11
11
LOST KITTY
A w, hell’s bells. I tossed her dice of ice onto my metal watch tray with a sigh. I could’ve handled that better. One of The Academy’s less punitive consequences was cleaning out the kennels and helping with dog training. One of the lessons I’d gleaned from this childhood endeavor was that in order to gain trust, you have to wait and let the canines come to you. Curiosity soon takes over. I assumed this analogy worked for kitties too. My pussy kat had been sniffing at me more and more lately, exploring a little further, a hand running up my arm here, a restless leg thrown over my thigh there, searching for my attention and affection.
And just like a kitty on the loose, I didn’t run after her. She’d find her way home. Let her cool down in the cold rain. The truth was: I didn’t want her to know about my background in psychology. She was a smart girl. She would figure out that I’d psychoanalyzed and manipulated her. Except for the personality profiles for prospective marks, I’d purposefully left any psych classes off her schedule. And nobody said anything about it. But now it was only a matter of time before she put it together. That burgeoning intuition of hers could become a big problem.
It was stupid of me to leave it lying around. Careless. A rare mistake. I was tired. It had been a long mission, and all I wanted to do was sit on the couch with her and watch TV and work on turning her on. I’d taken two steps back tonight. I thought about that body I was starting to explore. The kind a high school dude would doodle on the back of his notebook: exaggerated waist, plump heart-shaped ass, long athletic legs. Except for the tits. A pubescent boy would’ve drawn Playboy-sized silicone numbers. Her Baby Bs were just enough to keep you satisfied and as pretty as she was.
I felt myself grow hard. Stupid. I’d really blown it tonight. I was really tired . . . but not too tired. I snatched up my cell and actually made a call. Too late to text a booty call.
“Hello?” She answered on the final ring. Obviously orchestrated to make me sweat.
“Hey, Liz,” I greeted coolly. “Wanna have a sleepover at my place?”
“Won’t your fiancée frown at that?”
Snippety. I could get around snippety. Pissed was a lot harder.
“We’re currently in the throes of a lovers’ quarrel. But if you prefer to sleep alone on a cold, lonely night I understand.” Silence followed this. “As I recall, we had a really good time last time. Come on . . . keep me warm tonight?” I coaxed.
A small sigh. “Okay. But this is the last time, Ranger. I mean it.”
“That’s what you said last time, Liz. I’ll send Smitty to get you in ten.”
I hung up feeling a little let down it would be the lovely Lizzie walking through that door in twenty minutes and not my fianceé. I snatched my PAC from the scene of her crime and fired it up, punching in some more codes.
I pondered what the hell was happening to me when I’d rather sit on the couch and make-out than a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sure thing. One thing for sure, I’d have to think of something clever to make up for tonight. Davenport was right about . . . well, a lot of things actually. But in this case, I was referring to her not caring about material things. Harder to buy someone’s affection that way. I had to actually work f or it.
I dialed another extension. A SAP came on the line. “This is Nealson. Please send Cadet Connelly a hot tea tray right away.”
“Would you like me to include an assortment of cookies, sir?”
“Oh, why not.”
“Very good, sir. Will that be all?”
“For tonight.” I hung up and immediately thumbed in a code. Then waited for my fiancée to walk through her door, while I waited for my booty call to walk through mine.