Page 11 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

My face flushes with embarrassment.

“Maybe you should also give her a name.”

“The cat?” I hit my forehead with my palm. I’m officially the stupidest person in all of New York City. “Of course, you were talking about the cat.” I spring to my feet, ignoring the twinge of pain in my knee. “I’ve got it!” I exclaim, a sudden burst of inspiration hitting me.

“What?” Logan looks genuinely curious, his professional mask slipping to reveal a flicker of interest.

I throw a sideways glance at the little black nose of the beast in the cage. So many names spring to mind, most of which include words not suited to a lady. Or at least, based on howLogan keeps referring to it, I guess it’s a female. So I settle on something more proper. “Demon,” I tell him, meeting his eyes with a defiant chin lift. “I’m calling her Demon.”

“What kind of name is Demon?” he asks. Still, his voice has a hint of amusement.

I shrug, warming to my theme. “She’s my cat, right? I can call her whatever I want. Besides, have you looked at her? Black as night with those unnerving yellow eyes? She looks like a demonic creature.” I peer into the carrier again, and for a moment, I swear the cat’s expression changes from malevolence to something almost... calculating. “Plus, she found me when I was at my lowest. At a crossroads! If that’s not a demonic summoning, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re crazy,” Logan says, but his words have no heat. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a note of admiration in his voice.

“I’ve heard worse.” I walk up to him, close enough to catch a whiff of his aftershave. I take the bag from his hand, our fingers brushing, and stoop down to pick up the carrier with the little beast inside. The cat, Demon, hisses as if confirming her new name is appropriate.

At the door, I say, “So are we going or not?” and walk out without waiting for him to respond. He’s really fucked me, and not in the way I would have preferred. I have every right to be pissed off, even if a small part of me is stupidly grateful for his help.

Outside the clinic, I head for his SUV. My poor scooter is still in the back, leaning against the open back gate. I just hope it doesn’t fall out while we’re driving. I also hope that when I return it tomorrow to Tom, the manager of Little Caesars, I’ll still have a job.

My grandma always said you should never hope. Her motto was he who lives on hope dies desperate. I’ll admit she wasa strange woman, but I’m beginning to think she wasn’t that off the mark. I mean, I set out tonight hoping I could even make enough to grab takeout instead of another frozen dinner. Instead, I’m standing outside a vet clinic with a diabolical cat that hates me and the world’s biggest asshole about to take me home.

Yeah, maybe Grandma was right after all.

I climbout of the SUV, slamming the door behind me. Logan doesn’t get out.

As far as I’m concerned, I would be perfectly happy never to speak to him again, though I’m almost certain—don’t ask me why—that won’t be possible.

I walk toward my building when a door opens and closes behind me.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

God, how I’m starting to hate that voice.

“What?” I huff, turning around and throwing my arms into the air.

He’s a few yards behind me with the usual expression on his face, one corner of his mouth slightly raised.

With a long sigh, I cross my arms over my chest. “Now what?”

His eyes drop from my face. Following his gaze downward, I spot the carrier in his hand.

“Shit,” I grumble, striding toward him. Grabbing it, I grunt something vaguely resembling a “Thank you,” turn around, and head for the lobby door of my apartment building. He doesn’t follow me inside. Thank God for small mercies.

I head straight for the elevator, but my gaze lands on a hastily scrawled note taped to the elevator doors. Out of Service.

“Oh, come on! Fucking end of a fuck-tastic night!”

An elderly man collecting his mail glances over with a disapproving frown. My apologetic smile morphs into a grimace. With a resigned sigh, I trudge toward the stairwell. Fourth floor. Only four flights. It could be worse.

By the time I reach my floor, my thighs burn, and I gasp for breath. The cat, meanwhile, has gone berserk inside the carrier, thrashing and catapulting herself from one side to the other with surprising force.

My trembling fingers fish the keys from my pocket. As soon as I find it, I slide it into the lock, giving it the special wiggle-and-shove required to make the ancient mechanism cooperate.

The door swings open with a familiar creak, and I step inside, breathing a bone-deep sigh of relief once I’m finally within the sanctuary of my apartment. It’s not much, just a cramped two-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and radiators that clank as though they’re possessed, but it’s mine. Or at least it’s mine until the landlord makes good on his threats to evict me for being late with the rent.

After closing the door and engaging all three locks—this is still New York, after all—I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the wobbly coat rack by the door. The worn denim slides from my shoulders, taking with it some of the tension from my encounter with Logan.

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