Page 2 of Waiting on Life
His words jolted me out of my fantasy world, and I realized we were still in the lobby of the apartment building. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, it’s fine. I just gotta….”
Then those eyes I found so distracting widened as he did a slow, lingering perusal of me. At six five, two hundred pounds of somewhat solid muscle—my taste for craft beer gave me a bit of a gut—and covered in tattoos, I figured he wasn’t too pleased to see who’d had their hands on him. Not that I could blame him, of course.
“Yeah, well,” he started, then cleared his throat, snatched up his mail, and jumped to his feet. “I should go. Thanks for….” He fluttered a hand. “Whatever.”
The bell for the elevator chimed, and Mrs. Kaminski sauntered out, her dog, Riley, in tow. Kyle bolted for the open door, got in, and stabbed a button. He stood there, his gaze locked with mine, until the slow-closing mirrored door finally shut. I sighed as I collected my own mail. I closed Kyle’s mailbox door, then my own. I thumbed through my envelopes and noticed one of the letters I had was addressed to Kyle. Of course, being the good-natured sort I am, I knew I should return it to him. I mean, it was the only neighborly thing to do. Scooping the rest into my overly large mitts, I headed for the elevator, a big smile on my face, and stopped when I caught my reflection in the door. Kyle’s wide eyes and disapproving looks came back to me. I’d seen Kyle’s expression on a lot of other faces. When you’re big like me, have a shiny chrome dome instead of a thick head of hair, and tattoos of fire-breathing dragons, armored pegasus, and other assorted ink of amped up mythological creatures across your body, you tend to get “the look” quite often. For some reason it hurt to think Kyle—a man I didn’t even know and shouldn’t give a shit about—was seeing me with those eyes.
I shook my head, determined to clear it. Why did I care how Kyle had looked at me? It wasn’t like I wanted to impress him or anything. It was just… I didn’t care when anyone else looked at me like that. I’d gotten some menacing glares and more than a few unkind comments, and shrugged them off, but for some reason, having seen that look on Kyle’s face gave me an ache in my stomach.
Well, whatever. I had to get up to my apartment and be yelled at bymyroommate.
The doors opened and I got on. I caught a whiff of the cologne that I had thought was a woman’s, but now? There was a decidedly masculine undertone. I knew immediately it had been what Kyle was wearing. It was subtle and soft, not like Cool Water or something that assaults your senses. This was… gentle, and it suited Kyle perfectly.
I stopped outside Kyle’s apartment—6G, according to the envelope—which made him my across-the-hall neighbor. I lifted my hand to knock, then thought better of it, and instead slid the letter under his door before I went back to my own place.
When I was unlocking the door, the high-pitched yowl of complaint hit me like nails on a chalkboard. I checked my watch and groaned. I deserved what I was about to get. I pushed the door, and a large white tiger-striped blur threw himself dramatically at my feet, crying in his death throes.
“Drama queen,” I grumbled, reaching down for a quick scratch. My Waldo, so named because unless it was feeding time, you wouldn’t find him without looking, was an interesting cat. After I’d left the bar one night, I’d noticed a tiny kitten trying to get into our dumpster. I snatched him up and held him to my chest, his purrs going through my leather jacket. I couldn’t just leave him, and it was too late to do anything else with him, so I decided to take him home with me until morning, when I’d intended to take him to the shelter.
I’d stopped at a gas station and grabbed a small container of cat litter and a Tupperware thing that would pass as a box for him. I put everything in the bathroom, then grilled some chicken for my dinner. He meowed pitifully while he climbed my pant leg and tried to get to my food. I diced some of the meat into small pieces, then put it on a plate, before placing it on the floor near the sink. He jumped down and tore into it. Before I turned in, I put him in the bathroom, then crawled into bed, bone weary. Somehow the little bastard got out of the bathroom and made his way to my bed and up onto my pillow. He woke me with little licks to my nose, and when I opened my eyes, he gave out a tiny squeak of greeting, then curled into a ball on my chest, with his head tucked under my chin. I left him there and let his gentle snuffling lull me back to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, he was still there. My plan to take him to the shelter was out the window. I called the closest vet and set up an appointment to have him checked out and neutered and given his shots. They had an opening the next day, my only day off that week, so I took it. When it came time to get ready to go, I searched under my bed, in the cabinets, even in the hallway, though there was no way he could have gotten out of the apartment. It was almost one thirty and the appointment was at two. In desperation, I grabbed a can of tuna from one of the shelves, opened it, and put the entire thing on a plate. In only a few moments, he came rushing out of the bedroom and headed for the treat. He never made it, as I snatched him up and tucked him into my jacket, him protesting with every step.
I could not love that cat more.
After his surgery, I contacted the shelter and told them what I’d done. I asked about surrendering him, and they told me I could keep him and they’d put notes about him in their files in case anyone came looking. They were honest and said they didn’t expect that would happen, but that I needed to be prepared in case.
It never did, and Waldo became my responsibility.
“Sorry, highness,” I mumbled. “There was this guy downstairs, and I got caught up talking with him. It’s his fault I forgot my primary responsibility to you. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Waldo sat up and meowed, then marched toward the kitchen, stopping to give a glare that would ensure I was behind him. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his imperious attitude, and found myself following him for his twice-a-day feeding. I opened the can and was about to put it in his dish, when my phone rang. I glanced at the number and groaned as I swiped a finger over the screen to answer the call.
“I just got in,” I whined by way of greeting.
“Toby, I’m sorry” came the harried voice on the other end of the line. Cary James was a good guy, and my best barman. He was twenty-three and gave off a preppy vibe. With his longish blond hair and his turquoise blue eyes, Cary was so different from the hardass guys who frequented the bar. Still, he came in one night when we desperately needed help. I hired him on the spot and put him behind the bar right away, offering to pay him cash for the four hours he slung drinks. By the time the evening was over, he’d enraptured everyone he served with his southern charm and easy smile. For the next two years, he’d made himself indispensable. For him to call me when I’d waved good bye as I left meant that something bad had happened.
“It’s fine, Cary. What’s wrong?”
“Donnie called off like five minutes ago, and the bar is packed.”
I scrubbed a hand over my head. Donnie was like the anti-Cary. He’d only been hired as a server because he was the boyfriend of Scott, another of my bartenders, and I’d regretted it within the first five minutes. Donnie was lazy, acted as though the customers bored him, and gave the place a bad overall vibe, which, considering our clientele, I admit was hard to do. He’d also blown off three shifts in the past month without giving me any notice to find a replacement.
“He’s done,” I growled. “You and Scott do the best you can until I get there. Let he customers know there isn’t a server. I’ll see you soon. Shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes or so.”
“Uh….”
Pain spiked through my eye as a headache settled in for a nice, comfy stay. “Don’t tell me. Scott called off too, right?”
“Yes,” Cary squeaked.
That was the last goddamn straw. Both of them were going to be out on their asses before bar close. I gave my shirt a quick whiff. It wasn’t bad. At least in my bar, it was one of those things that wouldn’t disgust the clientele, who mainly smelled of leather and motor oil.
“Fifteen minutes. Can you hold everything together for that long?”
“Yes, sir.”
