I refilled his water and checked the food bowl. “You know, some cats would be grateful for a window, medical care, and climate control.”
Bandit turned his back to me.
“Right. Excellent talk.”
I shut the door before he could make a run for the living room and shred the new-to-me furniture I had somehow acquired through what I was beginning to understand was the Royal Bastards’ community outreach program. My truck had been towed into town two days after Regan’s spa weekend, and while I’d been at work, a small army of men with motorcycles, pickup trucks, and opinions had descended on my apartment.
Dolores went to a garage.
My old thrift-store couch went to a dumpster.
So did the wobbly table, the cracked lamp, and one mattress I had found online for free and then immediately regretted after seeing it in daylight.
By the time I got home, there was a clean secondhand couch in my living room, a coffee table without structural trauma, a bed frame, a real mattress, and a little bookshelf Savannah claimed she’d “found.” No one asked for money. No one left a receipt. Regan just texted me a thumbs-up and a photo of Bandit looking personally offended by a feather wand. Apparently, my landlord is “connected” and let them all in. Which I’m sure violated my lease and a few state and local laws.
I should have been annoyed—I was annoyed. I was also sitting on the couch every night, so my moral outrage had limits.
I showered off the reservoir dust, changed into shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and made coffee even though it was almost six because adulthood had no rules if you paid rent. My phone buzzed while I was standing in the kitchen stirring French Vanilla creamer into a mug like it was medicine.
Lena:How’s your new life, desert girl?
A second later, FaceTime rang.
I answered before I could decide whether I looked presentable, and Lena’s face filled the screen, all glossy dark hair, winged eyeliner, and the kind of lighting that made me suspect she had purchased a ring light for casual emotionalsupport. Behind her, her apartment in California looked exactly as I remembered: plants everywhere, bright throw pillows, framed concert posters, and Hank, her giant elderly rescue dog, snoring on the couch like a man with a mortgage.
“You look alive,” she said.
“Barely. But the county truck has air-conditioning, so I’ve upgraded from tragic to functional.”
She grinned. “Show me the apartment.”
I flipped the camera and gave her the tour, which took approximately twenty seconds because I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a spare room currently occupied by a hostile cat. “Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Office-slash-Bandit containment unit. Judith.”
“Who is Judith?”
I pointed the camera at the cactus on the windowsill.
Lena stared. “You named a cactus Judith?”
“She has strong opinions.”
“She’s adorable.”
“She’s judgmental.”
“Relatable. Now show me the cat.”
I opened the spare room door carefully and aimed the camera toward the windowsill. Bandit sat there wearing his bell collar, tail flicking, eyes full of cold murder. The second he saw me, he hissed.
Lena gasped. “Oh my God. He’s horrible. I love him.”
“He’s adjusting.”
“He looks like he wants to speak to a lawyer.”
“He probably has one. Regan gave him a rabies shot, flea treatment, toys, food, a collar, and medical records. I’m one embroidered blanket away from him having better health care than I do.”
Lena laughed. “Regan is the biker queen?”
