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“Last I checked, I wasn’t paying you by the hour. Get some rest before we start shooting. Did you get settled in here in Wilmington yet?” Dave asks.
“I am. With Cara’s help. She’s got a good eye for design.”
“That she does. Before I forget, my wife wants me to invite you over for dinner. You’re welcome to bring someone. Cara. Or Fiona.” He looks at me.
“I barely know Cara, and I believe I mentioned that Fiona and I are old friends. Nothing more.” At least not yet.
“Great. That settles it. We’ll have you and Fiona over. I’ll have my wife call you about the date. Now get out of here while you can.” He waves me off, and I do as told, hitting the grocery store on the way home.
“What are you doing in the bushes?” a familiar voice calls.
I turn around and shush her. “I’m trying to rescue a kitten.”
“Why?” Fiona strolls over and crouches down, getting eye-level with me.
“Got ya.” I finally get my hands around the scrawny little body. It’s so thin that I can feel every single bone in its emaciated body.
“What do you plan on doing with it?” Fiona asks, eyeing the tiny kitten suspiciously.
“Take care of it. Give it a home.” I shrug. Didn’t get a chance to think this through yet. When I heard the hungry meows, I acted on instinct.
“What if it’s someone’s pet?” she asks.
“Fiona, look at the little guy. He’s barely hanging in there and almost starved to death. This isn’t anyone’s pet. It’s a rescue.” He’s fighting me every step of the way now that I have him cradled in my arm.
“Doesn’t look like it’s wanting to get rescued.” Fiona shakes her head.
“I know. And he has some vicious claws,” I bite out. He got me good, slicing up my arm enough to draw blood.
“Sure this is a good idea? He might have fleas.” Fiona walks beside me and opens the door to the building for me.
“I’m sure.” I try to adjust my little passenger to avoid the claws, but by the time we get to my door, the sleeve of my dress shirt is torn to shreds and red from the blood the little guy has drawn. Turns out his teeth are as sharp as his nails.
“You better put something on that,” Fiona says, pointing at my arm.
“I’ll head out and get some bandages and stuff once I have him settled in,” I say.
“I have a first aid kit at my place. Put him somewhere safe and come on over. I’ll bandage you up.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know. It’s no big deal. Plus, I can’t have my director down with gangrene or something.” She walks down the hall and unlocks the door to her place.
I get little Spike with his sharp claws settled in the bathtub with some water and a promise of food. Rinsing my hands and arms, I change into a black t-shirt and head two doors down to knock on Fiona’s door.
“Where’s the cat?” she asks, looking behind me as if she expects Spike to trail in behind me.
“Locked in my bathroom until I get a litter box and some cat food for him.” I follow her inside and sit at her kitchen table. The first-aid kit is ready and waiting.
“Good, you already cleaned it. It got you good, didn’t it?” She rubs an alcohol wipe across the gouges in my arm, and I am about to jump out of my chair.
“It’s a he,” I grunt, to distract myself.
“How do you know?” She grabs a bandage the size of a paperback book from the box and holds it up for size. It just about covers the worst of it.
“How do you think? I looked. I’m familiar with the equipment.”
She bites her lip, and her cheeks turn the slightest bit pink. It surprises me. Having grown up with five brothers, nothing much embarrasses Fiona Anderson.
