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But I was feeling better now, if you could call sleep deprivation and crippling anxiety “better,” that was.
At least I had another day to come up with some kind of plan, because I had no idea how I was going to explain any of this to Sebastian.
I had to admit I was worried about Mr. Meatball, too. If there was ever a cat that was not made for the real world, it was him. It was like releasing some delicate old Beverly Hills housewife into Chicago after dark. Either she’d join a gang for survival, or she would wind up dead.
My plan after I finished the dishes was to widen my search radius to the intimidatingly large areas outside Sebastian’s mansion. Thankfully, the path into his house was a very, very long private road and he had no nearby neighbors. That meant Mr. Meatball at least wasn’t at risk of getting hit by a car. I doubted his stubby little legs would even carry him to the nearest road.
I borrowed one of Sebastian’s comfy bath robes and opened the front door. It was chilly, but the robe was fluffy and warm.
I stopped in my tracks when I saw a shiny black car pulling up just outside. The passenger door opened, and Sebastian got out, face creased with concern.
Oh, shit. Either I’d been passed out way longer than I realized, or Sebastian was back early. He can’t be back early! Shit!
I smeared a totally natural smile on my face, then tucked some of my wild hair behind one ear. “Oh, hey,” I said. My voice came out like someone was gripping me by the throat and shaking me.
“Where is he?” Sebastian asked. He had on one of his suits. I’d imagined the whole “wearing a suit all the time” thing was just something movies did. Even rich guys probably strolled around in stained old t-shirts and basketball shorts, right? But Sebastian always seemed dressed to impress. Or undressing impressively, a dirty part of my mind thought, recalling our bedroom run-in.
“Funny story,” I said slowly. “Remember that game of hide and seek? It turns out Mr. Meatball is really good at it.”
“You lost my cat?” he asked. He was closer now. Looming, again, as he liked to do.
I scrunched up my face and eyes, looking to the side. “I mean… If car keys had legs and a tendency to go where they pleased, would you say you lost your car keys? Or would you say your car keys ran away?”
“He’s a house cat. Mr. Meatball has no reason to go outside.”
“I thought the same thing. That’s why I scoured this whole house until I passed out last night. Unless you’ve got a secret sex dungeon somewhere I didn’t find, I’m pretty sure he’s not in there.”
Sebastian glared. “How the fuck did you lose my cat? You were alone with him for one day.”
I hadn’t slept much. I didn’t think well when I was stressed. And, well, the chocolate milk experience hadn’t helped. “I don’t know,” I said. I’d been doing my best to put up a front of nonchalance and humor to hide how much I was actually freaking out on the inside. I’d lost the cat. I’d lost a poor, helpless little cat. I’d had one job and I’d screwed it up.
I flinched when I felt Sebastian’s hand on my shoulder, awkwardly squeezing. “It’s… alright,” he said stiffly. “We’ll find him. He couldn’t have made it far. He naps at least ten times a day.”
I tried to say something and realized my throat was tight with emotion. A tear slid down my cheek out of nowhere. I wiped it away, sniffling. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have no idea how he got out.”
Sebastian sighed. “I’ll get Jasper to help look.”
“Dr. Willows is coming back later to check on me. Maybe she could help too. I already called Trinity and Lance. I tried calling my brother, but he wouldn’t pick up.”
Sebastian stiffened. “Trinity was the mouthy one, right? Who’s Lance? A boyfriend?”
“No. Lance is Trinity’s brother.”
Sebastian didn’t look entirely pleased with my answer, but he nodded. “Then we’ll start looking again. When the others get here, they can help.”
We split up, and within an hour, the mansion was full of voices calling for Mr. Meatball. A week ago, I definitely wouldn’t have guessed this was how I’d be spending my weekend, but there I was. I was on my hands and knees, meowing, and beckoning for “Mr. Meatball” at the top of my lungs.
We searched the mansion so thoroughly that if Sebastian did have a secret sex dungeon, one of us would’ve found it. All we turned up were a few hidden socks and an old, tattered copy of Twilight tucked in a couch cushion. Sebastian claimed he had no idea where it came from. I had my doubts.
