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“You bet. I guess this means you’ll be coming home soon, huh?” Tom asked, fucking refusing to get off the fucking phone. And with my new guest, I was obviously getting zero work done today.
“Yep,” I said grudgingly. “That’s what it means.”
“How long’s it been?”
Five years. It’d been five years.
“A few years,” I murmured as I tried to make out Cassie’s charades. Her arms waved and her tits bounced, and she’d just started to get down on the ground and crawl around on all fours.
Is she licking the tops of her hands and purring?
“Gotta go, Tom,” I reiterated. “Thanks for checking in. See you soon.”
The phone barely met its base before Cassie jumped to her feet.
“Thank fuck. I thought you’d never get off the phone.”
“What are you doing here, Cass? How the fuck did you know where my office was? And what in the fuck are you doing crawling around on my floor?”
“Well, hello to you too,” she said, and it struck me like lightning. We were so similar, so like-minded. So much so, neither of us knew how to handle it. “And it’s called Google, Thatcher.”
“What’s going on?” I asked again. “I thought you had somewhere to be. And how in the hell did you get here so fast? Do you have a teleportation device I need to try out?”
“Bob called me. Said he couldn’t get through to you. The vet’s got Walnuts.” Her eyes fucking gleamed.
“Bob called when? Weren’t you just crying to me about that little shit being missing?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, but that was just for fun. I was already on my way here.”
“That was an act? An exercise in annoying me?” I asked.
She nodded and smiled.
“You’re scary.”
Her eyebrows just bounced.
“Well, shit. At least they found him.” Air filled my lungs at the relief that I wouldn’t have to tell Kline I’d permanently lost his wife’s cat. “Thank fuck, right? You look relieved, and I’m sure Georgie will be too.”
“Yep,” she agreed with a bounce. “Thrilled all around.” Too much bounce.
“What am I missing?”
“Let’s just say Kline Brooks is going to have fucking hemorrhoids from trying to shit this load of news.”
“Fuck.”
“240 East 80th, please,” I instructed the cabbie as Thatch slid in to sit beside me.
The cab driver was midforties, sloppily dressed, and sported a serious fucking scowl. I glanced at his driver’s license on the dashboard and saw that Jenk was his name. I’d say it was apparent Ol’ Jenkie boy was having a shit day.
“240 East 80th?” He glimpsed at us in the rearview mirror and then huffed out a sigh, death-gripping his steering wheel.
“Yes, please,” I responded, trying to be sweet even though I felt like telling him to cool it on the attitude.
“Isn’t that a friggin’ vet hospital?” he snapped for some unknown reason. I honestly had no idea why driving us to a vet hospital would put him over the edge, but I did know that Jenk the fuckface wasn’t just having a shit day, it was more like a shit year…or life.
“Well, shit. Who needs Google Maps when the world has men like you running around?” I retorted loud enough for him to hear. I wanted him to hear. Hell, he needed to hear it. This dude needed a reality check.
Thatch bumped me with his elbow, hoping I’d get the message and shut up. I turned to him and kept going. “Last time I checked, Jenk the fuckface was the cab driver. Not me or you. Sorry if we’re not going to the destination of his liking, but them’s the breaks when your job is to drive people around.”
“What was that?” Jenk asked, beaming me with the stink-eye in the rearview mirror.
“I said—”
Thatch placed his hand over my mouth. “She said, she loves your hat. Go Mavericks!”
That wasn’t even close to the content or length of what I’d said, but the cabbie nodded anyway, trying his hand at a stiff smile. It looked like a grimace, but I guess that was what happened to your face when you never smiled.
News flash, kids. Apparently, it will freeze that way.
“Our boys are lookin’ good. I think we’re gonna have one helluva season this year.”
“That’s not what I said, asshat,” I muttered to Thatch.
“First rule of Fight Club, Cass. Don’t start shit with the man behind the wheel. Especially when you’re in his car and at his mercy.”
“Whatever, Thatcher,” I huffed out, adjusting myself in the leather seat and accidentally brushing my boob against Thatch’s bicep in the process. Honestly, it was an accident. The Jolly Green Giant was practically taking up the whole back seat.
