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I turn in the direction of Rhys to take the temperature. He’s fifty feet away and…aw shit.
He’s chatting with someone. A guy in a…mesh trucker hat and a flannel shirt. That’s no good. Never leave a teammate hanging.
Or a woman whose ex treated her like this. That guy is just unacceptable and deserves a lifetime of fire ants in his pants for how he’s treated this woman.
“Hurry, guys,” I say, only loud enough for Hollis and Briar.
“On it,” Hollis mutters.
When I look up, Briar is lying flat on the balcony and calling through the cat door, “Frances Furbottom…”
4
HER PRAISE KINK
Hollis
I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying not to laugh. But seriously?
“Who names a cat Frances Furbottom?” I ask, but the question’s for the universe since Briar has already wriggled halfway through the pet door. “Who’s a pretty girl?” she coos, her voice a little muffled. “Such a pretty girl with such a pretty tail.”
Well, someone has a praise kink.
I kneel next to Briar, gripping her backpack, ready to execute the hand-off back to Gav the second our gal grabs the quarry. Ready, too, in case anything goes wrong. I’m inches away from her and here to help, no matter what she needs. Cover, a lift, a pep talk—anything.
Briar slithers in even more, and now it’s just her pink legs sticking out. “It’s the fluffiest tail I’ve ever seen. And yes, good girls get tuna. That’s right, Mrs. Frances Furbottom. I have a special treat for you.”
A pause.
A too fucking long pause.
“Is she even coming to you?” I whisper, eager to help my friend score this feline. Eager to do it quickly since Gavin is rolling his hands, indicating we need to speed it up, so I’ve got to get her off the balcony ASAP.
“Almost here,” Briar says in her normal voice, then returns to her sweet talking. “Such a good, pretty girl. No one in the whole world is prettier. And tuna makes you even lovelier.”
Another stretched out silence, like the second before the puck drops. I sense the capture is about to happen before paws scrabble, then Briar declares, “Gotcha.”
Victory! But the sound that rips through the air rends a hole in the fabric of the universe. “Meow!”
I shudder at the thunderous cat cry. It’s a demon summoned from the depths of the underworld. “Is she killing you, Pretzel?”
“She’s”—Briar wriggles her ass out to the tune of an unholy wail—“not”—she shimmies her waist back through the door. The creature howls—“happy.”
Yeah, that’s clear.
Gavin hums the Jeopardy! theme song.
That’s clear too. I gotta move this along. “Gonna pull you out, ’kay?”
“’Kay.”
“Hold on tight to Frances Hellcat Furbottom.”
“Yup.”
I grab Briar’s hips, nice and firm, and yank her the rest of the way then jump out of the line of cat fire when Briar’s free. Good thing since the silvery fluffball in her arms is gnashing her teeth and spinning her head in a cat exorcism. In a flash, I shove the open bag at Briar, and she performs the most impressive yoga move of all time—stuffing the devil beast into it, zipping it up, then swinging it onto her shoulders in seconds flat.
“C’mon, guys. Let’s go,” Gavin whispers urgently.
