Ultimatum

Aubrey

Ihurry out of the Fourth-Floor Community Room with an orange foster cat yelling in his carrier like I've personally wronged him and his ancestors.

The carrier's a loaner, which means one hinge barely works and the latch barely catches. My tote is cutting into my shoulder. It's stuffed with testimony prep, shift notes, and a budget update Marnie Kells, my boss, handed me with her bad-news face.

I have nine hours before my next shelter shift and a subway ride between me and my apartment.

Manageable.

The cat disagrees. He screams all the way down the corridor. The elevator bank is empty, thank God. I jab the call button with my elbow because both hands are busy keeping the carrier level.

Elevator Two opens with a ding.

A man is already inside.

Overcoat. Suit under it. No tie. Big enough that my first thought is, Great, the cat will assume he's furniture.

He looks up from his phone. His eyes drop to the carrier when the cat lets out a noise that should require a permit.

"Rough evening?" he asks.

"Depends who you ask." I step in and angle the carrier away from his shoes. "He's processing change."

The lobby button is already lit. The man glances at the carrier. "Is that the technical term?"

"I work in shelter services. We make everything sound like a grant application."

His mouth moves, not quite a smile. "Linden."

"Mmm?"

"I'm Linden," he repeats.

Oh.

Just the first name. Like we're at a dinner party and not trapped in a metal box with a furious orange ball.

"Aubrey," I say.

The doors close.

The elevator starts down. The moments tick past. The cat growls and hisses from inside the carrier the whole time.

Third floor.

Second floor.

Just before it hits the first floor, the car shudders once and then stops hard enough that the carrier knocks against my thigh.

The growling cat goes silent.

The lights stay on. The ventilation keeps humming. Linden's phone flashes once in his hand and loses signal. Mine starts buzzing against a folder labeled COMMISSION TESTIMONY inside my tote.

Then the carrier latch pops.

"No," I say.

The cat launches.

He comes out front paws first, a blur of fur and rage. I grab for him but miss. He hits the floor, skids, sees Linden's coat, and chooses flight.

"Oh my god," I say.

The cat climbs him.

Not jumps. Climbs. Like Linden is a tree.

Claws catch in the front of the coat. Then the suit jacket. Then the shirt. Linden's phone clatters to the floor. One huge hand comes up, then freezes inches from the cat's body.

"Don't grab him," I say. My voice does a very attractive squeak. "Please don't grab him."

Linden goes still.

Shoulders, fingertips, everything locks down while the cat digs into his chest and hauls himself higher. A red line opens across the back of Linden's hand.

"What helps?" he asks.

No swearing. No yelling. No blaming me, the rescue, the building, God, or the cat's probable criminal record.

Just, "What helps?"

My brain takes a snapshot of him. Coat pulled crooked. Shirt open at the throat. One sleeve shoved up, scratches crossing his hand. He's bleeding and somehow looking at me like I'm the person with the plan.

Which is unfortunate, because my plan is mostly for the love of god my pretty angel, please come down from the gorgeous man.

"I have treats." I grab the pink tube from my tote.

"Treats?" he says, arching an eyebrow.

"Yep. Salmon paste of peace." I twist off the cap and tear the top with my teeth. Terrible choice. It tastes like fish food and warm tuna. I hold the tube up slowly.

"Hi, sweet baby angel," I croon, in the voice I reserve for animals and toddlers. "You don't need to live in this nice person's coat. Real estate is a scam."

Linden looks down at me.

The cat pauses.

"Is the voice required?" Linden asks.

I glare at him. "Do you want him off your sternum?"

"Continue."

"Thank you." I squeeze a bead of paste onto the end of the tube. "Come on, baby. Come get your meat frosting."

The cat's ears rotate. His claws flex in Linden's coat.

The emergency alarm buzzes once, then a voice comes through the panel. "Elevator Two, building desk. You folks okay in there?"

"No," I call. "But nobody's dead."

Linden adds, "One loose cat. Two adults. Minor bleeding."

The desk voice hesitates. "Fire department's on the way."

"Perfect," I say. "Exactly the audience I wanted."

The cat stretches his neck toward the treat.

"Good boy," I whisper. "Yes. Great decision. We love growth."

Linden looks down at me again, and this time he almost smiles.

The cat licks the tube. I inch it lower. He follows, paw by paw, dragging little threads from Linden's coat as he comes. Finally I get a hand under his chest and pull him free.

"Carrier," I say.

"Broken latch," Linden says.

"Right," I retort. "Excellent. Love that you're tracking."

He smiles patiently. "I'm invested."

I can't help but grin. "That's one word for being used as a scratching post."

He crouches slowly, one arm held out so the cat doesn't spook. He's too tall for the elevator even folded down like that. His knee nearly hits my testimony folder. He steadies the carrier with his less scratched hand while I guide the cat in with the treat.

The cat resists at the door, because naturally that's what cats do.

"Angel," I tell him, "you are in no position to negotiate."

Linden says, "I'd argue he has leverage."

"He has paste on his nose and one brain cell. Don't empower him."

That does it. Linden laughs once. The cat, apparently offended by his joy, darts into the carrier. I slam the front closed and loop my scarf through the latch in a makeshift lock.

The elevator shifts.

I plant one hand on the floor. Linden's hand lands above my shoulder on the wall, not touching me, not blocking me, just there, taking up half the cab.

The doors groan.

Tools scrape outside. A firefighter's voice says, "Stand back."

"I would," I mutter, "but I'm currently part of the carpet."

Linden offers his hand.

It's scratched across the knuckles and the back, blood beading in thin lines. Big hand. Blunt knuckles. No ring.

Yeah of course I'd notice that.

I take his hand because refusing would be weird. Also because my knees aren't built for springing up gracefully after emergency cat treatment.

His grip is warm and—

Absolutely not going there.

The doors are forced open to the lobby, the car sitting a few inches off level. Beyond the firefighters is a semicircle of people holding up phones.

Of course.

Of course there are phones.

A woman nearby has her mouth open in delight. A guy is filming vertically like a monster. The lobby attendant looks mortified.

I shove the loose folder back into my tote, hook the strap over my shoulder, and step out first with the carrier clutched to my chest. The cat hisses at the crowd, which is fair. Linden scoops his phone off the elevator floor and follows, coat torn and hands bleeding.

A man near the doors moves fast toward Linden. No badge or logo, but he checks the lobby before he checks the blood.

"Sir," the man says.

Linden's posture changes. His face goes blank. "Hollis. Two minutes."

Hollis, apparently his... security? I dunno. Whoever he his, this 'Hollis' doesn't like that. He positions himself between Linden and the worst of the phones anyway, broad shoulders blocking half the lobby. Well not literally, but you get the idea.

Anyway, I should leave.

This is the correct time to flee. I can take my cat, my dignity, what remains of my salmon paste, and vanish into New York and never show my face in public again.

Instead I look at Linden's hands.

"You need those cleaned," I say.

He shakes his head. "They're scratches."

"They're cat scratches. Congratulations, you've entered the paperwork zone."

He frowns. "I don't need paperwork."

I nod. "No, you don't. You need antiseptic."

He looks at me. "Do you always issue medical orders in lobby corners?"

I grin. "Only when my foster animal has attempted to commit seppuku by summiting a civilian."

Another almost-smile. His hair is mussed from the elevator, his coat is a disaster, and his sleeves are shoved up now. The scratches cross the backs of his hands and one wrist.

I turn away first. There's a bench in the lobby corner. I set the carrier down, wedge my foot against it, and dig through my tote for the shelter wipes. My testimony pages are bent. One has a paw print in salmon paste across the line about predictive surveillance and survivor risk.

Fine. Great. The cat has contributed policy commentary.

Linden sits next to me.

Hollis stays a few feet away, phone to his ear, eyes moving from door to elevator to phones. The crowd begins to break up, disappointed that nobody is crying or suing anyone yet.

"Hand," I say.

Linden gives it to me.

He doesn't flinch when the wipe touches the first scratch. His fingers stay open on his knee, relaxed by force or habit. I clean blood from the grooves between his knuckles, then the long scrape near his wrist.

My stomach flips for some reason.

Must be adrenaline.

Yeah. Fifty strangers just filmed me saying meat frosting in a lobby.

"You're good at this," Linden says.

I can't help but laugh. "Wipes? I've had training."

"Staying calm," he clarifies.

"Oh." I press the wipe a little too firmly. He still doesn't move. "That's mostly sleep deprivation. My personality left around five."

"I doubt that," he says. Something about his voice...

I glance up.

Bad idea.

He's watching me, not my hands. Not the cat. Me. Like I'm a problem he's decided to solve.

I drop my eyes back to the scratches. "You may want to burn the coat."

He frowns. "I like the coat. It'll recover."

"I wouldn't promise that." I nod at the carrier. "He's orange. They leave evidence."

The carrier gives a low, offended growl.

Linden looks at it. "Does he have a name?"

"Probably," I tell him. "But I'm refusing to learn it until we reach my apartment. Emotional boundaries."

"Practical woman," he agrees.

"Cowardly," I counter. "But dressed up nice."

This time his smile stays long enough to count. My face warms again. I look away and keep cleaning because hands are safer than faces. Except his hands aren't safe either, apparently, because they're large and scratched and still under mine without trying to take over.

Men who take over are easy to dislike. Men who ask what helps while bleeding on their own coat are a scheduling problem.

Or something?

"There." I fold the wipe into itself. "You'll live."

"Well that's certainly a generous prognosis," he quips.

I flash a fake cheery smile. "I'm known for hope."

Hollis steps closer. Linden's hand withdraws from mine at once, clean and formal. "Car?"

"At the curb," Hollis says. "Phones are handled as much as they're going to be."

"Charming," Linden says.

I grab the carrier and my tote at the same time, which works for half a second before the tote strap slips, the carrier tilts, the cat yowls, and three folders slide loose. I slam my hand on the broken door reflectively, not trusting my scarf to hold.

"I have it handled," I say, feeling Linden's eyes on me.

I do not have it handled.

Linden stands. "Give me the tote."

I jerk away. "No, it's heavy."

His eyes become steel. "That wasn't a request."

"It's got confidential documents," I insist.

"Then keep the confidential part." He glances at the folder crushed against my chest. "I won't read your cat's legal briefs."

"My cat has a stronger privacy policy than most websites," I quip.

He looks at the folder. I tighten my arm around it and let the tote strap slide into his hand, because the alternative is dumping half my job across the lobby. He lifts the tote. Then he takes the carrier too, careful to keep it level with my scarf looped through the latch.

The cat hisses.

Linden looks at the carrier. "I'd hiss, too, friend."

I'm left holding one bent folder and a used antiseptic wipe.

"Wow," I say. "Chivalry and biohazard management. You're really the whole package."

He gives me an annoyed glance. "Don't ruin it."

"I would never. This is a very dignified procession." I wait for him to comment on my sarcasm, but he says nothing.

We cross the lobby with Hollis slightly ahead now, clearing a path without touching anyone. The people with phones pretend they weren't filming. One of them still has the camera open. I consider hissing at him, but the cat has that covered.

Outside, the city is loud and wet from the rain. Headlights move along the avenue. The carrier bumps against Linden's thigh, and my tote hangs from his other hand.

At the curb, he gives both back. Our fingers brush on the tote strap.

My fingers tighten on the strap anyway.

"Thank you," I say, and then, because I'm allergic to sincerity lasting too long, "for your service as a vertical cat tree."

"You're welcome." Linden looks down at his scratched hands. "Tell him I'll be expecting an apology."

I shrug. "He'll deny everything."

Linden nods slowly. "I respect that. I actually do."

Hollis opens the rear door of the car waiting at the curb. Linden doesn't get in right away.

He looks at the bent folder tucked against my chest. The tab marked COMMISSION TESTIMONY sticks up beside the salmon paw print.

"I hope the testimony survives," he says.

"Right." My laugh comes out thin. "Occupational hazard."

Neither of us moves.

Then a horn blares down the block, the cat yells from the carrier, and Linden steps back toward the car. The last thing I see before he ducks inside is his scratched hand at his side. "Good night, Ms. Aubrey."

"Good night, Mr. Linden," I say. Why does my voice sound so... sad.

The guy named Hollis closes the door and then he moves around to the front passenger side before joining him inside.

When the door shuts, Linden's car pulls away.

I stand there with the carrier and my bent testimony folder until the car disappears into traffic.

Coward.

And I'm not sure if I mean him.

Or me.

Maybe both of us.