Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

To a growing realization that she didn’t want to go back from here. She wanted to go forward.

She so much wanted to go forward that it would have taken one finger pushing on the delicate necklace so near the pulse in her throat and she’d have been lying back on the Crossfire hood.

Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was what he meant by going slow (although it might be what she considered going crazy).

His parents had followed the moment and the magic and couldn’t bear to face each other, and perhaps him, now. Not for them.

They necked for another extremely overheated ten minutes, then packed up their salt-cedar picnic.

And left.

Chapter 61

The World His Oyster

I am waiting up for my Miss Temple, my tail thumping with impatience. It is not right for a roommate to announce a midnight return from a social engagement and then to be three hours late!

Normally, I am content to let others come and go at their pleasure and their leisure, since I do not want anyone dictating hours to me.

However, time and again I have proved to be my Miss Temple’s muscle. Although I know Mr. Matt Devine to be such a straight arrow that he could aim his fancy new car at the town of Reno hundreds of miles to the north and hit it dead on, I have to wonder what he could be doing to keep my roomie up so late?

Could it be a breakdown of the Crossfire? Flat tire? Gas tank leak? An attempted hijacking? Kidnapping? Encounter with terrorists? UFOs?

Perhaps I have become a teensy bit too attached to my Miss Temple.

I should have hitchhiked a ride in the Crossfire. Then I would not be worrying now. I pace like a Big Cat. Hey! I am a Big Cat.

I chew my nails. I will certainly raise a ruckus when the truants come home safe and sound at—I eye the clock on the VCR. Three-thirty! What are they thinking of? Certainly not me!

But … now I hear voices. In the short hallway leading to our domicile.

Very low voices. Nice of them to worry about not keeping anyone up when I have been wearing out my pads with pacing!

A key in the door. I go to sit by it, assuming a stern, accusing posture. She could have left a note.

The door swings open a hair but no further.

I still hear murmurs.

I insert my head silently into the opening, assuming a put-upon look. I have not had a treat spooned over my Free-to-beFeline since we left for the Teen Queen Castle. I am hungry!

My Miss Temple is leaning against the door frame with her hands braced behind her like she has all the time in the world. She looks half asleep. Correction: she looks like she is half dreaming.

Mr. Matt has leaned a hand on the doorjamb above her head. At least he is not neglecting her.

Miss Temple jams the toe of her purple silk sandal into the wooden hall floor, looking down. He is looking down on her shockingly blonde head.

“You could come in,” she says, a strange slow, reluctant, warm, inviting tone in her voice, like she means it and is afraid she does mean it.

No! I am waiting impatiently for a long-delayed spread of oysters and shrimp over my Free-to-beFeline! Enough palaver!

Apparently, Mr. Matt agrees, for he drops his hand from the door frame and catches her hands tight behind her back and … well, his other hand lifts up her face and he does something totally unfeline and quite unfit for the youthful eyes of my species.

It is a good thing I have been around humans during mating season, for I shut my eyes in time to avoid witnessing something we would all prefer that I did not.

And then my Miss Temple is in the room at last, a silly sort of shawl trailing off of one shoulder, bringing with her a suffocating floral scent as well as the dreamy attitude.

The door is closed and we are alone at last! I howl my anxiety and indignation.

“Louie! So glad you made it home safe,” she says. So I could say.

“I will get you something,” she adds.

But she doesn’t. She turns back to the closed door and presses against it. Almost pulls it open again. Stops. Paces in the tiny hall. Goes to the living room and picks up her cell phone. Holds it to her mouth as if it were a flower.

Speaking of which, I wish she’d ditch the wrist corsage, which I have determined is the source of the noxiously sweet odor. I have had enough of them in this case.

She paces some more. Counts to fifty under her breath, then dials a number. And listens. And paces. And listens.

“What?” she demands of the room in general. “He has to be there by now!” Pacing.

And I thought my species had that down.

She kicks off the high heels. And paces some more. And then redials.

She stops suddenly to regard me as if seeing me for the first time. But not to proffer food or even a welcoming caress.

“Cold shower?” she asks me.

She hurls the cell phone to the sofa. Why is she mad? She is like, really angry.

She retrieves the phone and hits the redial button again.

People are so predictable with their toys. I suppose it is somewhat entertaining to watch them cavort with technology.

Then she stares at me again and bends down to swoop me up in her arms.

First of all, I do not “swoop.”

Second of all, I weight almost twenty pounds so I am quite a bundle of bones for her to hoist.

Third of all, she is wearing this dress with only a halter top, so I have nothing but warm bare flesh to wrap my legs around. Ick! It takes all my considerable self-control to keep from latching on to her with my shiv tips.

Perhaps that is why she has goose bumps on her arms.

She carries me to the French doors leading to her petite balcony, opens one, and walks out into the finally cooling night.

Below us lies the serene blue rectangle of the pool and, on the other side, the parking lot.

She gazes out, idly stroking my chin and throat.

All right. This is better. I think about rewarding her diligence with a slight purr.

Suddenly, she stiffens. All over. Her hand on my throat almost throttles me.

I look down to see that Mr. Matt has strolled out tc the pool. He is far more clothed than usual in that area. and he too begins pacing!

My Miss Temple’s grip tightens.

Mr. Matt sits on one of the lounge chairs and proceeds to remove his shoes and stockings! Well, I have always felt that humans were way overdressed. He looks like Tom Sawyer by the riverbank, I think, having lounged on a lot of library books in my time. (One does pick up things.) Miss Temple edges, barefoot too, to the edge of the balcony.

I, of course, am carried along with her, unwilling. I have definitely revoked the purr.

He stands up, lays his jacket on the lounge chair, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

My Miss Temple is as still as a stalking cat. I did not know she had such skills in her. She watches. I can practically feel her whiskers twitching, her pupils slitting. (These are figures of speech. She is not so elegantly accoutered as me and my kind, alas.) But she is as alert as any alley cat, which is high praise from me.

Mr. Matt’s instincts are nothing to spit at tonight either. He suddenly looks up.

They see each other.

My Miss Temple does not move a muscle, except that her heart revs up.

He looks at her. She looks at him.

He keeps undoing buttons on his shirt. Then it is on the lounge chair.

He begins on the trousers—silly convention! He stops at the underwear, which is dark and understated, at least.

My Miss Temple’s fingernails are starting to seriously impinge on my musculature, which is almost in as admirable a state as Mr. Matt’s.

What is the big deal? She has seen him in his swim trunks before.

All I can say is the night is strangely charged until hedives into the deep end of the lit aquamarine pool and begins swimming laps back and forth.