Kim
All through the day I think about the damned statue and how I’m going to pry it out of Dane’s clutches before he hands it over to Wyatt.
Money won’t work. He’s too rich to be tempted.
Maybe a favor…?No. He already thinks he owns me because of that dumb bet with Salazar.
What, then?
Do I have to honor the bet? But even if I do, it still won’t mean that he has to give me the statue. I want to tell Salazar to give up, but he’s so, so determined to give the damn thing to Ceinlys.
Should I ask Ceinlys to tell Salazar she wants something more, mmm, romantic than Wife? But what if she asked for the damned statue? What if it was her idea?
Argh. I hate this!
On my way home, I buy a bottle of Merlot and some Kung Pao chicken. I deserve both after the kind of day I’ve had. Actually, the kind of week I’m having.
The bonus is the nice lady at the Chinese takeout place I love so much gave me a big bag so I could put everything in it. People like her remind me that the world isn’t full of crazy rich people like my boss or subhumans like Wyatt and Dane.
I march toward my unit, happy to be home at reasonable hour and looking forward to enjoying dinner with my favorite wine. You’ve got to find little pieces of joy in your life somehow, or you’ll end up being so miserable no therapy will—
Something on the hall floor catches my foot, and I stumble forward. Agh! Not the wine!
I manage to catch myself before I hit the floor. No food or drink is spilled. Relieved, I straighten up, about to kick away whatever it was that—
“Meow!”
I look down and see a small black cat. My annoyance immediately fades as I crouch and pick it up. It’s gorgeous, its deep ebony fur soft and silky. The only place that isn’t black is a crown-shaped patch of white on its head. I note it’s a female and cradle her in my arms. “Hey, little kitty, are you lost? I’ve never seen you around before.”
The cat licks her paw, ignoring me.
“Are you new? Are you Mrs. Lopez’s?” She lives at the end of the hall, and she’s been saying she wants a cat. I check for a collar, but although the cat has one, there’s no tag. Maybe I shouldn’t knock on Mrs. Lopez’s door, in case this isn’t hers. It might upset her because the reason she can’t have one is her husband. Mr. Lopez has never made a secret of his dislike of cats, and Mrs. Lopez has said more than once he’s an idiot she can’t get rid of because she’s a good Catholic.
I stand in the hall, unsure of what to do next. Maybe I should just take a picture of the cat and post it on the Facebook group for the building residents. Even if the owner isn’t in the group, somebody might recognize her.
“I guess we’ll just wait and see who comes to claim you. Do you have a name?” No response. “You know what? Since you have a crown on your head, I’ll call you Queen. I think that’s a fitting name, don’t you?”
Queen looks up, her gorgeous green eyes startlingly wide, then paws me gently and purrs. She even seems to give me a feline smile.
“Guess I got it right, huh?” The cat rubs itself all over me, purring like the engine of one of the fancy European cars my boss loves so much.
Holding Queen in one hand, I unlock my door. As I turn the knob, loud, rapid steps come down the hall.
“Hey! You can’t take my cat!”
I turn and face a small, skinny girl of maybe eight or nine. Her long, dark brown hair is straight, but messy and tangled as though she hasn’t bothered to brush it—and nobody else has either. She puts her hands on her hips and looks up at me, her owlish blue eyes bright with fire and wariness.
She’s in a starched white shirt and burgundy pleated skirt. A private school uniform, I decide. But I don’t know anybody on my floor with a kid going to a private school. Maybe somebody upstairs?
But what’s she doing this floor, then? And if her parents are well enough off to send her to a private school, shouldn’t they be able to afford a hairbrush or two?
“This is your cat? Probably should keep a better eye on her, then,” I say mildly, not wanting to alarm the girl. “I was just going to take her inside so she wouldn’t get lost. Guess I don’t have to do that, since you’re here.”
“Right.” She nods.
I hand her the cat. “Okay, then. Here you go.”
She takes Queen and thanks me politely. I stand, waiting for her to leave. I want to make sure she returns home, even though we’re inside an apartment building. There are a few older kids I don’t care for. They aren’t in a gang or anything, but they have that “mean jerk” look all over them. I don’t want her getting bullied.
Or maybe she already was. They could’ve done that to her hair.
But the girl doesn’t move. “Aren’t you going home?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nobody’s home. I locked myself out looking for the cat. She’s not supposed to be wandering around. She’s an indoor cat.”
I scowl. It’s like… I check my watch. Almost seven. This girl shouldn’t be alone. “How old are you?”
“Ten.”
Geez. “Can you call your mom or dad?”
She shakes her head again. “I’m not supposed to bother them.” Her shoulders droop for a moment.
“Oh.” Sympathy stirs. It sucks when you’re so low on your parents’ priority list that you can’t even call to let them know you’re locked out. I know what that feels like.
I wonder if I should call 911 or something, but if I do, it’s going to cause a lot of problems for her parents. And that probably won’t help. At the same time, I can’t just let her stay out in the hall.
“Want to come in?” I say. “I was about to have dinner. You can join me, if you’d like.”
“Uh… I’m not really supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”
At least she isn’t totally naive.“Well, my name is Kim, and I live in this unit.” I tilt my head at my door. “So you won’t be going very far.”
“I’m Vi.”
“Nice to meet you, Vi. So…” Although I understand why she doesn’t want to come in, a small part of me wishes she would just say okay so I can have my Kung Pao chicken while it’s still hot. “About that dinner…?”
She gives it some thought. “Well…if you really live right here…”
I let her in and shut the door. She places the cat on the foyer and looks around.
I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen. “I got Chinese food. Have you ever had that before?”
“Yeah.”
“You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?”
“Just Max Iverson.”
I try not to laugh. “Who’s he?”
“This boy who sits next to me in class. He uses this soap that makes me sneeze.”
“Well, he won’t be eating with us, so you’ll probably be okay.” I spread the cartons and plastic containers out on the table. “Kung Pao chicken, egg drop soup and some shrimp fried rice. Take whatever you like.” I hand her utensils and a plate and a bowl. “I only have water,” I say, giving her a glass, then serve myself a liberal dose of Merlot.
“Can I have some of that?” she asks.
“When you’re twenty-one,” I say. My mom was pretty liberal with alcohol at home and didn’t care if I had it when I was underage—I’m certain she thought it’d make me grow up to be more worldly and more trophy-wifey—but I’m not giving it to somebody’s kid.
She shrugs. “Thank you,” she says, surprisingly polite, then portions a bit of everything onto her plate. “Is it okay if I give some to Princess?”
“Who?”
She points at the cat, which has approached and is hissing at her.
Weird. Shouldn’t she be purring at the idea of food? “Oh. Her name is Princess? I thought it should be Queen because of the crown mark.”
“Mom thought Princess was a cuter name. Besides, Mom’s the queen, not some cat.” Vi is speaking in that “I’m a cool teen” voice, but she’s only ten. She can’t quite disguise the unhappiness and wistfulness in her tone.
“Makes sense. So where’s your mom? Working?”
“No, she’s getting married. So she’s really busy.”
“Oh.” That’s…awkward. It reminds me entirely too much of how my own mother used to get married all the time. Well, not all the time. Just five freakin’ times, each successive husband becoming older and richer. Thankfully I only had to witness the fifth one, but she told me all about the others in great, excruciating detail, with twenty photo albums. She even took pictures of her individual toes on the day of those weddings. “That’s…” I search for a suitable word, but can’t think of any. “That’s…um…good for her, I guess…?” I say, hoping her mom isn’t marrying for money, but for true love or at least some kind of course correction.
Vi scowls. “I guess.”
I squirm. This is really uncomfortable. “Are you going to be in the wedding? Maybe a flower girl or train bearer or something?” My mother wanted me to be a flower girl for her fifth wedding. She thought it was adorable and showed her true love for the groom. When I told her I didn’t want to, she made me do it anyway.
Vi looks down at her plate. “No. She doesn’t really want me there.”
But I hear more. She doesn’t really want me.
Oh, you poor thing.Even my mother lets me know she loves me, although her way of showing it is pretty messed up. Like telling me to marry the richest guy available.
“She doesn’t even want Princess, because her fiancé doesn’t like cats. She says he’s allergic, but I think that’s a lie. He’s a creepy perv.”
“I’m sure Princess is better off with you,” I say softly, not wanting to get into all the other drama. That’s her parents’ issue to deal with, not mine.
“Yeah, maybe.” Vi forces a smile. “The girls at school are nice and so much more mature than the ones at my old school.” Then she sighs, the sound small but audible.
There’s no way ten-year-olds are mature, but obviously she’s decided to be like them and fit in. Then my gaze goes to her hair. If she’s trying to fit in with the “mature” girls in her school, she should never go to school with hair like that. “So. What’s the new style in your school?” I have no idea what’s cool in school these days, and I don’t want to be like my mom, who just assumed that what was awesome to her would be awesome to teenagers.
“Something like this.” She points at her own hair. “I teased it this morning, although it doesn’t hold the shape very well. I think I need a new spray. The girl in the tutorial looked really great.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. What she needs is better technique. Her hair looks like a raptor’s nest. Besides, do little girls even tease their hair? Is that a thing, or is she just doing it because she saw it on some social media site?
I’m curious, but hold my tongue. It’s none of my business. So instead, I say, “That should help, but you can also try something else. I used to tease mine too, and learned a few tricks. Want me to show you?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Really?” Then she stares at my non-teased mane. “But how come you don’t wear it like that anymore?”
“It isn’t really right for where I work. But I can show you.”
She considers, then nods. “Okay. Thank you.”