“Darling?” the brunette says, intruding into my thoughts. “Are you coming back to bed?” I glance her way. She’s lying back with her knees splayed, and the invitation is obvious. But I’m not in the mood anymore.
“I gotta shower, babe,” I reply.What the fuck is her name?“Need to get to rehearsal. Order yourself some breakfast if you want. Cory will give you a ride home when you’re done.” I don’t bother looking up at her expression – it’ll probably be annoyed, upset, or petulant, and none of those things appeal to me.
By the time I’ve adjust the water settings just right, I hear the door to the hotel room slam behind her.
Chapter 2
A Day as a Cat Caregiver
Arielle Nygard
Ipull up to my boss’s house and let myself inside.
I work half-day at a hospital just off the Las Vegas strip. As an administrator, not a medical professional. But I’ve had to take on a second job to make ends meet since my husband, Steven, died in the line of duty as a member of the Las Vegas Police Department two years ago. Unfortunately, the money I collect from his life insurance isn’t keeping pace with the cost of living, and my part-time job isn’t doing much to cover the bills. So, I took a job as a cat sitter for a local celebrity a couple of weeks ago. I’ve never met him, but he pays extraordinarily well, and he clearly adores his elderly cat. He travels a lot too and hates to put Munchkin in a kennel. And that’s where I come in. Samuel Foster hired me to look after Munchkin, keep him company, feed him, make sure he takes his medication. It’s not a difficult job, and the pay is fantastic.
Munchkin is waiting for me at the door. We got off to a rocky start, but we’re friends now, and he seems happy to see me whenever I visit. “Hi, buddy. Did you miss me?” I bend down to pet his gray fur and he winds around my ankles. “Ease up or I’m going to fall on you,” I say as I step inside the house. He turns and trots off in the direction of his favorite room. I follow him to the sunroom where he’s waiting on the couch. Once I’m seated to his liking the cat climbs into my lap for cuddles. I’m happy to oblige his demand and begin stroking his head.
I snap a quick picture of Munchkin in my lap and send it to Sam with a message.
We’re cuddling in the sunroom.
Sam responds with a heart-eyed emoji.He looks content.
Purring loudly. Definitely content.I reply.
Thanks for the updates. You don’t know how much it means to me.
‘Poor old guy,’I think. It sucks to be lonely. I remember how hard it was when Steve died. The hole he left is still unfilled and I feel his absence every day. The person I shared everything with is gone. I wonder about Sam. When I first started working for him, I’d wandered around his old French-style mansion, trying to get a sense of who he was.
Displayed all over the house are pictures of a man and a boy. The boy had grown into a young man, but the pictures stopped there. I think back to those pictures. I wonder about the boy and what might have happened to him. It makes me sad for a moment. I turn my attention back to the text conversation.
No problem at all.I send back.
Although Munchkin is in his twilight years and can happily cuddle for hours at a time, I’ve been reading up about how to take care of them. I’ve never had a cat before – not something I’ve ever admitted to Sam – and I don’t want to screw this up. The experts say that even elderly cats should move around within their ability. I’ve started buying a few cat toys for Munchkin, since it’s the one thing I haven’t found in the house. I’m guessing that when Sam’s home he prefers cuddling. I picture the two of them, on this couch, Sam reading one of the books on the side table, Munchkin curled up in his lap. I can even imagine them napping here, Munchkin sprawled over Sam’s chest, both of them snoring gently.
I take a bottle of blowing bubbles from my bag. “I bought you something,” I say, holding out the cylinder to the cat. He gives it a quick sniff and then looks at me. “Don’t freak out, okay?” I unscrew the little wand, turn my head away from Munchkin and blow gently. A stream of soap bubbles scatters into the air and I see Munchkin watch them with interest. I blow a second stream, parallel to him, and he jumps up in excitement. He swats one with a white-socked paw and it bursts. His shocked look makes me laugh. I stand up, walk a few paces away and turn to face him. I blow out another stream of bubbles above his head. He’s ready now and reaches up to pop them. When I redirect the bubbles away from him, he jumps down to chase them. I smile so hard as I watch him scamper around the room that producing the bubbles becomes more and more difficult. Blowing bubbles when my lips won’t form an ‘O’ is impossible…but I’m having as much fun as the cat.
After ten minutes, Munchkin is losing interest, so I pack the bubbles away. We settle back on the couch and I resume petting his soft fur. I hadn’t realized how much I missed touching another living thing. Steve and I had always been affectionate. Quick kisses good-bye and hello. Holding hands. Hugs. We tried to make up to each other for the fact that our son, Austin, didn’t tolerate being touched. He is autistic and very much against touching, so Steve and I would turn to each other when we really wanted to hug our little boy.
Tears well in my brown eyes as I acknowledge my loss. I indulge in a spot of self-pity, my heart aching at the unfairness of life. Munchkin meows plaintively at my grief and butts my chin with the top of his head. “Sorry boy,” I sniffle. “It just gets a bit much at times.” I hug him to my chest quickly. Once I let him free, he settles back into my lap.
When it’s time for dinner, Munchkin jumps from the couch and urges me to follow him to the kitchen. He hops up onto a scarred wooden table and sits expectantly at his bowl. I fill the bowl with a tin of fancy food and, after a quick meow, Munchkin tucks in. While I wait for him to finish, I refill his water bowl. Then I give his food bowl a cursory rinse, dry it and empty out a scoop of kibble.
I check the time and curse. “Crap, I’m going to be late!” Austin’s school closes in thirty minutes and this late in the day it’ll take me that long to get there. I quickly gather my things and head for the door. Munchkin, ever the gentleman, abandons his bowl and walks me out. “Be a good boy tonight,” I say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter 3
Making Magic
Samuel Foster
I’m making magic. It’s what I do, and pretty much the only time I feel truly alive. Sleight of hand, impossible illusions, watching the audience gasp in amazement…it’s my drug. And I’m getting a fix tonight. The room is crowded with beautiful people. Considering how much they paid to watch me perform, they’re probably loaded too. I’ve learned over time that money often comes with a bad attitude, and tonight is no exception.
The tables dotted around the glittering ballroom are populated by groups who seem to be trying to outdo each other in terms of senseless extravagance. The chicks are off-the-charts hot, yet most of them are hitched to greasy old men with thinning hair and bulging bellies. The table directly in front of my stage is occupied by a shining example of this. A man who looks to be in his sixties is being fawned over by a pair of blondes so similar they could be twins. They certainly visit the same plastic surgeon, because the girls have matching tits. Their benefactor has his face buried between a pair of them, slobbering like a fool.
I’m sickened, and for a moment, I lose my focus, hearing the crowd gasp as the flaming rope in my hand swings wide and almost connects with a velvet drape. I give a practiced smile and pretend it was supposed to go that way. In an instant, the fire changes shape, transforms, and a flock of white doves erupts from the smoke. There’s a second gasp – this time it’s on cue.
I pull my attention back to my act and continue, hands moving deftly, spinning across the darkened stage. More magic…but it’s mainly showmanship. The crowd loves the theatrics as much as the actual tricks. As the minutes unfold, I run through my repertoire – it’s well-honed by now. I’ve performed the same sequence half a dozen times in the past few days. Europe loves magic. My shows are packed to capacity and Cory is already hinting at extending the tour. I’m not biting. He promised me a break and I’m not budging this time. The fucker has drained the mother lode that is Atticus Colt.
