“It’s open. I’m here,” she counters. “Just do it already.”
“Stop rushing me,” I grind out.
Dammit. I’m a chef. I can do this. This is just like picking the lobsters or making frog legs. I even had to kill a live chicken once when visiting France. I can do this.
I slowly slip my extraction tool around the furry body, but as soon as I depress the tongs, I can feel the squishiness.
“Oh god,” I grit between my teeth, my whole body shivering as I breathe through inflated cheeks, because getting the heebie-jeebies is an understatement.
I glance up, and Evie’s looking away with the bag extended in front of her. But she’s two feet too far to the left.
“Evie, I’m gonna drop dead rat on you if you keep looking away. Hold the bag in place.”
She squeals, looking back at me, and that’s when everything falls apart.
And I mean the damn rat.
The moment I pick it up, its body falls apart.
Evie screams. I yell, “Fuck this.” And the tongs land directly on top of the murder scene.
She hops away, chantingOh my god, oh my godover and over, abandoning the damn bag, her hands in fists up by her shoulders.
I take a bunch of steps backward, trying to keep my lunch down as I groan.
“Evie,” I level, forcing her eyes on mine. “We’re tossing it all. If you want to say a few words, this is the time.”
She nods, finally on board, before she clasps her yellow-gloved hands together like she’s praying. So I do the same.
“Okay,” she says on an exhale. “Dear whatever or whoever is up there. Although definitely dear ma’am ... please let these rats live their spirits out in a palace of cheese. And if they’re set for reincarnation, let them come back as women inStemwho cure disease.”
I open one eye, peeking at her, only to see her looking back at me.
“It seems full circle from the plague. Anyway ... please let them be badass, and make sure Princess—” We both look at the killer cat. “Make sure she comes back as a rat.”
“Amen,” I say resolutely, hearing Evie say, “Awomen.”
I chuckle before we both start pulling the sheets out from where they’re tucked, tossing the ends toward the middle and folding the blanket over itself until it becomes a big pile.
I motion to her with my hand. “Gimme the bag.”
She does, so I open it as wide as it goes before slipping it around the blanket until it’s all inserted inside.
As I pull it away, Evie gasps, “Oh no. That’s so gross.”
My face snaps to the mattress. The blood from the rats not only went through the blanket and the sheets, but it seeped all the way into the mattress.
“That’s not coming out with a Bissel,” I offer to her scowling face.
“I am so not sleeping on that,” she says, shaking her head. “There’s no way, even if it did come out. This room is only eligible for participation in a fire, not my sleep.”
I can’t even concentrate on what she’s saying because I’m too busy pulling the drawstring closed. Am I sweating? Probably. Goddammit, I hate this.
Something between a grumble and a whine tickles my chest as I pray that I don’t feel anything when I have to pick this damn thing up off the bed.
“Door,” I say, and she rushes there to hold it open.
This is why being a dude is the fucking worst. You always have to do shit like this—clean up the nastiest parts of life, all while being the guy who isn’t scared of anything. It’s BS. What was I supposed to do if these things were alive?
