Pawn (The Pawn Duet #2) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,4

a faster and louder pace. The feline equivalent of, you can’t ignore me forever!

“Fuck, alright, hang the fuck on!” I yell. Leaving my bottle of whiskey, I pad over to the door, cracking it open. I head back to the couch, plopping down onto the well-worn leather. Plucking the whiskey bottle from the table, I tip it back and take a long—much needed—pull.

The source of the meowing jumps up onto my lap and positions itself so that its little grey and white striped paws are on my chest, its apple-shaped head resting below my chin. It weighs no more than a couple of pounds and is no bigger than my Glock 43. The tiny creature looks up at me with a runny nose and even runnier eyes. It meows again, the sound vibrating against my chest.

I sigh. “I know. She’s gone. I don’t know what the fuck to do about it either,” I say, scratching it behind the ears.

My explanation apparently isn’t good enough for the scrawny little thing because suddenly its claws dig into skin through my shirt. I leap to my feet with the whiskey bottle still in my hand, but the thing doesn’t let go, it only sinks its little talons deeper, hanging off my shirt and essentially from my skin like a little fuzzy parasite. Shaking it off doesn’t work either and only earns me a hiss.

“Are we interrupting an interpretive dance recital?” Nine asks from the open doorway. “Because I don’t remember you telling me you were taking dance lessons.”

“Interpretive dance is overrated,” Preppy chimes in, pushing past his younger brother into the room. “It’s all about theatrical dance now.”

“And how would you know that?” Nine asks, stepping into the kitchen as Preppy takes a seat on the couch, draping a leg over the armrest.

Preppy scoffs. “How does one not fucking know that?”

I grab hold of the back of the kitten’s neck and yank, successfully managing to detach it from both my skin and my shirt. It hisses again, and I hiss back. “Fucking prick,” I swear.

That earns me another hiss.

“What’s with the cat?” Nine asks, opening the fridge and pulling out a beer. He uses the edge of the counter to pop the top off with his fist. “New friend?”

I cross the room and set the thing back out in the hallway. I kick the door shut behind me. I’ll take the fucking relentless meowing over being shanked with twenty tiny shives.

Nine raises his eyebrows and points to my shirt. I look down to find it’s pebbled with droplets of blood. “Little fucker,” I mutter, pulling off my shirt and throwing it on the counter. I take another swig from the bottle, and then another, and another, until I’ve swallowed several mouthfuls. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as my throat burns and blood drips down my chest.

“You need an AA meeting or something?” Preppy asks, eyeing the now half-empty bottle.

“You, of all people, need to be asking that question?” I spit back. I take a seat on the recliner and rest the bottle on my knee.

“Touchy, are we? Besides, I can ask you that because I’m not an addict. I’m a party opportunist. There’s a difference.” Preppy pulls out a large bag of blow from his pocket and dips a key from his keychain inside. He closes one nostril and snorts it. He, then, holds out the key to me. “Bump?”

“I’ll pass. I’m not really in the mood to feel alert.”

Nine chuckles. “Party opportunist? This ain’t exactly a party, Prep.”

Preppy sniffs, shoving the bag back into his shirt pocket. He holds his nostrils shut and then sniffles again, shaking his head rapidly from one side to the other. “Yes, party opportunist.” He points to himself, Nine, and then me. “We have three people, booze, and blow. I see the opportunity for a party, and I take it.”

Nine rolls his eyes. “So, can we get back to the cat? What the fuck was up with that?”

I scratch my chin. “It’s nothing. Just a fucking cat.”

“Liar,” Nine says, snatching the bottle from my hand. He pours a large amount into a glass and hands it to me as if it will somehow slow me down. He sets the bottle back on the counter. “I know Mickey loved those fucking alley cats. Is that why you got one of them up here?”

“It was supposed to be a gift,” I reluctantly admit. “For Mickey. That one was always on her lap. She hated