Chapter 29
Dominic
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl, yanking the pillow over my head.
My room is at the back of the house, and the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but for the past fucking hour all I’ve heard is, “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
Now there’s scratching at the glass, tiny claws raking over it like a miniature, furry hitman making sure I know my yard and my life are now under new management.
I’ve got news for him.
I peel the pillow back just enough to glare at the round silhouette of a cat on the windowsill. I’m honestly surprised the fat fuck can even sit on it without toppling off.
My fingers fist the pillowcase before I hurl it across the room in his direction. “You freeloading little fucker,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
The stupid fat cunt just continues to stare at me, like he’s not bothered in the slightest. “You’ve got five seconds to stop, and get the fuck out of here, or I swear I’ll kick you all the way into next week. Go annoy one of the other neighbours. I’m trying to sleep.”
When I get a smug “Meow” in response, I reach my limit.
I throw back my covers and leap from the bed. The cat eyes me suspiciously, and I’m not sure if it’s sizing me up or getting ready to flee.
But, instead of moving towards the window, I swing my bedroom door open and thunder down the hall like a sleep-deprived maniac.
When I reach Emily’s room, I don’t slow down. I barge right in with zero hesitation. Privacy is for people who aren’t being held hostage by a fat feline terrorist.
Emily Ashford started this bullshit, so she can damn well deal with it.
This is precisely why you don’t feed a greedy fucking animal like Baboo-whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. You shoo it out of your yard and let it haunt someone else’s life.
Strays—or greedy little guts AKA the furball currently ruining my life—get attached when they sense weakness … and unfortunately, Emily practically bleeds it.
I pause at the edge of her bed, something soft and silky catching under my foot. I glance down, and my eyes narrow when I see what’s peeking out from beneath my toes.
Red satin.
Her underwear.
A slow, dangerous heat crawls up my spine.
I move my foot and bend to scoop the tiny scrap of fabric up between my fingers like I’m handling evidence from a scene I should absolutely walk away from, but of course I don’t.
Kleptomania hits again, hard, because I can’t even talk myself out of it. I ball the satin up, move my hand behind me, and shove them past the waistband of my boxers. I’m damn well keeping them. Call it compensation for the obese tyrant currently holding court on my windowsill.
I straighten, trying to act casual, but when my eyes flicker back to Emily, her wide, unblinking baby blues are now locked on me. “Why are you in my room?” she asks, her voice laced with suspicion.
Was she watching me the whole time? And how the fuck would I even begin to explain what I did with her underwear?
Maybe the better question is, why the hell was her underwear lying on the floor beside her bed in the first place? Is she going commando under those covers? Fuck. I scrub the thought from my brain before my cock gets any ideas.
“We have a problem,” I grumble.
She bolts upright. “Oh, my God. Has something happened?”
“Come,” is my only reply as I hold out my hand.
I’m not prepared for the jolt that hits me when she wraps her dainty fingers around mine, completely trusting.
I tug on her arm slightly when she throws back the covers. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed to see she’s wearing a nightgown.
I look away as she rises because I don’t want to get caught staring at her bare legs or get confirmation she’s wearing nothing underneath.
Once she’s risen, I begin moving towards the door, keeping her hand locked in mine the entire time.
When we enter my room, she doesn’t even hesitate to follow. She has no idea why I brought her here until I point towards the annoying offender.
“Oh, Babooshka,” she says, clutching her chest with her free hand. “He came back. Bless his little heart.”
“Little heart? Statistically improbable, given his mass.”
“Hey!”
“He’s been sitting there for over an hour, meowing like a fucking peasant that hasn’t eaten in days.”
“Babooshka isn’t a peasant; he’s homeless.”
“He isn’t homeless, Emily. I bet the fat fuck weighs more than Lil’ Peach. And while we’re on the subject, Babooshka is a girl’s name, he has balls, remember?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you sing she signed the letter?”
“Oh … right. My bad. I’m sure there’s another male named Babooshka somewhere in the world.”
I scoff. “I highly doubt that, and if there is, I bet he got the shit kicked out of him at school.”
“Nobody is going to beat him up because of his name,” she deadpans.
“I was beaten for far less when I was a kid,” I admit.
Her pretty blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You were beaten as a kid? Why?”
I run my hand over my hair. I don’t even know why I told her that. She doesn’t need to hear my sob story or how I was pushed around and laughed at for the dumbest shit.
For a haircut one of my foster dads’ messed up. For wearing a jacket three sizes too big because nobody gave a damn. For not having parents, or for being the kid everyone assumed would fall through the cracks.
The list of petty humiliations go on forever, and no one ever noticed or cared.
It all stopped when I had my growth spurt and figured out how to turn all that anger outward instead of letting it eat me alive.
“It doesn’t matter. What are we going to do with Fat Cat? He can’t stay there; if he does, I’ll probably end him before whatever medical disaster he’s brewing gets to him first.”
“He doesn’t have a medical disaster brewing inside him, Dominic,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah?” I lift a brow. “You sure? Because he looks like he’s about three snack breaks away from a full-blown health crisis.
Heart disease, diabetes, and gout. Hell, he probably has high cholesterol, joint pain, and an untreated eating disorder.
That cat’s carrying more conditions than most pensioners are. ”
Emily presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “Stop it.”
“I’m being realistic, Em. He needed a running start just to get up on my windowsill. I swear I heard his knees cry in pain the second he landed.”
She snorts. “Cats don’t have knee problems.”
“Fat ones do,” I mutter. “Trust me. What I heard was the sound of cartilage begging for mercy.”
She tries not to laugh, but her smile slips out anyway. “You’re being a tad dramatic.”
“Am I? Look at him. The bastard is wheezing just sitting down. And don’t pretend you can’t hear it. And it’s not asthma, don’t even think about lending him your inhaler. What you’re hearing is the beginning of a death rattle.”
She shakes her head. “Aww, poor kitty. Be nice.”
“He looks like a beanbag with legs.”
This time, her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I try to stop the grin curving my lips, but it’s futile.
“Maybe he’s hungry. I should feed him.”
“No,” I grumble, tightening my grip on her hand when she tries to turn and leave. “If you do that, he’ll never go.”
“Should I bring him inside? Maybe he’s cold; it looks cloudy and miserable out there.”
“Not happening.”
“I might go and spend some time with him. He’s probably lonely and in need of some loving.”
I’m in need of some loving, too; maybe I should curl up on her windowsill like a giant, emotionally constipated cat and see how far that gets me.
Emily’s been outside for over an hour. After slipping back into her room to change, she coaxed Fat Cat off the windowsill.
I should have gone back to bed as planned, but I don’t move. I can’t. I’m still here, watching from the shadows.
A smile quirks at the corner of my lips every time she glances back at the house, making sure nobody’s watching, before she pulls another snack from her pocket and feeds him.
But despite the smile, I hate that he’s getting all her attention. God, I sound like the cat, needy and fucking desperate. Maybe that’s the point. I’m the one now stuck on the sidelines, waiting for someone like her to care.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I hear Lil’ Peach over the monitor. Moving towards the chest of drawers, I pull out a pair of sweats and slip into them before going to get her.
“Hey, baby girl,” I say when I find her standing at the side of her cot. She’s getting too big for this thing; maybe it’s time for a big girl bed.
I’m grinning as I approach, and she reaches for me with her tiny hands. Peach gave me my life back, a family, and a reason to want to come home.
“Emmy,” I hear her mumble as she buries her face in my chest.
It’s been the two of us for the past three years, and it’s always felt like enough until recently, when it began feeling like it wasn’t. It’s not just me who’s craving more, I want it for my baby girl, too.
“Emily’s outside with Fat Cat.”
“Fat Cat,” she repeats.
Instead of plopping her down in front of the television while I put milk in her sippy cup, I find myself heading for the back door.