“It’s not dinnertime yet, Jinx.” She meows back, but this time with a little more attitude behind it. “Don’t you sass me like that.”
She jumps on the counter next to me, the one place she knows she’s not supposed to be. But cats are notorious for making up their own rules.
“What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” The second I reach out to grab her, she flops onto her belly, doing her I’m a cute little kitty dance. I finally get my hands around her black, furry middle, and help her back down to the kitchen floor, just in time for the microwave to beep.
I head back toward the living room and plop down onto the couch with my dinner and Jinx in tow. It’s actually nice that showing ended early—despite the unpleasantness of the prospective renter—because it’s been weeks since I’ve gotten to eat sitting down instead of grabbing a bowl of whatever leftovers are in the fridge and eating on the walk to class.
Grabbing the remote, I click on a Netflix show I’ve been dying to start while shoveling a bite of macaroni and cheese into my mouth. It’s not until I go to take a second bite that Jinx, who’s perched on the back of the couch, tries to pull the bowl away from me.
“Jinx!” I snap. Bouncing off the couch, she runs off to the entryway and bolts up the stairs to her angry kitty dome. It’s her bat cave of solitude when she gets scolded. The sheer brazenness of her actions shouldn’t really surprise me, but after three and a half years of cohabitating together, there’s not much the little black furball of mischief won’t try at least once.
After scarfing down my food, I head into the kitchen to clean up my bowl, just as the doorbell rings.
“Huh.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. “She’s early.” Maybe that’s a good sign. Early might mean eager. Whoever she is, she has to be worlds better than the last one. Drying my hands off with a towel, I make my way to the door.
Jinx meows down at me. “Oh, hush up,” I warn her, taking a quick second to straighten up my clothes before flinging open the door for my next potential renter.
“Hello…” I greet cheerfully, but I don’t even get a chance to finish the sentence. The person standing on my porch isn’t the post-graduate student I’d been expecting. Instead, it’s my worst nightmare.
A hooded figure, clad in dark jeans and a black hoodie, stands in my doorway, a knife gleaming in their hand. A stranger with clear, dubious intentions. With one flash of the weapon under the porch light, my entire world slows down to a snail’s pace.
I try to scream, to shut the door, but the intruder blocks it with a large, gloved hand. My feet falter underneath me, causing me to play into the intruder’s plan. Grabbing me by the hair, they drag me closer to the danger zone. With undeniable fear coursing through every inch of my veins, my body freezes.
The man, I believe, based on their build, presses the knife under my chin. When a heavy blow lands to the side of my head, everything goes black.
One final thought crosses my mind as I lose consciousness.
I’m going to die.
GreenPeace
“Do you have to piss on every single fucking tree we pass?” I groan as Walter lifts his leg for the hundredth time in less than twenty minutes.
Walter hears me, but he doesn’t give a shit. He knows I’ll stop when he does, and when a dog’s gotta go, a dog’s gotta go.
We have an understanding, Walter and me. I treat him with respect, and take him for his hour-long walk each night, allowing him to scout out the neighborhood. In turn, he gives me unconditional love, and doesn’t tear my house up. It’s a win-win for both of us, especially for him.
Walter’s history is dark and twisted, and he’s lucky to be alive. Our journey together started when my club busted up a vicious dog fighting ring. I found him lying in a rusty cage, torn and bloodied, waiting to die. With one look from his lone brown eye, I knew he needed me. And maybe, I’d needed him too. So, as much as I might complain about Walter’s love of watering the neighborhood, he can piss on as many goddamn trees as he wants to.
Just as Walter is finishing up, some chick storms toward me, her phone plastered to the side of her face while swearing like a trucker to someone on the other end. “Yes!” she snaps. “The dumb bitch kicked me out for no reason!”
I jump to the side to avoid her slamming into me. “Don’t mind me,” I call out to her back. Stupid bitch.
She whirls around to tell me off, but as soon as her eyes land on Walter, they widen, and she mutters a sad excuse for an apology before going on her way.
“Women,” I huff, and then chuckle when Walter chuffs in agreement.
Walter turns the corner without prompting, our nightly route embedded in him just as much as it is me. I used to try to detour, to walk other routes, but he’s a creature of habit. He doesn’t deviate from routine, and he’ll be damned if I ever attempt to change it.
The street’s quiet, as usual, with Victorian homes lining the road. Great oak trees and maples fill the front yards, their branches reaching toward the sky, providing a privacy other neighborhoods don’t possess.
I’ve always loved this area of town. It’s quiet, elegant, and filled with a history that has always intrigued me. Grandmother had lived here her entire life. When we lost her, and she left her house to me, moving in was a no-brainer. This place is more of a home to me than my childhood one had ever been. It just needed a lot of work after years of neglect.
Walter nearly yanks my arm out of its socket, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Walter!” I snap, tugging lightly on the leash.
He yanks harder, his body reaching and stretching toward one of the houses.
“Walter!” I call again, giving another tug to get his attention.
His head comes around so he can glance back at me, his body still straining against the leash. To some people, he must appear terrifying, but when I look at him, all I see is intelligence and loyalty.
The dog fighting had left the giant, white American Bulldog scarred. His lip had been torn. One of his eyes was missing. His left ear was ripped clean off, and his fur didn’t grow over the scars crisscrossing his face and body. But right now, I don’t see the scars. I see determination, and an attempt to tell me something.
“Come on, buddy,” I try again. “Let’s get a move on.”
This time, Walter doesn’t just strain for the house. This time, he’s desperate. An agonized whine rips from his throat, and his nails scrape against the pavement. That’s when I hear it. A short, muffled scream, followed by the sound of something shattering.
Walter’s leash yanks from my hand as I stare up at the house. Before I can stop him, he’s running for the door.
I know this place. This is the redhead’s house. The gorgeous redhead I look for every time we pass, hoping like hell she’ll be on her porch doing yoga again. I don’t know who invented yoga pants, but I thank fuck they did. They cover that tight little ass of hers like a second skin. Not that I’ve looked… much.
“Walter, get back here!” I order, rushing to catch him, but he’s already at the door, which is ajar. This is wrong.
Walter disappears inside, a deep growl ripping from his chest. My feet hit the front porch, and that growl turns to a blood chilling snarl.