I’m an idiot.Cats don’t talk.They absolutely didnotdisappear. Piers fled the apartment to avoid Jess’s questions about the furball’s current location. She’d been the one to pass out the previous night.
And the night before.
He roamed around the neighborhood.Calm down, Piers. Nothing out of the ordinary. No flying lovers, no talking cats.Maybe someone at the club had smoked something funny, and he’d unknowingly inhaled a lungful of hallucinogenic. If so, he should demand hazard pay.
After enough time to be reasonably sure Jess wasn’t home, he returned, easing the apartment door open. “Anybody here?” No answer from Jess. No cat, talking or otherwise, except for a slightly crushed Kitty lying on the couch.
Piers cautiously entered his sanctuary, checking from room to room for talking cats. Nothing.He let out a sigh of relief.
His stomach rumbled. He’d seen beer in the fridge last night. And eggs. No, he’d cooked those for a cat that most assuredly didn’t talk.
He’d love a massive plate of barbequed ribs from Bucky’s BBQ down the street, with slaw and an order of steak fries.
Oh, damn. He wiped the drool from his lips. How attractive. Still, ribs. Yummy, sauce-covered ribs. The scent… The scent? Huh? He reallydidsmell barbeque.
Piers stepped into the kitchen. Bucky’s distinctive green logo beckoned him to the to-go box lying on the table. A lidded cup sat to the side. He took a sip. Sweet tea.
No note. He’d not seen this on his earlier walkthrough, had he? Besides, Jess should have left an hour ago. The food steamed. Maybe she’d gone in late and gotten him a plate.
Dread slipped through his insides. What if Jess wasn’t responsible for the sudden appearance of food. Exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it? Maybe he should have wished for a vanilla milkshake instead of tea.
With a deep sense of unease, he took a tentative sip through the straw. Icy coldness hit his tongue.
Vanilla.
Holy fuck. Food. He’d conjured food. Either that or he really had lost his mind. He sniffed a fry and took a bite. Hot, delicious steak fry.
Next, he tried a rib and moaned. So tasty. Hell, even the fries were hot, and the slaw cold.
However the food got here, his hunger won out over nerves. He ate. His eyes drooped. Sleepy, so sleepy. When was the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep? He slipped into his bedroom and checked under the covers for felines. Nothing. As he drifted off, though, he swore he heard purring.
Piers glanced up between serving drinks several times during the evening, in between brushing off come-ons. Hoping to see a white-haired man, maybe? The hotel wasn’t far. If he wanted to call or visit, he could. What if Wycke already checked out? Or freaked out and ran, like Piers had? Even though Piers asked several times, Wycke never said where he lived or why he’d come to the city.
What kind of pull did this man have over him? What kind of strange attraction left Piers ready to run from the building to seek out a near stranger?
His skin itched. He’d never fallen victim to addiction, but he’d met people who’d become addicted to drugs or alcohol. Heart palpitations, dry mouth, unable to think of anything else. Addicted to a man?
“You okay?” Max asked.
“Just tired.” Piers paused long enough to give his boss full attention. “Didn’t sleep too good.” His phone chimed with a message from Jess:Staying with Patti tonight. Give my love to the cat. XXXOOO.
No Jess, no Wycke. Work became an endless stream of drinks, tips, fighting off advances, ignoring patrons in costumes, and the talking unicorn prancing around the dance floor. Piers sat alone in the breakroom rather than mingle with coworkers when forced to take a break. After years of fighting to get ahead and have a decent life, he’d finally lost his grip on reality.
His shift ended at last, not one moment too soon. He waved goodbye to a cluster of ogres on his way out. Nothing his brain created surprised him anymore.
A mild night gave Piers an excuse to walk home. Just his luck, he’d summon an Uber and demon at the same time. The weird shit started after he’d gone to Wycke’s hotel room.
He could turn right and head home or turn left toward the hotel. Was Wycke there? Did Piers honestly want another encounter? Well, yeah. To prove his sanity, if nothing more.
He wanted answers too. Okay. Left turn, then.
Something flickered in his peripheral vision. He turned. A tiny light hovered, then drifted away. Light reflecting off a moth? Some other bug? He swore he saw wings. The wrong season for fireflies. Strange. Normally, he’d find people milling about even at this hour of the night. The bars on either side of the street usually filled with late-night partiers, lines of people huddled around the doorways of the more popular places.
Nothing. No lights or “Open” signs in windows. No cars traveling bumper to bumper down the street, the owners searching for parking spots.
Quiet. Too quiet. No honking horns. No noisy chatter. Just the occasional flicker of something right on the edges of Piers’ vision.
Two men wearing ripped pants, and shirts two or three sizes too small, lumbered down the sidewalk away from him. Muscles rippled in their arms. They turned as one.
