Calling His Bluff. Amy Jo Cousins
not sure he believed me. I did inform him that he was sure to see the guinea pig again, just probably not in a form his kid would want to play with.”
“And?”
“I think he finds my sense of humor lacking.”
“No kidding. So what’s he here for?”
“Aside from a second opinion on the possibility of squeezing Squeak out whole from either end of the snake? Apparently the little fluff ball put up quite a fight.” Jackie didn’t share Sarah’s sense of propriety. Her eyebrows wiggled. “The long and skinny one took a couple of hits to the snout. Needs a little patching up.”
“Ah, the glamour. TGI Friday.” Sarah laughed out loud and shook her head as she stepped into the exam room. Who was she kidding, having a mental flirtation with J.D. Damico? The man spent most of his time with the glitterati of Hollywood, and she would spend most of her morning bandaging a boa.
Besides, J.D. had been nothing but a horrible tease to her when she was a girl. She shouldn’t get her brain all twisted into knots over him. No doubt he’d just been yanking her chain when he kissed her.
Anyway, knowing J.D., he was probably already planning on skipping town. Halfway renovated loft condo or not.
Hours later, Sarah bruised her knuckles for the third time, whacking them against J.D.’s armored tank of a front door. He can’t be gone already, she told herself.
Could he?
Even as a kid, he’d barely waited to turn legal before throwing everything he owned in the back of a rattling gray Chevy Citation and hitting the road for freedom and adventure, aka anything that got him away from his parents. She was pretty sure the only reason he’d stuck around for as long as he did was that he didn’t want to disappoint her mother, who asked about his homework every day when she checked on her own children. If J.D. could have offered himself up for adoption, he’d have done it in a heartbeat. But still, the moment he was legal, he’d made a break for it.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sarah, she scolded herself. Not even shoot-from-the-hip J.D. would throw a pregnant cat out on the street in the middle of winter. Plus, it would be pretty hard to sell that condo in its present “a bomb just exploded” condition. There could be a million reasons why he’s not home, you loon. Just because the man doesn’t have a nine-to-five job doesn’t mean he never leaves the house. Even artists need to hit the store for toilet paper and toothpaste every now and then.
Or he could be out with his ex. Correction, not so ex.
Or worse, maybe he’s locked in with her and they’re not answering the door.
She had stopped pounding on the door while berating herself, and in the silence she heard the faint inquiring mews of a cat.
All of a sudden she felt incredibly stupid.
What was she doing here?
The man obviously did not need her help any longer. Although he’d been desperate for help with the cat, it wasn’t as if he’d picked up the phone the next day to call her. He hadn’t even bothered to thank her for messengering over some supplies the next morning. She’d sent kibble and vitamins and a brush, for crying out loud. Showing up on his doorstep was more likely to seem flirtatious than professional.
She bumped her elbow against the neck of the wine bottle sticking out of the medical bag that hung at her hip, a fine pinot noir she’d picked up at a neighborhood wine shop earlier in the day. She pressed her lips together and remembered that she’d slicked a coat of plum gloss on them before stepping out of the car. Had unearthed a dusty comb from the depths of her bag and run it through her straight hair, too.
Likely to seem flirtatious?
Good grief.
She had to get out of here before he came home and found her camped out on his doorstep. And then say a prayer in gratitude that this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where the neighbors minded each other’s business.
“You lookin’ for J.D.?” a woman’s voice called out.
Lovely.
“Uh, no.” But she clearly was. God, she hoped she hadn’t been spotted pounding on his door like her pants were on fire. The two women standing on the sidewalk sported four-inch stilettos and skirts that weren’t much longer. Both sported extravagantly dyed fake-fur jackets and matching Easter-egg colored blunt-cut wigs.
Well, neighbors came in all different shapes and sizes, she guessed. And some didn’t live on your street, so much as, well…work there.
The women were still watching her, eyebrows arched and hips cocked to one side.
“Yes, well, I was just, you know, checking to see if he was home. I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
God, she felt like an idiot.
The taller of the two women smiled at her. “I know whatcha mean, honey. Almost all the guys who come see me just happen to be in the neighborhood, too.” Her companion snorted a little. Sarah was pretty sure she was laughing. “Did he stand you up?” the first woman asked, jerking her chin at J.D.’s door. “And after you brought the wine, too.”
The sensation of being smashed on a slide and examined under a microscope grew stronger. Heat raced over her face as she concentrated on not stuttering.
“No, we’re not…you know,” she waved her hands in front of her chest. The women looked at her as if they knew very well indeed. This was getting worse. “I’m just a friend.” Skeptical looks. Her voice squeaked higher. “His veterinarian. He’s got a cat?”
She hated it when her voice rose up at the end of perfectly simple sentences, making her sound like a teenybopper looking for approval. It was a habit she’d almost completely eliminated. Except when she got nervous.
Getting busted by a couple of hookers in a transparent attempt to put the moves on a guy, who had made it clear by the simple fact of not calling that he was uninterested in repeating the mind-blowing kiss they’d shared, made her nervous.
Go figure.
“Yeah, I saw that cat,” the shorter woman was nodding. “Took him half the morning to corner that damn thing in the alley. Man must be awful lonely to chase a mangy cat that hard. Maybe you should stick around with that wine.”
Strange. J.D. clearly didn’t want an animal. Why would he have rescued a stray at all? It was difficult to come up with an explanation that made sense, particularly given that she was still in the middle of the most peculiar conversation of her life.
“But you should put some lipstick on, honey. You’re too pale,” the first woman advised.
Excellent. Now she was getting makeup tips. And she was already wearing lip gloss, damn it.
Her feet were stiff with cold, her nose was starting to run and she’d had her fill of humiliation for the day. It was time to go console herself with a decent meal and some company that didn’t charge by the half hour. Maybe read a nice, sedate, nineteenth-century novel.
“Either of you ladies like pinot?” Time to hit the road.
* * *
Her attempt at cheerful self-deprecation lasted all of fifteen minutes. Until she got a ticket.
More precisely, three.
With her forehead resting on the steering wheel of her car, Sarah gave serious consideration as to whether her day could possibly get any worse.
Then she remembered that Officer Dubinski, rhymes with Buttinski, had offered to take her down to the station, in cuffs of course, if she thought that would improve her mood, and decided it could indeed be worse.
But it was just that she had car insurance. The insurance card itself maybe wasn’t the first thing you came across in