Do Your Worst(38)
“You fuzzy bitch,” Riley said, not without some respect.
She doubted the passionate cries would carry all the way inside the castle, but still, she didn’t need a feline narc sending up audible signal flares while she attempted burglary.
Quickly backing up into Clark’s kitchen, Riley started opening cabinets and lifting the lids on jars, hoping to find some food to bribe the animal into silence.
Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, none of the stuff Clark ate looked very appetizing.
Why did he have so many different kinds of seeds?
Finally, she settled on a banana. After hastily peeling the thing, she offered the cat a piece, which it took only after a noticeable pause that said it was doing her the favor.
Of course, the second its mouth closed around the fruit, Riley realized she had no idea what kind of people food was bad for cats. Her house had never had any pets growing up. Just last summer she’d learned grapes were lethal to dogs after some regular came into the bar sobbing about an incident involving unsupervised fruit salad. Shit.
“Drop it, drop it,” she said with as much authority as she could muster, pointing to the ground from the safety of the doorway.
The cat covered the part of the banana not currently in its mouth with both paws and hissed.
Great. Now she was gonna have to wrestle Garfield to get the thing back.
“Hey, just relax,” she said placatingly, taking a few careful steps toward the sink. “I’m trying to save your life here.”
Shocking no one except Riley, the second she moved within claw radius, she received a set of long, mean scratches from her wrist to halfway up her forearm.
Riley cursed, spinning in a circle while cradling her wound, trying not to scream.
Okay, in hindsight, taking food from a wild animal was pretty friggin’ ill-advised.
“I deserved that.” She whimpered. “I did.”
Clearly she had to find some food of equal or greater value to replace the banana.
She must have done something good in her childhood, because way back in the bottom of the fridge, she managed to uncover some plain cooked chicken breast.
Perfect. Riley figured that if cats could eat tuna, they could eat chicken—since tuna was the chicken of the sea. Shout-out to Jessica Simpson and elder millennials.
“Here. Look at this.” She shook the Tupperware containing the poultry with the hand on her uninjured arm. “Mmm. Meat.” She rubbed her belly, feeling like a clown of the highest caliber.
Once she had the cat’s attention, she threw the chicken into the shower, hoping it would drop the remaining banana and fetch.
“Okay, go get it,” she coaxed.
What the animal actually did was look at Riley like she was a doofus, which at this point seemed fair. Blood from the scratches had pooled down her arm, catching in the crease of her elbow and dripping to the tile floor below.
Yikes. This place was looking more and more like a crime scene by the minute.
Grabbing some toilet paper, Riley tried to mop up and then stem the flow, wrapping the wound as best she could one-handed.
After that, she went to pick up the chicken from the shower, since Clark might not miss a banana off his counter but would probably notice leftovers randomly flung about his washroom.
Apparently, her interest was all it took for the cat to decide it did want to eat that—Thank you very much—since it leapt down from the sink and stalked forward.
Having learned her lesson, Riley got the fuck out of the way, abandoning the bathroom as fast as her legs would take her.
With fingers crossed that Clark kept his brush in his sock drawer or something, she walked back to the bedroom, only noticing that she was leaving a wet trail of footprints when she slid a little on the laminate. Oh, come on. Who knew there were so many ways to leave evidence?
Riley might be hot and capable, but she was starting to think she would make the worst criminal ever.
Hopping on one foot, then the other, she took off her boots and set them beside the door.
She’d have to find a way to mop up before she left, but that was fine. Doable. Clark definitely had cleaning products around here somewhere. The air held faint traces of lemon Lysol.
A quick glance at her watch confirmed that she needed to get a move on. It had already been close to fifteen minutes since Clark left. The longer she trespassed, the higher the risk of him coming back and catching her.
Riley canvassed the bedroom as stealthily as possible.
There weren’t a ton of places in the compact area for him to keep a brush. He didn’t have anything on top of his dresser. With as much detachment as possible, she folded back his sheets and turned over his pillows, scoping for loose hairs, but unsurprisingly, his linens were pristine.
Starting to panic a little now, she yanked open the top drawers of his dresser. The contents were neatly organized by type—undershirts and athletic shorts—though not color coordinated, which she’d half expected.
He did fold his socks. Nerd.
When she knelt to open the bottom drawer and caught a glimpse of boxer briefs, Riley couldn’t fight the sudden assault of a Calvin Klein ad montage featuring Clark as all the models—pouting, flexing, bending over . . .
By the time she snapped out of that haze, she’d managed to bleed through her makeshift bandage—right onto his underwear. Oh my god. Red alert! Red alert!!!!
She tore out the marked pair, shoving them into her back pocket—she would have to dispose of the evidence later—and slammed the drawer closed, jumping to her feet.