Chapter 10
Sienna
Today is the day that refuses to end.
After getting the Chief set up with his own box of gratitude, I put together a box of donuts for the rest of the guys who took the time out to get my window boarded up until I can get ahold of my insurance adjuster and replace the glass. In the midst of my wrapping and boxing of goodies, Matt asks me a few more questions before informing me that he is heading to the station so that he can get to the bottom of all of this with Jimmy. I am also pretty sure that’s partly because Tessa’s nephew is afraid of Briggs. After the way she unleashed her fury on Jimmy, his shop, and his truck, exercising a little caution and hesitation when it comes to her ever-changing mood isn’t such a bad idea.
With Tessa and I having gotten most of the baking needed for tomorrow out of the way, and my guess being tomorrow will be a lighter day, I pack it up for the night once everyone leaves. Calling the hospital, I find out Tessa is being kept overnight for observation of a possible concussion, along with a few more test that need to be run in the morning. After having spoken to her briefly, I can say, without a doubt, she will not be winning any awards from the nursing staff for best patient.
By the time the cake is picked up that I finished earlier, and I am able to close down the shop and head across town to the condo Briggs has lived in since we graduated high school, it is getting dark. Using my spare key, I switch on the light before punching in the code on the alarm to silence the beeping.
Wanting to get this over with as quick and painless as possible, I head for the kitchen. My body is already on high alert for what I know is coming. Flipping on the light, I duck, shielding my head with both hands, just as a howling ball of black fur dive bombs down from the top of the fridge, missing my face by inches. Bob looks up at me with his hollow gold eyes, his tail swishing back and forth menacingly. “Meow.”
Bob, being a solid black Scottish Fold, is a thickly built cat with stealth skills that will take ten years off your life. Add in the intimidating, very large, gold eyes, and the fact that, even while purring, he looks like he is about two seconds away from ripping your face off and sacrificing your soul, it is safe to say that he isn’t about making friends with me at all.
He hates everything and everyone.
“Hello to you too, asshole,” I mutter, stepping around him. “Let me grab what I need. Then I’ll throw some food in your bowl and get out of your way. Okay?” I ask, holding up my hands. “No need for bloodshed.”
Leaping up onto the white high-top table, Bob struts across it like he owns the place. Which, let’s face it, he does. He only stops his cocky little strut to push each of the red placemats onto the floor with a swipe of his paw. Destructive little shit. Every inch of this place has been decorated with this little spawn of Satan in mind. If there is anything to break, topple over, spill, or mess up in any way, Bob will do it with a smile on his face.
This cat may eat prepackaged little meals from some gourmet cat food shop online, but he feeds off putting people through hell.
We all need a hobby, I guess…
Opening the freezer, I begin removing the half-dozen pints of ice cream, stacking them on the counter to retrieve the wad of cash Briggs’s laughingly refers to as her ‘frozen assets’. Bob meows, the sound not a greeting or some friendly invitation to pet him. It is a hollow cry, very un-cat-like. This is the sound of something demon possessed.
It’s a warning.
“Take a number, Bob,” I mutter, shoving the bottle of vodka out of my way so I can see. “I think we both know you’re not top priority with me.”
Splat.
Jerking back, I look down at the tub of ice cream the devil pussy has just smashed all over the floor. “Dammit, Bob. Do you have to be such an attention whore? I don’t have the give a damn to put up with your pissy pussy bullshit.”
“Meow,” he says again and I swear to all that is holy, he smiles at me. Then he winks. People say an animal winks at you when they see you as their friend. Not Bob. Splat. He knocks another tub to the ground, this time mocha fudge splashes all over the floor, the side of the cabinet, and my foot.
Bracing my hand on my hip, I glare at him. “You really are the spawn of Satan, aren’t you?” Now that he has my undivided attention, he sits back on his ass and stares me down, his tail hanging over the side of the counter, swishing in time with his rhythmic breathing. “Funny how the low point of my day isn’t the time spent arguing with the demonic house cat on a power trip,” I inform him, rolling my eyes.
He blinks. “Meow.” His tone lowers threateningly. The look on his smashed up, smug little face, making it very clear that this is not going to end well.
For me.
“Fine!” I scream, a lot louder than I intended. Bob blinks again, but doesn’t flinch. “I give up, okay? You win.”
“Meow,” he responds, letting out a yawn.
Quickly cleaning myself up, I reach into the cabinet and retrieve exactly what he wants. Following me across the room with his eyes, he watches every move I make until I have successfully dumped the contents into the food bowl, embellished with his name. “There.” Tossing the empty container into the trash bin, I shoot him a glare. “You give me anymore shit, and I switch out your fancy kitty litter with Pop Rocks.”
With one last hate-filled meow, that I am willing to bet was a ‘fuck you’, Bob jumps from the counter and damn near dances across the tile. He seems satisfied, almost giddy, that he has gotten his way. Asshole. Passing me, he slows, bumping the side of my calf with his head, before continuing on to the bowl.
After using nearly an entire roll of paper towels to clean up the ice cream mess, I find the cash and return the pints of ice cream that survived Bob’s temper tantrum to the freezer. Since I am not big on pushing my luck, I head for the front door, quickly shutting off lights as I go. I even remember to reset the alarm, even though I think it is safe to say I would be more afraid of the damn cat than the alarm system, if I broke in here.
My phone is ringing when I reach my car. Seeing Kelsie’s face filling the screen, I climb into the seat, start the car, and scoop up my cell from the center console. Fumbling with the damn Bluetooth, I manage to get the stupid thing to connect before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Well, what do you know?” Kelsie’s snarky voice echoes through my speakers. “My phone does work.”
“Hi, Kels.”
“Don’t you ‘hi Kels’ me, asshole,” she bites out, clearly pissed off. “Someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on. Now. Smashed storefront windows, bashed up old ladies, Briggs beating up Timmy the whorebag? I swear to hell, I leave town and you bitches have all the fun without me.”
“Jimmy,” I correct her, smiling for the first time in hours. “It’s Jimmy the whorebag.”
“Jimmy. Timmy,” she mutters. “Like anyone fucking cares. I’m more concerned why Briggs went all apocalyptic war princess when I’m not there to see it. And why in the holy hell I had to read about this shit on Facebook, of all places, when my best friends were the ones in the center of the entire fucking mess. This is unacceptable. I’m firing you both. Effective immediately. Worst. Friends. Ever.”
“It’s been a little chaotic, Kels,” I inform her as I back out of the driveway. “Where are you?”
“Almost back from a day of non-stop meetings in Atlanta,” she groans. “I have been stuck on this damn freeway for the last two hours in some sort of deadlocked traffic hell because of some fuckmuffin who probably didn’t think about using his blinker while changing lanes. You know, Sienna, it’s always the inconsiderate prickholes that make things harder than they have to be, but I digress. Anywho, where are you?”
“Leaving Briggs’s place. Had to unfreeze some assets and escape an attack from Satan.”
“Oh, come on,” she laughs. “Bob isn’t that bad. He’s a man, after all. All you have to do is feed them.”
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
“So, since you brought up food, have you eaten?”
“I didn’t bring up food. You did,” I correct her. “I’m also not cooking you dinner.”
“Like I’d ask you to cook me dinner,” she snorts sarcastically. “There’s a reason your refrigerator is covered with takeout menus.”
“If I had a dick, I’d smack you in the face with it.”
“I think we should do Chinese,” she rambles on as if I hadn’t just threatened to bash her face in with my fictional penis. “Could you do Chinese? I’m starving and could totally do Chinese. And wine. Lots of wine. Do you have wine?”
“Yeah,” I sigh, realizing that I haven’t eaten in hours. “I have wine. My place in thirty?”
“You got it,” she sings out, then ends the call.
With Kelsie on her way, I hurry home, hoping to come up with something sweet to go with dinner that won’t take me all night to prepare. She may not expect me to cook dinner, but dessert tends to go without saying. The moment I set foot in my kitchen, I groan, wishing like hell I had more time. Or had suggested we meet at her place instead. My clothes from last night are still strewn all over the kitchen, along with my cutlery block, paper towel holder, and the stainless-steel utensil holder I keep on my center island.
“Ugh.” Dumping my bag, keys, and phone onto the counter, I bend and scoop up some of my utensils. “There’ll be no explaining this to—”
“Sienna, you dirty girl!”
“Fuckermother!” Whipping around, I teeter backwards and slam onto my ass so hard my teeth rattle. “For the love of baby Moses, Kelsie!” I scream, throwing a rubber spatula at her. “What the hell? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Placing the takeout bags onto the counter, beside the coffeemaker, she yanks me to my feet. “Proud of you,” she says, slapping me on the ass. Her eyes shoot to the counter, widening as she no doubt questions where she has placed our dinner.
“Stop!” I shout, swatting at her. “I don’t need you trying to work out the where and how in your head, you fucking pervert.”
“Fine.” Walking over to the fridge, Kelsie flings open the door and fishes out two bottles of wine. “But, just so you know, I was merely pondering positions.”
“Either one of those bottles will work,” I wave her off, pretending I didn’t hear her last comment.
“One?” she laughs. Bumping the fridge closed with her hip, she places them both on the counter before digging through the cabinet for glasses. “Oh, honey, you’re funny. This is definitely a two-bottle day.” Fumbling through the drawer, she produces a corkscrew and gets to work on filling both glasses to the brim, while I grab a pan and throw together something for dessert as I get to work on bringing her up to speed on everything she missed while in Atlanta.