Moonshine slinks out from under the bookcase.
“Forget about me grabbing him,” I say, the wounds on my backside still throbbing in pain. “Just throw the straw in the carrier.” I point to the other side of the room.
“That wasn’t the plan,” Janis protests. “I’m scared.”
I can’t blame her. In prowl mode, Moonshine looks like a gargoyle. All sharp shoulders, frazzled fur, and long, twisty ear horns. “Throw it to me and I’ll do it,” I suggest.
Muffin must sense what’s going on because she clears out of the carrier and springs onto a nearby chair for a better seat.
Janis chucks the straw like her life depends on it. It whirls through the air, whistling as it goes, and lands just inches from Moonshine on the tile.
I lunge, secure the straw in my grip, and hurry toward the carrier. “Go fetch,” I say before flinging it inside.
Moonshine races toward the carrier, skids across the floor, then tumbles inside with a brokenmeow.
Muffin is already at my heels. I wait until she leaps in to secure the latch with trembling hands. “There,” I say. “Mission accomplished.”
“They do have shelters, you know,” Janis says, her eyes fixed warily on the carrier. “For animals like that. They have priests too. Could come and do an exorcism, probably.”
“Very funny,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Inwardly, I’m glad I had the distraction, even for a little while, because soon my thoughts are set right back on Dawson and the mission ahead.
Janis helps load my bags as I get the carrier in the car and lock up. When she plucks her discarded cigarette from the pot and walks to the trash bin, she spins over her shoulder to give me a look.
I hop into the passenger side and lift a questioning brow. “Thank you?” I say, wondering if that’s what she wants.
Janis only shakes her head. “Your rug. You threw it away?”
I wait and answer once Janis is settled behind the wheel. “Moonshine,” is all I say.
She nods and starts up the car.
The wailing moans of death metal blast throughout the cab until Janis reaches for the knob and turns it down. “Did you hear the news?”
I fight back a groan. “What news?”
“Guess Dawson and Buffy will be playing opposite leads once again. They’re revisitingThe Feat of Lunordian. It’s going to be a trilogy.”
Two points of jealousy hit me from the news. I focus on the less painful one first. “Did they contact us about doing makeup again?”
“Not by name of the film,” Janis says, “but I’m pretty sure this is the one Hudson emailed us about a few months back. Said they weren’t disclosing the title yet, but he asked about our time frame for next spring.”
“Ah,” I say, “at least there’s that.” I clasp my hands together. “I can’t wait to work on Dawson and Buffy, together again.”
“Am I sensing sarcasm, little missy? What’s wrong, you don’t like having that pampered brat call youmakeup girlwhile flirting with Dawson and rubbing it in your face?”
“Ha,” I laugh. “No.”
“You can always opt out,” Janis says. “Let me and the crew take it.” She glances over long enough to lock her dark-rimmed eyes on mine. “Depending on howthisgoes, that is.”
“I guess,” I say, but the impending job is not the real issue and we both know it. Which leads to the second point of jealousy—the idea of Buffy putting her paws all over Dawson. I may be the one painting them green come spring, but that’s the only color to describe this emotion. And the problem is, I wouldn’t have felt this way had I not been thinking about him so much over the last few days because—what claim do I have on him? It’s like, somehow, Dawson Cain is weaseling his way back into my heart already, and I haven’t even seen him face to face.
Janis twists the knob and lets her angst-ridden tunes fill the space once more.
I pull up the navigation app on my phone and prop it on the dash. I’m glad we have a fifty-minute drive. I’m also glad Janis respects my tendency to mentally hibernate when I’m stressed. She uses the opposite tactic, flying into a rage of verbal vomit. Every inner thought spilling out in words that her Catholic mother would have sudsed her mouth for as a child.
Ugh, I thought I was dreading this before; I’mreallydreading it now. Last night, it wasn’t so bad. My emotional pool was like a hot tub that I had quietly eased into, casting a slight ripple over the surface. But now, someone has flipped on the jets—activating an onslaught of bubbling fear and boiling regret.
