47. Bowie
BOWIE
S omething hot and furry was sitting on my chest. And something sharp was poking me in the face. I opened a bleary eye to find a yellowish one staring back at me. It was early. Very early. I didn’t have to be at school for another two hours.
“Meow?” the fat tub of cat said, again bringing his paw to my face.
When I didn’t immediately respond to whatever he was asking, the fucker stabbed me in the face with a pawful of nails.
I asked you nicely, fucker, his grumpy face seemed to say.
“Ouch!”
“Mmm, George. No stabbing.” Cassidy was curled up against my side, her back to me. She was naked and not entirely awake.
Yep. Cassidy Ann Tucker was in bed with me. Today was officially the best day of my entire life.
George celebrated with me with another stab to my face.
“Ouch! Ooof!” The breath was pushed out of me when another warm, furry bulk landed on my stomach. Sir Edmund Hillary had decided to throw his hat into the ring for most annoying wake-up ever.
He peered over his brother, looking quizzically at me.
“They’re not used to two bodies in bed,” Cassidy yawned, wiggling her backside up against me. I dumped both cats on to the mattress and rolled onto my side, spooning her.
“They better get used to it,” I told her, burying my face in her hair.
I was hard. Throbbingly hard. My body was busy remembering all of the sensations from last night and insistent in its desire to re-enact every single one.
Cassidy gave out a sweet little sigh and cuddled back into me. I couldn’t think of a better way to start my day.
“Was it my imagination or did you tell me you loved me about eight times last night?” I asked, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.
“Definitely your imagination.”
I could hear the smile in her voice.
“Was it my imagination or did you say we weren’t going to have sex last night?”
I bit her on the shoulder. “Definitely your imagination.”
Eight sets of claws sank into my hip and shoulder as two cats scrambled to perch like freaking parrots on the highest points of my body.
“Son of a?—”
“They want breakfast,” Cassidy said, burying her face in her pillow.
The fat one was poking me in the face again.
“Fine. You win, feral furballs,” I muttered.
I tried to roll carefully so as not to startle them, but it was to no avail.
They knew breakfast was on the line here.
George dug his back claws into me and slid down my bicep.
Eddie followed suit by clinging to my flesh through the sheet until he rolled off of me.
They tried to kill me on the stairs.
George stopped short in front of me while Eddie snaked his way through my legs. While I grabbed the handrail and missed four or five steps, they resumed their race to the kitchen.
“You okay?” Cassidy called out sleepily.
“Peachy,” I called back. Two murderous felines were not going to ruin the best day of my life.
I checked my phone and found a text from Jonah. Oops.
I probably should have told him I wasn’t coming home last night.
Jonah: How long do you wait before you report someone missing? Unrelated can I have your blender if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere? It makes great smoothies.
I fired off a response as the cats meowed in an obnoxious duet at my feet.
Me: Sorry. All is well. I’m willing to discuss blender custody. Be home soon.
I wasn’t a fan of lying or omitting. Technically I was home. I was under my home’s roof. But I’d made a deal with Cass, and I wasn’t going to give her reason to regret it less than twelve hours later.
“You already have food,” I said accusingly, pointing at the matching cat bowls piled high with dried food.
The cats looked at my finger and blinked.
“Look. This is food.” I reached into one dish and stirred the kibble with my fingers .
That was good enough for George. He attacked the bowl like his last meal had been a week ago. Eddie was still skeptical. I stirred the food in the other bowl. Eddie sniffed.
My phone pinged.
Jonah: You’re not rotting in jail because Devlin is out of bail money?
Me: All is well. Be home soon.
That should be enough to curb any more questions. Bodine men, even the one who hadn’t grown up with the rest of us, didn’t much care to get too personally involved in things like where our brothers spent the night.
Jonah: We’re out of coffee. Pick some up on your way home?
Well, shit. I glanced toward Cassidy’s coffeemaker. She was the prepared type. She probably had to go cups around here somewhere.
Me: No problem. See you in a bit.
I made a move toward the coffeemaker when the smaller cat darted in front of me. I tripped over him and knocked over a dining chair.
“Eddie, you fuckwit!”
Both cats, ears back, flew out of the room.
“Everything okay?” Cassidy called down on a yawn.
“Just fine,” I yelled back.
Jonah: You know I can hear you over there, right?
“Damn it.”
There was a tap on the door in the hallway by the kitchen. Reluctantly, I opened it a crack.
Jonah was standing there, smugly drinking a cup of coffee.
“I thought we were out of coffee.”
“I thought you were dead in a ditch.”
“I thought we were keeping this quiet,” Cassidy said, grumpily from the stairs.
“Morning, Cass,” Jonah said. “Sleep well?”
“You better swear him to secrecy, Bowie Bodine,” Cassidy said moving past me to stab buttons on the coffeemaker.
“So here’s the thing, Jonah,” I began.