Page 17 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

Fuckwittle.

I almost race in the direction of the red beauty when Aero shrieks.

I whirl toward the sound.

“Flee, flee, you dirty human,” Aero shouts at a middle-aged woman who has one hand on our pizza box.

“Rat!” she screams, swinging her high heel to try to kick my second-in-command.

Aero parries, like a well-trained rat does. He sprints up her panty hose, and she caterwauls and does a ‘get him off’ jig with a lot of wild arm movements and leg kicks. She almost looks as though she’s drowning.

Aero tumbles off her leg and rolls into a furry gray ball as he lands on the ground.

“Aero?” My heart clogs my throat. Is he hurt? I dash toward him, swerving around heels, boots, flip flops, and toes that I wish I could unsee.

Aero uncurls from his ball and shakes it off. “I’m all right, sire. But our pizza is in trouble.”

“I’ll just take the food I ordered. Thanks,” the woman directs the falsehood at the pizza guy.

That urine-soaked jolterhead.

“Okay, ma’am. That’ll be twenty-four, ninety-nine. I don’t have a signal down here, so I only take cash,” the delivery fellow says.

I pick up my pace.

“What the actual fuck? You want me to pay for it?” the woman demands.

“That’s how it typically works, you wagtail,” Aero says as he scurries up her leg to her stomach in a flash. His rat game is an art.

She hears his words as squeaks, then screeches and skedaddles down the platform. “Get it off!”

“Ma’am, your pizza!” The delivery fellow takes off in full pursuit. “You owe me twenty-four ninety-nine!”

I chase after them. I need to pay him and recover my Mischief’s dinner.

Every time we order a dratted pie, tomfoolery like this occurs. That’s why it takes the King of Mischief and his second to pick up pizza. I’m not risking any other Mischief rats just so we can acquire delicious fresh grease for lunch.

As a train pulls into the station, the pizza-thieving woman darts inside in a crazy dance meant to dislodge a rat. People give her a wide berth—she looks like a complete blunderbuss.

Where’s Aero? If he doesn’t abscond soon, the train will pull away with him on it—and being trapped in an enclosed space with a crowd of humans is not a fate I would wish on any rat.

My heart nearly stops until I see him scurry out the door just as it slides shut. Thank the gods he’s safe.

The pizza delivery fellow hangs his head and heads back the way he came.

Something draws my gaze back to the train, and I spot the espresso machine—as shiny as fresh pizza grease—through the window. And, suddenly, the train’s doors open again.

This is my chance!

If I don’t follow the espresso machine onto the train, I’ll never see it again. If I do, I’m as good as dead. But the thought of never seeing it again and never finding out why I want to lick its nozzles and rub its dials makes my chest ache more than a day without any cuddles or grooming.

If it were just my own fate on the line, I’d board the train. But my presence is required at the Mischief meeting, and I need to retrieve the pizza for my people. They’re counting on me.

As the delivery fellow trudges away from the train, I make my choice and race after him. I intercept him, stand on my hind legs facing him, and wave.

He stumbles to a stop and stares down at me.

I lower my front legs so he can get a better view of the money strapped to my back.