4. Her Praise Kink

Hollis

I'm trying. I swear, I'm trying not to laugh. But seriously?

"Who names a cat Frances Furbottom?" I ask, but the question's for the universe since Briar has already wriggled halfway through the pet door. "Who's a pretty girl?" she coos, her voice a little muffled. "Such a pretty girl with such a pretty tail."

Well, someone has a praise kink.

I kneel next to Briar, gripping her backpack, ready to execute the hand-off back to Gav the second our gal grabs the quarry. Ready, too, in case anything goes wrong. I'm inches away from her and here to help, no matter what she needs. Cover, a lift, a pep talk—anything.

Briar slithers in even more, and now it's just her pink legs sticking out. "It's the fluffiest tail I've ever seen. And yes, good girls get tuna. That's right, Mrs. Frances Furbottom. I have a special treat for you."

A pause.

A too fucking long pause.

"Is she even coming to you?" I whisper, eager to help my friend score this feline. Eager to do it quickly since Gavin is rolling his hands, indicating we need to speed it up, so I've got to get her off the balcony ASAP.

"Almost here," Briar says in her normal voice, then returns to her sweet talking. "Such a good, pretty girl. No one in the whole world is prettier. And tuna makes you even lovelier."

Another stretched out silence, like the second before the puck drops. I sense the capture is about to happen before paws scrabble, then Briar declares, "Gotcha."

Victory! But the sound that rips through the air rends a hole in the fabric of the universe. "Meow!"

I shudder at the thunderous cat cry. It's a demon summoned from the depths of the underworld. "Is she killing you, Pretzel?"

"She's"—Briar wriggles her ass out to the tune of an unholy wail—"not"—she shimmies her waist back through the door. The creature howls—"happy."

Yeah, that's clear.

Gavin hums the Jeopardy! theme song.

That's clear too. I gotta move this along. "Gonna pull you out, 'kay?"

"'Kay."

"Hold on tight to Frances Hellcat Furbottom."

"Yup."

I grab Briar's hips, nice and firm, and yank her the rest of the way then jump out of the line of cat fire when Briar's free. Good thing since the silvery fluffball in her arms is gnashing her teeth and spinning her head in a cat exorcism. In a flash, I shove the open bag at Briar, and she performs the most impressive yoga move of all time—stuffing the devil beast into it, zipping it up, then swinging it onto her shoulders in seconds flat.

"C'mon, guys. Let's go," Gavin whispers urgently.

I give Briar a boost over the railing, where she drops down into Gavin's waiting arms, and I'm the last one out. I climb over too, catching a fleeting glimpse of Rhys handing something to a dude in a mesh hat.

Pretty sure there's a clause somewhere in my contract that second-story cat rescues are verboten so I pray to the hockey gods that I can keep living an injury-free life as I jump down seconds after Briar, who's telling Gavin he can leave the gnome behind.

Gavin must have put the books away while we were up there, since he's already got the suitcase in his hand as he sets the gnome down. The three of us race across the lot toward a faded blue Honda, old but well-kept, as the cat thrashes and roars.

Grabbing the key fob from her pocket, Briar points it and unlocks the car while running, which might be one of the hottest things I've ever seen, and maybe that's what's fueling my attraction to her right now—because I lusted after action heroines when I was a kid. Though, in all fairness, I've pretty much thought Briar was hot every time she played pool or Ping-Pong with our friend group over the last couple years. She slides in and drops the cat bag onto the floor of the passenger seat next to the world's cutest wiener dog right as I climb in shotgun. The pooch barks a surprised but enthusiastic hello, then scampers into my lap to lick my face.

"Hey, long dog." I hold the pup while I locate the buckle.

Gavin piles into the backseat with the suitcase, shoving aside a couple garbage bags with clothes peeking through the top. Jesus. Briar's ex is a piece of work.

Briar cranks on the engine and peels out of the spot like she's a Hollywood racer. "You're the grease woman and the getaway driver," I say, impressed.

"I can handle more than one task at a time," she says dryly, flashing a smile as she cruises over to Rhys, who's waving goodbye to the guy in the hat, then calling out a chipper "cheers" to him. She stops for our friend as a gleaming black SUV pulls up to the curb twenty feet down the road.

My teammate grabs the door handle and gets in behind Briar onto the backseat, hauling the trash bag next to him onto his lap. I'm dying to know what went down with the hat dude, but I'm a little worried about our driver. Her trace of a smile has vanished. Her fingers grip the wheel tighter as she flicks the right-turn signal, checking traffic anxiously.

"That's my ex," she says tightly, nodding to the SUV where a guy in a paisley shirt now offers a hand to a leggy brunette stepping out of the passenger side, dangling a pink rhinestone-studded cat collar in her hand.

Spotting an opening, Briar pulls onto the road, exhaling. As we drive past them, the cat caterwauls once more.

"And I believe that was fuck you in feline," I say.

"Yes. Yes, it was," Briar says, giving me a faint smile that makes me feel like we made her shitty day a little bit better, and that's even better than winning our game.

She hits the gas, and I don't know where we're going. I'm not sure where runaway cats and sexy action heroine yoga instructors go when the chips are down, but I know one thing for sure—I'm comin' with her.