Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ASH
I’d pushed the incident with the asshole at the bar to the back of my head, but I have to talk to JD about it today.
It’s volunteer day with Stryker Liquors, so JD asked me to meet him at the Jepsen Animal Shelter parking lot since it’s on his way to the office.
I was assigned here, along with Wes and the other bar staff.
Finally hooking up with Jada has relieved some tension I didn’t realize was weighing on me so much. Once we got back to Jepsen, we fooled around more before she had to launch into her weekly prep that she takes very seriously.
We didn’t talk about anything deeper or what this hooking up meant. We just fell into each other’s arms, getting each other off over and over again.
This morning, Jada pointedly avoided the deeper conversation about whatever we’ve done to our relationship, which I’m thankful for. I don’t think I’d be half as calm as I am if we’d actually spoken about what we are before I got to talk to JD.
I don’t know what Wes told JD about the incident, but since I wasn’t fired on the spot, I assume JD’s not raging mad.
He parks next to me and gets out. Like me, he’s wearing our light blue Stryker Liquors volunteer day T-shirt and jeans. But he’s volunteering somewhere else with the rest of the leadership team.
“Morning,” he says, sipping from his water bottle. “Wes told me you went off on a guy at the bar while you were working.”
A small thing I appreciate about JD is his willingness to keep niceties to a minimum. There’s no dancing around this.
“Yeah. He was being shitty to Jada. And just a dick.” I tuck my hands into my pockets and avoid his gaze.
“Mm.” He sips his water again and looks past my head. “We get a lot of assholes in the bar. You have to learn to manage your emotions when you’re working.”
His tone stings, like I’m a child being chastised. My defenses go up right away, and like a reflex, I start to speak. But he holds his hand up.
“But if someone were attacking Katrina, I’d have trouble keeping a lid on it, too,” he says. “Relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
No, I’m not. I’ve seen the way he looks at Katrina. Like she’s literally the only person that exists, and she’s perfect. Comparing how he feels about her with how I feel about Jada makes me want to get into my car and drive off. It’s not the same. Is it?
“No, you’re not,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You were about to say something. But I’m saying that while I don’t condone it, I see where you were coming from. Just don’t do it again. You can ask someone to leave if they’re stepping out of line. I’ve had to do it many times.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Just don’t do it again.” He checks his watch. “That’s it, I guess.”
“You had me come fifteen minutes early for a three-minute conversation?” I ask.
“I always put in buffer time for everything.” He glances at the building behind us. “Any questions so far about your job? You’ll be moving into the office soon.”
“Uh, not right now.” I run a hand through my hair.
“Aside from the incident, how have things been at the bar?”
“Fine. Good.” I shrug, feeling awkward in a way I can’t clearly define. “I like it, but I’m looking forward to seeing what life in the office is like.”
“Good.” He opens his car door. “See you in the office soon. And have a good day at the shelter.”
“Thanks.” I nod and step back so he can pull out.
I lean against my car door, trying to sort through my feelings.
I expected a lecture, the kind of thing he’d have to give me back in high school when he was forced to drive me home after school.
He’d needle on one point—mostly that he was annoyed he had to wait around for me to be out of detention to take me home, even though he just did his homework while he waited, or that I was going down the “wrong path.” Then that led to him basically implying that I was a useless dumbass.
But this was reasonable. And he didn’t make me feel like shit.
He related to me. He got me, for maybe one of the first times in our lives.
How unsettling.
I head inside before I’m late. The bartenders and the distillery team have been assigned to the shelter, so we’re crowded into the lobby. Eventually, a volunteer coordinator appears in a bright purple shirt, holding a clipboard.
“Hello, hello!” the woman, who might be around fifty, says.
“We’re so excited y’all are here. Today, we’re going to be doing a mix of socializing with our animals and general shelter maintenance.
We have both cats and dogs, so we’ll split you up into our cat folks and our dog folks, just to avoid smells crossing between the two. ”
I want to hang out with the dogs because I miss Lady, but I get assigned to the cats.
Another volunteer coordinator guides us to the cat side of the shelter.
The space is a large room, with smaller rooms with glass doors adjacent to it.
Crates line the walls, each with a cat inside.
Some are meowing and moving around, but a lot of them are passed out asleep.
“Okay, these are our cats,” the coordinator says.
“We’ve put info cards for each on the doors of their cages.
The cards will tell you which cats are a little more sociable than others.
But they’re all wonderful—this is just to help you gauge how you approach them so they’re happy.
Let me get three or four of you first to help with the regular cleaning.
The rest of you can visit with the cats, but please don’t remove any of them from their spaces until I give the go ahead. ”
A few people step forward, and they disappear into one of the other rooms. It’s just me and some guys from the distillery now.
I glance around at the cats, most of whom don’t give a shit that we’re here.
Some kittens, who are housed together, meow and vie for our attention, so I squat down and let them sniff my fingers.
Then, I hear a meow that I can only describe as gravelly and look up.
It’s the cat that crashed through Jada’s ceiling, looking down at me.
He really does look like Pip’s clone. But now that I know Pip better, I can see the differences—namely, that this cat has clearly seen some shit, wherever he came from.
He’s not dirty, but the look in his eye is a little wary.
Like he’s expecting me to pull a knife on him, which he’d immediately block with a swipe of his paws.
I stand up so we’re eye to eye, and he stares me down like I’m a piece of garbage.
“Why are you upset with me when you wrecked our ceiling?” I ask him.
He lets out a grumbly meow and turns away from me, showing me his butthole.
“Thanks for that,” I say. He makes a weird sound, something between a chirp and a meow, and turns around to face me again.
I skim the info card on his cage, which says his name is CC—short for Ceiling Cat.
I snort. Apparently he’s not aggressive or fearful but doesn’t really warm up to people.
I let him sniff my fingers through the cage bars, and to my surprise, he rubs his cheek on me.
The affectionate gesture is neutralized by him turning his back to me again, butt right at my eye level.
I visit with the other cats, reading all of their info and letting them sniff me when they seem interested. Each card is handwritten with affection, even though the cats aren’t in their forever homes yet.
“Okay, awesome,” the volunteer coordinator says when she comes back into the cat room. “Now it’s socializing time. We have a space one room over where we let them run free and play with y’all.”
The coordinator and one of her helpers point out a few cats who like other cats, and we help bring them into the play room. CC is one of them, even though he looks annoyed that he’s being moved.
The room is filled with cat trees, tunnels, and spots for the cats to hide. A few bins are filled with toys, and some of the kittens go straight toward the bins.
I grab a few mouse toys and sit on the ground toward the corner, away from everyone else. Pip has taught me that the more I try to give him space, the less space he wants. Maybe that’ll work on some of these cats.
Some stroll by me, but CC walks directly to me, stopping with a meow.
“Uh, hi.” I hold out a mouse toy, which he sniffs and takes from me.
He bats it around behind me, and I stay put. At least until something claws up my back and onto my shoulder, and I nearly yell before I stop myself. CC is on my shoulder, perched like I’m a pirate and he’s my parrot. I stay completely still. Is he going to swat at me? Or what?
I lift my hand and he briefly sniffs me, staying still. Like I’m a piece of furniture.
“Oh, how lovely!” The volunteer coordinator claps her hands together, beaming. “He’s never done that with anyone before!”
“Really? Seems like he’s had practice,” I say.
“He likes high places. Maybe try to stand?”
I glance at him, even though all I can see in my peripheral vision is a black patch of fur. I slowly shift from sitting, to kneeling, to standing, wincing when he digs his claws into my shoulder. But he stays put and even purrs a little.
“Here’s a tube treat.” The volunteer coordinator hands an open tube to me and CC shifts on my shoulder to lunge for it.
I take the tube and feed it to him. He sucks it down like it’s his last meal. I expect him to hop off now that I’ve given him a treat, but he still perches on me.
He stays on my shoulder, surveying the room, and only hops off when he’s close to one of the wall shelves.
I learn the hard way to stick close to him, because otherwise he takes a massive leap toward my shoulder and nearly gives me a concussion.
He even plays with other cats when I’m around, like I’m his bodyguard.
Close to lunch, Waylon pops his head into the cat room, then slips in when he sees that none of the cats will make a run for it.