potential damage to their beautiful, very expensively decorated house.
Miles, who is at the edge of the group, comes rushing over. “What are you doing? That raccoon could be rabid!”
“I can handle this. I’ll be fine.” I glance at the terrified raccoon, hissing down at Cleveland, who hisses rights back. He’s scared, but not dangerous. Still, I don’t want to deal with a raccoon bite or any potential diseases.
I search the room for the guy with the laundry basket and the one with the pool cue. I need to act quickly, before this already bad situation gets worse.
“You! Laundry basket guy and Austin, I need your help.” I feel
bad that I can’t remember Laundry Basket Guy’s name, but there’s a lot of pressure, so hopefully he’s not offended. I turn back to Miles. “And I need your cape and a boost.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Just trust me.” I pull the tie on his cape, then grab onto his shoulders. “I need a lift.”
He doesn’t question me, maybe realizing there isn’t much time before Cleveland goes after the masked intruder.
Laundry Basket Guy and Austin converge on us. “Miles is going to give me a boost. When I’m up, you poke the raccoon with the cue, Austin, and you”—I point to Laundry Basket Guy—“hold the basket under me. I’m going to use Miles’s cape to get him safely in the basket.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” Austin asks.
“Trust me, it will,” I say with conviction I don’t feel, but at least I sound confident. If it doesn’t work, I’m probably never going to be able to attend another party with Miles’s team again. But if it does work, no one will need a rabies shot after this, and it will make one hell of a story.
I grab Miles by the shoulders, and he makes a bridge with his hands. I set one foot into his palms and grip his shoulders while he hoists me up. The plastic nose of his mask pokes me in the crotch. I don’t have time to focus on the fact that my lady business is in his face, because the moment I’m in the air, I release his shoulders and get the cape ready. Austin gets into position, and Laundry Basket Guy does the same.
“Poke him!” I call out.
Austin follows the order, and when the raccoon jumps, I cover him with the cape, wrapping it around his tiny, flailing body. Miles must not expect the sudden movement, because it sets him off balance. I drop the cape-wrapped raccoon in the laundry basket, which someone else promptly covers with a pillow before Miles and I go tumbling to the floor.
His nose stabs me in the crotch, and I roll to the side, curling into a ball and cupping my girl parts, as Cleveland hurtles over me. There’s a flurry of activity and a lot of yelling to use the side door and not the sliding one as Laundry Basket Guy rushes across the room with a hissing, angry, and terrified raccoon bumping around in there.
“Kitty? Are you okay?” Miles’s face appears. He’s crouched on the floor beside me, his cheek against the hardwood, just like mine.
“Your nose stabbed me in the crotch.” I accept his offered hand and stop protectively cupping myself since there’s still a huge group of partygoers standing around us in a semicircle.
“I’m sorry. I’d offer to kiss it better right now, but that would be awkward with all of these people watching.”
I chuckle and blush.
“Rain check, though?”
“Absolutely.”
I let him pull me to my feet, and his teammates break into a round of applause and whistling. I brush it off as no big deal. I’m not sure most of them realize it was me who let the raccoon into the house in the first place.
We stay for a while longer, but once the adrenaline starts to leave my body, the fatigue that comes with this much socializing, plus the raccoon drama, sets in. I’m envious of the way Cleveland and Barnaby are curled up together in his dog bed in the living room, oblivious to the party.
Miles and I say our goodbyes, and we get in his car and head to his apartment.
“I’m sorry about your cape.” It ended up in the trash since the raccoon peed and pooped all over it.
“Don’t apologize. It was worth losing a cape to see you be such a badass. You totally saved the day.” He kisses my knuckle. “I can’t wait to get you back to my place and out of your Catwoman suit.”
“Or maybe we should leave them on,” I suggest, sort of joking, sort of not.
“Maybe we should,” he agrees.
We make it back to his place in record time.