Rusty Nailed

  As I took one more pass through the first floor, making sure everything was in its place and looking spick-and-span, I paused by the dining room. Specifically, the window that was cemented shut. I winced every time I saw it and the deep windowsills that Clive barely got to enjoy before he ran away.

  The sound of Simon’s key in the front door brought me back from my thoughts and I sprinted into the kitchen.

  “Babe? I’m back. Hey, when did you— Whoa!” I heard him say as he became aware of his surroundings.

  When he left ten days ago, there was still chaos. The end was in sight, but it was still rough. But now it was complete. And tranquil. And filled with the smell of homemade chicken soup.

  I listened to his steps through the house toward the kitchen, where I turned from the stove to meet his eye. Wearing his favorite apron, over clothes this time, mind you, I smiled at my sweet Simon. Worn out and travel weary, he was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Three days’ worth of lovely scruff roughed up his face, accenting the most chiseled jaw this side of Mount Rushmore. Piercing blue eyes sparkled at me—he did love me in an apron.

  “Everything looks . . . I mean, it’s all so—” Shrugging his shoulders, he laughed. “I’m speechless. It’s perfect, babe.”

  “Just wait till you get my bill. You hungry?” I asked, then ladled him a bowlful of chicken soup made with rich broth, eggy noodles, and packed with vegetables. I could see him sniffing the air and I smothered a laugh as he walked toward the breakfast nook where I’d set a table for two.

  He sat down, and as soon as I’d set the bowl in front of him he pulled me onto his lap. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured.

  I felt that sandpaper jaw on the side of my neck and my skin immediately pebbled. “I wanted to make it nice for you,” I replied, then leaned close to his ear. “Welcome home, Mr. Parker.”

  His hold on me tightened. He ate his soup and drank his milk with one hand, not wanting to let go of me with the other. As he ate, we talked comfortably about everything and nothing at all. Afterward, he showered off the travel while I cleaned up.

  After he explored all the rooms that I’d put my finishing touches on, we found ourselves in our master bedroom. We chatted about weekend plans as he towel dried his hair, and I watched him walk around the room in his pajama bottoms. Best thing ever.

  “We’re having Jillian and Benjamin over for dinner Sunday night, if that’s cool with you?” I asked.

  He pulled down his side of the duvet. “Sure that’s fine. Is everyone else coming too?”

  “Mimi and Ryan are with her parents in Mendocino, and Sophia and Neil haven’t come up for air yet.” I smirked as we fluffed the comforter at the foot of the bed. Those two were back together like nobody’s business. They’d barely left their bed.

  We flipped pillows, turned down blankets, and I sighed when I saw the sheets. Egyptian cotton, thread count in the millions, and gleaming white.

  “Hey, speaking of Mendocino, you’ll never guess who called me the other day. Remember Viv Franklin?”

  “Fishnets and tattoos? From your reunion?”

  “Yep. She might be moving out here—to Mendocino.”

  “Really? Wow, that’s great. I thought she was pretty set up back there with her . . . security guard company?” I asked, gesturing for the throw pillows. I had a special way I stacked them in the armchair at night.

  “Security software, babe. She designs security software for companies. I’m not sure what she’ll do; she’s still thinking about it. Some great-aunt died, a big house on the shore was willed to her—I don’t know all the details. But she might move out here and take over the house.”

  “That could be amazing!” The pretty brunette was a fun mix of badass and sweet; she’d kept Simon on his toes. I’d liked that about her.

  “I told her to let us know when she made a decision. She doesn’t know anyone out here, and we could go help her out,” he said, throwing me the last pillow.

  “Oops, don’t throw that one!” I set it delicately on top of the others. “Yes, for sure. Just let me know when she knows for sure.”

  “Um, it’s a throw pillow, right?” he asked.

  “Hey, mister, if you knew how much of your money I spent on that pillow, you wouldn’t be so quick to throw it.”

  “So I really don’t want to know how much this set me back, do I?” he asked, nodding his head toward our new bed. A bed of our very own that had no history of past others. The California king was large enough to accommodate both his snoring and my flailing, and it was simple and elegant, with a massive, well-padded headboard.

  “It’s better if you just let me do my thing and not ask questions,” I sassed, now crawling across the bed on all fours, making sure my pink nightie swished in all the right places.

  “I like it when you do your own thing. Especially when you let me watch you do it,” he breathed, raising an eyebrow when I turned to show him my ruffles. He pressed his body against mine, his shower-warm skin heating me as much as his words.

  “Tonight I’d much prefer you touching me. With your hands. And that mouth,” I instructed as I perched on top of him. I’d positioned the bed so that when we cuddled up, we could see the lights twinkling over the bay.

  “Look at that view,” I whispered.

  “I’ll say,” he muttered from below, peeking up my nightie. The next thing I knew, he’d wiggled me right out of my coordinating panties.

  And with the ruffled bottoms abandoned, the pink nightie pushed up around my shin, Simon brought it on home.

  And goddamn it if he still didn’t find a way to bang that headboard.

  Thump.

  “Be careful . . . Oh, God . . . That’s new paint . . . Oh, God.”

  “You want me . . . to be . . . Christ, Caroline . . . Careful?”

  Thump thump.

  “Well . . . maybe . . . a little . . . Oh, God . . . Simon!”

  “There’s my Nightie Girl.”

  Thump thump thump.

  • • •

  “Simon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You awake?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Just wanted to tell you I love you.”

  “Mmm.”

  • • •

  “Caroline?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you too.”

  “Mmm.”

  • • •

  “Caroline?”

  “Mmm?’

  “You wanna fool around?”

  “If I said no, what would happen?”

  “I’d lie here next to you, thinking dirty thoughts.”

  “Would they be about me?”

  “They’re always about you.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re literally my fantasy girl.”

  “Okay, it’s getting a little thick in here.”

  “Speaking of getting thick . . .”

  “Oh, kiss me, you big Wallbanger.”

  • • •

  I sat straight up in bed, body tense and hyperaware. Why had I suddenly awakened? At . . . 2:37 a.m.?

  Simon was curled up on his side of the bed and snoring.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled, my skin pebbled into gooseflesh. Something was up, but I couldn’t put my finger on . . . Wait, what was that?

  I ran to the window, peering out into the darkness. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. I crept back into bed, not able to shake the feeling that— Oh my God.

  “Simon!” I ran out the door and down the hallway. The tiniest hint of a thought took hold on a corner of my heart as I raced downstairs, hearing Simon call out to me as his feet hit the floor. I flew down the stairs, across the living room, and into the dining room. I plastered myself against the window, searching, not wanting to let this feeling take hold, because I couldn’t bear it if it wasn’t . . .

  Meow.

  It can’t be. He doesn’t know where—

  Meow.

  “Simon!” I screeched,
and he ran around the corner, brandishing a bat.

  “Is someone in the house?” he asked, whirling about.

  I burst through the patio doors with Simon right behind me, hope now blooming fully and out of control.

  There, on the grass right below the dining room window, was Clive. Licking his paws like it was no big thing.

  “No way,” Simon breathed behind me as I sank to the ground and opened my arms.

  Clive washed his ears like he had all the time in the world, then slow-trotted over to me with the biggest kitty grin I’ve ever seen. He tried to play it cool, but I could hear his rusty purr from four feet away. Tears ran unabashedly down my cheeks as I sobbed on the ground, holding my cat. Who purred and purred and purred. He was skinny, he was muddy, he was cold, and he was back.

  Simon crouched next to me, running his hand down Clive’s back as I held him tightly. “There’s a good boy,” he said over and over again as he stroked him and scratched between his ears. When Simon’s eyes met mine, they were shining brightly.

  I stood finally, clutching my Clive. I cooed and coddled him, telling him that he could never do that again or I’d kill him, and he could eat steak all day, every day. Simon just smiled as Clive head butted him, eager for more boy-on-boy lovin’.

  As I turned to take him into the house, he suddenly dug in with his hind legs and jumped from my arms, running back into the bushes he’d disappeared into weeks ago.

  “No! Clive, no!” I yelled.

  But before I was even two steps across the lawn, he poked his head back through. He came out, and seemed to shrug his left shoulder. And there, materializing almost out of nowhere, was another cat. A tiny calico, round and plump, with the sweetest face I’d ever seen. She rubbed against Clive, then sat companionably next to him.

  “Who’s your friend, Clive?” I asked, kneeling down once more, not wanting to spook them.

  Simon crouched next to me and whispered in my ear, “Looks like our boy’s got himself a girlfriend.”

  Clive nodded at Simon wisely, and I smothered a laugh.

  “I always thought it might be fun to have another cat. Think she belongs to anyone?” Simon asked.

  “How do you know she’s a she?”

  “Oh, she’s a she, all right,” he responded, and Clive once more nodded at him. If they were closer, a paw bump would have occurred.

  Then Clive seemed to shrug his right shoulder, and there before us was a third cat. Beautifully adorned with the most gorgeous long, dark silver fur, she had gleaming green eyes and delicate features. She nuzzled against Clive, who was now flanked with stunning pussy.

  “I can’t believe it,” I breathed as Simon chuckled.

  “I suppose having three cats isn’t that different from having two, right?” he asked.

  “Simon, come on. We can’t have three cats. I mean, can—”

  Clive cleared his throat as if to say ahem.

  And then, pushing her way in between the plump calico and a grinning Clive, there was a third newcomer. She was playful, bumping into the other cats and throwing herself on the grass in front of Clive, rolling on her back and letting out the funniest little sounds. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was giggling.

  “Fuck me—he’s got himself a harem,” I swore, and Simon could no longer contain his laughter. As I shook my head, Clive tended to his ladies. Herding them together with a bap and a nip, he paraded them across the lawn and, one by one, into the house. Just as Clive crossed the threshold, he turned back to us. Leaning against the door frame, he regarded us with all the love in his eyes a cat can muster. Which is a lot. And when the catcalls started inside, he winked.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” I said through a face-splitting grin. Still laughing, Simon extended his hand to me.

  Linking my fingers through his, we walked across the lawn and into our home, where Clive and his ladies were waiting.

  Epilogue

  The Last Word

  I set off on patrol, keeping track of all the new smells in this new territory. It was different from the last time I’d been here. Shinier in some ways, baubles scattered here and there for me to play with. Two shelves filled with curious bottles for me to knock off. Thoughtful. I’d investigate that further tomorrow. Tonight I had other things on my mind.

  For weeks I’d roamed the wilderness of this strange city, boxed in by mountains on one side and water on the other. Water I’d learned the hard way not to trust, fast moving and not drinkable. Saltwater, the captain of the Highsteppers called it. The Highsteppers were the wisest gang of street cats I’d come across in my travels, tough but fair. Not at all like the Whisker Sours, who were just mean.

  I’d been offered membership in the Highsteppers, which was a great honor that I appreciated. But I knew which side my Pounce was buttered on and I knew the Feeder must be looking for me. I scoured the hillsides, searching for the home I’d accidentally run from.

  Here’s the truth, which no cat wants to admit. We long to be outdoors; we long to run and jump and prance and play. But . . . and here’s the secret . . . you can’t let us out.

  Because we can’t always find our way back.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I never gave up. I knew how much the Feeder must be missing me, and I couldn’t have that. But then? I found the ladies. Or rather, they found me . . . But that’s a story for a different day.

  I knew my people would be so happy to see me, they’d not deprive me of my new lady friends. Now those ladies were safely tucked into a pallet constructed of blankets underneath the coffee table. The Tall One had originally put the bed right out in the open, but I tugged it under the table, knowing my ladies were used to sleeping under more cover. That’s the difference between being smart and being street-smart. The mean streets of Sossa Leeto had taught me that.

  I continued to check the perimeter, monitoring a tree branch that was making an unpleasant scratching sound against a window on the east side. Not an immediate threat, but I’d keep my eye on it. I made my way into the dining room, facing down the window that had led to my greatest and most harrowing adventure of my nine lives. I tested the repair; it seemed solid. I gazed at the outside, which had always seemed so big and beautiful and full of excitement. It was.

  But now, as I turned to look out over this quiet space, inside, full of nooks and crannies to nap and bathe and run and play, I realized that this was a great adventure as well.

  I truly was wise beyond my ears.

  Chuckling at my own joke, I left the window and made my way upstairs. As I passed my ladies, I could hear their deep breathing; they were sound asleep. I’d tuck myself in with them soon. I had a spot on the back of my neck that needed cleaning, and it was so much easier to group bathe.

  Entering the room of the Feeder and the Tall One, I regarded their sleeping forms. Nothing had changed while I’d been gone, I was pleased to see. The Tall One was curled into a ball on one side, the Feeder sprawled out like a starfish. I’d seen one of those in the saltwater.

  Jumping onto our bed, I sat on the pillow between them, wanting a moment with my people. Stretching out so that my front paws rested on the Feeder’s forehead, my back paws touching the Tall One’s chin, I at last relaxed.

  I was home.

  Viv Franklin wants to be swept off her feet by her dream guy. But should she pick the hot cowboy or the smoldering librarian? It’s like being forced to pick between Superman or Clark Kent!Really, how’s a girl to choose?

  Read on for a sneak peek from the next book in USA Today bestselling author Alice Clayton’s Cocktail series

  Screwdrivered

  Coming Fall 2014 from Gallery Books!

  chapter one

  Standing atop a lonely hill, Vivian gazed out upon the turbulent sea. Voluptuous and shapely, she cut a striking silhouette. Resembling the siren she was purported to be, she looked to the west. A dark ship appeared on the horizon, and with its sighting, her pulse quickened. Was it the dark pirate captain who haunted her dreams?
A tall and fierce warrior, his face was full of fury. And passion. With just a glance from him, her loins quivered. With a touch . . . implosion.

  Was it he? Returning from faraway lands and adventures she could only dream of, would he pillage and plunder her body as only he could? Would the pirate bestow upon her the treasure of his manhood? Or would he cast her aside as an empty booty?

  Would he?

  Would he?

  Would he care for another Diet Dr Pepper?

  Wait, what?

  I was torn from my pirate fantasy by the nasal, weenie voice of Richard Harrison, CPA.

  “Can I get another Diet Dr Pepper, please? And for the lady, another—what was it you’re having, Viv?”

  “Scotch. Water. Neat.” I answered, looking across the table at the latest in a long line of blind dates. Set up by my mother, which should have been my first clue to say no and run screaming into that good night. Not that she didn’t have good taste; she’d picked a looker with Richard. Strike that—he was a looker if that’s what you were in to.

  Brown hair. Brown eyes. Brown chinos, perfectly creased. White button-down. White teeth. Blindingly white, actually; I was pretty sure when he smiled chimes went off. Every time a CPA smiled, a fairy got its wings?

  Jesus, Viv, get a grip.

  I sipped my Scotch, wincing not only at the good burn, but at the bad turn this conversation was taking. Tax laws over appetizers. Nothing like a little burrata caprese with a side of capital gains.

  I’d gotten through the first twenty minutes of Current Bad Date by letting my mind wander to my favorite place, Romance Novel Central. But now even the thought of pirates marauding through my underwear couldn’t spare me from the drone of brown-brown-brown-white-white-boring.

  I let my eyes wander around the restaurant, fingering the small locket around my neck. Shell pink and ivory, the tiny cameo had been given to me when I was thirteen. A family heirloom, it had been given to me as a confirmation gift. My family was still active in the church; not so much me. Although I did love a good fish fry. With a side of guilt, thank you very much. Which was why I was here on a Friday night instead of relaxing with a good book.