She dropped the remaining scrap and came around the porta potty, pulling out her phone and sending a quick text to her teammates: Gotta run. See you back in Manhattan. Won’t miss practice.
The last line was specifically for her teammate Mads. She knew that would be Mads’s first question. Their pro shifter team, the Wisconsin Butchers, was headed to the finals, and her friend wouldn’t let anything get between them and possibly winning this year’s championship. Because when it came to basketball, Mads was a little . . . obsessive. She’d always been that way, though. Since the day Tock had met her. The girl loved basketball. It made sense when Tock thought about it. Basketball was Mads’s “safe space.” A place no one could touch her. Literally. The girl practically had wings on her feet. No matter how horrible Mads’s family was to her—and they had always been fucking horrible—they couldn’t say anything to make her feel insecure about basketball. Because Mads was that good.
Of course, Tock wasn’t a bad ball player either. She just didn’t take it as seriously as Mads did. Tock did like winning, though. She was very good at winning. She even had a little “we beat your ass” dance.
She really shouldn’t put herself at risk—which meant possibly risking the championship—but she knew that there were times in life when you couldn’t ignore a request. Even when you really wanted to.
Away from the street party, Tock quickly found the car that was waiting for her. All the information she needed had been on that slip of paper: the car she would drive to the airport about an hour away; the private jet she’d take back to the East Coast; and an inkling of what she’d be doing once she got there.
She slipped her hand under the back left wheel well of the car until she could feel the key stuck to the metal. Pulling it out, she wirelessly unlocked the door and started the engine.
Tock walked to the driver’s side door and opened it.
“Where ya going?”
Startled, she glanced up at the big cat leaning against the passenger side of the car while he ate a Jamaican beef patty out of a greasy paper bag.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Why are you following me?”
She was at least a mile from the party. He had to have been following her!
He shrugged. “Just curious.” While still eating, he held out the greasy paper bag to her. “Patty? They’re really good. I’ve already had, like, eight.”
“Cats,” Tock sighed.
*
Shay Malone watched the honey badger. She was glaring at him, but he wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t really done anything. He was just curious whether she was stealing this really nice car. A brand-new Mercedes-Benz that easily cost over a hundred grand was not something someone just picked up as a rental. And who left the key under the tire?
People up to no good. That was who.
And honey badgers were always up to no good, weren’t they? At least from what he’d seen so far.
Tock leaned across the roof of the car and snarled, “Go. Away.”
“Are you stealing this car?” he asked. “That is so not cool.”
“No.”
“I know it’s a rich person’s car but that doesn’t mean you can just take it. That’s wrong. Stealing is wrong.”
“I’m not stealing anything.”
“If you’re not stealing, what are you doing?”
“I have to take care of something. Alone.”
“Okay. I’ll just tell Mads that you drove off in a car that’s not yours and you keep whispering. In the middle of Detroit.”
Tock immediately glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was a big watch and looked very expensive. Maybe a boyfriend’s watch. He didn’t know. He’d never asked.
“Fine.” She glared at him. “Get in.”
Luckily, the car was a sedan and not a small, two-door nothing that his legs could barely fit in, much less his shoulders.
Once inside, with the doors and windows closed, Tock said, “I have to go help someone. I’m not stealing anything. This car was left for me.”
“Wait . . . should I get Mads and the oth—”
“No.” She closed her eyes again and let out a breath. “I don’t want them involved.”
“Why not?”
“That’s my business. Now get out.”
Shay thought a few seconds before replying, “Nah.”
“What do you mean, ‘nah’？”
“I mean, nah. I’m not going anywhere. If you’re not going to have your friends backing you up, you should at least have me. I’m helpful.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Either I go or I get Mads. And when she hears you’re doing something dangerous alone so close to the championships . . .”
Tock gripped the steering wheel with both hands and began taking in breaths through her nose and blowing them out through her mouth.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“It’s a calming technique that will hopefully prevent me from beating you to death.”
What was disturbing was how calmly she made that statement. Only her gripping hands and red knuckles told him how pissed she was at the moment.
“I’m just trying to—”
“Stop saying you’re trying to help. You’re just being a pain in the ass.”
Shay didn’t say anything. He simply stared at her until she turned her head, her eyes going wide.
“Are you about to cry?” she asked.
“No.” And he wasn’t. “But my feelings are hurt.”
“Cats don’t have feelings.”
“Yes, we do. And you’ve hurt mine. But I’ve made a commitment—I’m going with you. Despite your cruel words. That were so hurtful to me.”
She began to say something, stopped, let out a long sigh, and finally pulled away from the curb.
When they hit a stoplight, he held the bag of beef patties under her nose.
“Want one?” he asked.
The way she glared at him. Glared at him so hard. They sat there long after the light had turned green. They didn’t move until the drivers behind them began to lean on their horns and yell curses out their windows.
That glare . . . he honestly didn’t know if he should laugh or find a way to hide under the wheel well like a confused kitten.
He was relieved he didn’t have to make the decision one way or the other when she finally began to drive the car forward and held her right hand out so he could put a patty in her palm.
*
Tracey Rutowski swung out the doors of the Gucci store on Old Bond Street. It was early morning and she had appointments all day at the Royal Academy of Arts in the hopes of finding the next Michelangelo or Monet. Or, even better, the next Mapplethorpe or Basquiat. But first she had to check out a nearby empty storefront to see if it would work for her newest gallery.
She stopped at the black SUV waiting for her and handed over the Gucci-branded shopping bag that held her new black purse. It would go into her closet with all her other black purses and backpacks and clutches; black jeans; and black T-shirts and sweaters. It was her signature style. Black.
The feline standing by the driver’s-side door took the bag, his nose twitching when he looked at it.