9-1-1
ERIC HAD invested in a very nice mattress for his RV, and he was deep into some seriously cozy dreams involving the handsome square-jawed police officer when a pounding on the front door of the camper threatened to shake his teeth out of his head.
The kittens both squawked and screamed, and he had to be very careful when he stepped out of bed.
Before he went to sleep at night, he took Katie out of her little cart apparatus that gave her mobility and set both kittens in a high-sided pet bed that he placed in the camper bathroom (unless he was using it, and then he tucked the bed under the kitchen table).
If he didn’t watch his feet, it was very possible for one of them to make his or her awkward way to the foot of the pedestal the bed was mounted on, and he’d been saved (or rather a kitten had been saved) by his quick reflexes more than once.
In this case, Oliver/Eddie-Puss was right there, under his right foot, and he shifted on the bed and picked the creature up before getting out of bed and making his way to the front of the camper.
For his part, Oliver/Eddie-Puss started purring almost immediately, which, Eric had to admit, did nothing for his dignity when he flung open the door.
“Hello?” Eric blinked rapidly. He was not often caught flat-footed.
Uncomfortably, he realized he must have, in some way, relaxed over the last week since he’d been welcomed into this little desert enclave and allowed to be…
himself. Allowed people who knew what he did—good people—to be a part of his life.
The day before, working in Ernie’s cubicle, should have been boring. Demeaning. Far beneath him.
But the only times he’d ever done menial jobs were when he’d been in disguise, working to not be noticed.
This had been different. His friends had needed him to actually do the job—take the money, talk to the customers, not be an asshole.
He’d even changed the toilet paper in the small bathroom that was available to customers.
It was surprisingly well kept, and he realized that somebody—Ace, Sonny, Ernie—somebody probably washed it and scrubbed the toilet and cleaned the mirror at least once a day.
He’d been a paid killer for twenty years, and he was proud of his skills but not exactly proud of his end result.
He’d been a clerk in a garage for a couple of hours and realized his presence there was vital.
And watching Sonny Daye’s takedown of that entitled piece of shit who had pissed his pants had been one of the most delightfully honest things Eric had seen in a long time.
But that subtle “softening” of Eric’s boundaries had somehow allowed for this.
Never, in all his days active in his profession, had “Eric Christiansen” even brushed with the law, and here, while he stood flat-footed in his pajama bottoms, cradling a purring kitten, stood Brady, the adorably earnest deputy, staring up into his camper.
“Heya,” said the other man, pulling off his SCSD ball cap and tucking it into the back pocket of his regulation blue twill pants. “You wouldn’t want to offer a fella a cup of coffee, would ya?”
Eric’s eyes bulged out, and Eddie/Oliver, sensing distraction, took that moment to splang, all four feet extended, right into Brady’s arms.
“Whoa!” Brady exclaimed, catching the kitten deftly and cuddling him next to his chest. “Hello! Aren’t you special. What do we call you?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Eric said, horrified. “But oh my God, he’s got a death wish!” And then, aware that he had no choice, not if he was to maintain the standard of civility set by two auto mechanics with nothing to lose but pride, he took a step back and gestured Brady inside.
The camper rocked slightly as Brady used one hand on the doorway rail to steady himself when he took the two steps up. Eric backed into the kitchen and extended his hands to take the kitten, but Brady gave him an impish look and turned his shoulders.
“No,” he said. “My kitten. You get your own.”
As if on cue, Katie mewled from the bathroom, and Eric arched his eyebrows.
“You were saying?” he said. “Here, sit down at the table. She needs room.”
First he set her in the litter box, which she used like a dog would use a lawn—on command, all veterinary advice to the contrary. When they were washed up, he pulled her little wheeled contraption from below the sink and set her in the hallway so she could scamper.
“Oh wow! What’s this?” Brady’s look of delight was unfeigned, and Eric felt the pinging of attraction he’d felt the night before grow a little louder.
“This is Katie,” he said.
“And this guy?”
“I’m still deciding,” Eric told him. Brady, still holding Eddie/Oliver, leaned down to rub Katie between her ears. “If you can keep her from under my feet, I can brew us some coffee.”
The gaze Brady sent him was pure worship, and he was forced to laugh. Apparently policemen had the same vices as the rest of the civilized world.
“Deciding between what and what?” Brady set Katie down on the floor under the table and used his leg as a block while he dazzled the little boy kitten with his charm. Eric was starting to see where that might be a strong point.
“Oliver, which I thought was adorable and ingenuous—look at that innocent little face—or Eddie Puss.”
“’Cause Oedipus, right?” Brady cackled. “Oooh… that’s a tough one, given his little club feet. I wouldn’t be able to decide either.” Gently, Brady bent down and touched noses with the little black Cornish rex. “You, sir, are a work in progress, like the rest of us.”
Eric felt Brady’s eyes on him and half expected the question then—the name had rung like a bell in Ace and Sonny’s little kitchen, and Eric had been so startled he’d had a hard time containing his expression.
Say it, he thought. Ask me if I’m Charlie.
But Brady didn’t. He just continued to flirt with the kittens, like that moment had never existed.
Eric wondered if it was rational to feel disappointed.
“So….” he said, hoping Brady would fill in the rest.
“So…?” And to his annoyance, he realized the little shit was toying with him.
“How’d you find me?” he asked.
Brady’s chuckle had the ring of smugness to it. “Well, oddly enough, I was on the balcony of my apartment last night, when I saw a line of cars leaving Ace’s place, and then they disappeared.”
Eric glanced at him in surprise.
“You were….”
“I swear, I wasn’t trying to snoop,” Brady said, and then frowned at Katie. “Darlin’, you’re not getting by there, so I suggest you stop running into my foot. Okay, then. If that’s your thing, carry on.”
Eric grunted, half in frustration and half in… well, charm. Brady’d awakened Eric from a sound sleep, finagled his way into Eric’s kitchen, and was now entertaining the kids. How was Eric supposed to react?
“But if you weren’t trying to snoop, how…?” He gestured with the French press in one hand and the bag of gourmet beans in the other.
Brady’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God. Champagne coffee. Holy shit. Will I be ruined for all other coffees? Will everything else taste like caffeinated mud? Please, tell me it’s like heroin, and I’ll have to buy my own press and everything.”
Eric narrowed his eyes, trying not to chuckle. “Gee, mister, you have awfully inflated expectations from a cup of coffee.”
“I live a small life,” Brady reassured him.
“And I was looking out my window, because….” He shrugged.
“If you haven’t stared out at the desert at night, it’s like you might as well live somewhere else.
And like I said, I saw that line of cars and thought, ‘Hey, is that Ace’s place?
’ And it’s the only stoplight on the highway, so, uhm, yes.
And then you all disappeared, and I thought, ‘Hey, what have I missed in a year of cruising the most boring place on earth?’ So this morning I left for work early and, well, here I am.
” He smiled prettily. “About to get spoiled for coffee.”
Eric couldn’t help it—he let the laugh escape so it wouldn’t burble or cackle or anything embarrassing. “I shall do my best,” he promised, before pressing the bean grinder. As he scooped the grounds into the small “travel-sized” espresso machine, he added. “Why were you so interested?”
Brady let loose a snort. “Sir, there are eight enormous millionaire houses out here that are finished, and that doesn’t count the lots that were just sketched out. Nobody has any idea this shit is out here, do they?”
Eric shrugged. “I didn’t.”
“Well, how did you find out?” Brady asked.
“I told him,” Ernie said, popping his head in through the door, a plate full of—oh dear God what was that?—in his hand.
“Why hello,” Eric muttered, wondering if there was an unwritten desert rule about, Hey, on Fridays, you’ll wake up down the rabbit hole. Don’t worry. It’s fine.
“Are those strawberry glazed?” Brady asked, a hint of a wibble in his voice.
“Yes, I guess they’re for you,” Ernie said, hauling himself up the steps and shutting the door carefully behind him.
With a cheerful smile, he set the donuts on the table and sprawled on the bench across from Brady.
Eric realized that he’d have no choice but to sit next to Brady, and his heart rate sped up a little while his hypothalamus said, Oh, no—he cute, he’s smart, and he doesn’t know which side he’s on. This can only end badly.
His last lover had ended up bleeding out on the ice from one of Eric’s little shurikens, and Eric still had no regrets.
He liked Brady—he’d regret it if he had to do the same thing to him.
He found himself stammering. “I’ll… if you don’t mind, I’ll go put on a shirt before that finishes.”
And then he fled.
He came back and found Ernie had scooped Katie up in his arms and was crooning to her while she went boneless. This kid was supernaturally gifted in more ways than one—Eric could swear he spoke Felinese.