Page 2 of Cat's Outta the Bag

When I straighten, I notice Jason is pulling his hand away from his cheek, looking at his fingers, which are dotted with blood. Slinky is dead. She scratched a movie star’s fucking face! They have those things insured! I think.

“OhmygodIamsosorry!" I rush up to him, quickly grabbing his hand and dragging him over to Jerry's desk. "Jer, can you grab the first aid kit under your desk for me?” Neither man has spoken yet, though Jerry does quickly produce the kit. With my free hand, I pull out antiseptic wipes, Neosporin cream, and a sterile Q-tip swab.

"Fuck, again, I am so sorry. Here, turn your face to the side. May I?" I hold up the wipes and wait for him to turn his face before I start cleaning the wound. "Sorry, this is going to sting." Jason lets a little huff as the wipe comes into contact with the raw skin, but lets me do my work otherwise. It's not as bad as I initially thought, just one long scratch across his right cheek, and it's already stopped bleeding.

One-handed, I open the swab and add the Neosporin cream. When I look back at Jason, he's staring at me with the oddest expression. Almost as if he is in awe of me. Which is silly.

As I gently smooth the cream onto the cut, I say, "Make sure to wash this properly when you get home tonight. Occasionally, cat scratches can cause cat scratch fever if you don't wash them properly. It's caused by the Bartonella henselae bacteria and generally clears on its own, but you'll want to keep an eye on things for the next few days. If you get a fever or the skin swells at all, go to your doctor. But honestly, I've been scratched countless times and always been fine." I give him my reassuring doctor smile and end up locking eyes with him.

I can't tell you how long we stood there, dumbly staring at each other, but Jerry's not-so-subtle cough tells me it was way longer than what is socially acceptable.

"Again, I am so sorry about my dumb cat. If you end up needing a doctor, please have your bill sent to me; I'm happy to pay it."

"That won't be necessary. Getting scratched is expected when handling cats." He shrugs as if this whole scene wasn't the most bizarre ten minutes of his life. "Well, I have to go; thanks for patching me up. Bye, Slinky." He gives Slinky a chin scratch, whose head has popped out of the collar of my onesie, and exits the building, whistling as casual as can be.

What?

Jerry and I exchange a look. A moment later, we are in stitches; we're laughing so hard I might pee myself.

I'm wiping tears out of my eyes, barely catching my breath. "Please do me a solid and delete the security cam footage. That was so bad." Our lovely security guard, Jerry, is bent over in his chair wheezing. "Sorry, love, no chance. But I will be replaying it over and over again whenever I get bored. That was something else."

I roll my eyes, chat a bit longer with Jer, and then head back to my apartment. My food is most definitely cold by now.

It’s not until I reach my door that I realize that in my haste to catch my hateful cat, I’ve forgotten my keys. This is just not my night.

With my head held high, I head back downstairs and have to ask Jerry to let me back into my apartment. It takes at least two minutes for Jerry to stop laughing and get off his bum to help. I can't blame the guy, though; if I had just witnessed that scene, I'd probably piss myself from laughing too.

What a night.

Chapter 2

Jason

What a night.

And I don’t mean the absolute insanity that was my neighbor chasing after her cat and generally being the most chaotic person I have ever met.

Nope.

My night consisted of me showing up to three separate parties, looking for my fucking agent, who insisted we talk tonight about possible upcoming projects. I'm nearing the end of filming for my current movie and need to pick out my next few projects. The asshole is one of the top agents in L.A., but that means he can be tough to pin down. Since my recent, VERY public breakup last month, I've been avoiding the party scene, so I was not thrilled when I had to party hop after him, just for him to be too drunk to even have a coherent conversation.

Fuck, I hate this part of Hollywood life.

"Hey, Jerry," I call out to the security guard who witnessed the crazy earlier tonight, but keep my focus on the elevator. I'm not in the mood to rehash anything and just want my bed.

“Wait, Mr. Adams!”

Fuck me. I close my eyes briefly and remind myself that this guy has no idea how horrible my night was and doesn't deserve my bad attitude.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask, turning back to his desk, where he’s waving something at me. It’s a piece of paper, I think?

"Ms. Masters left this for you. She asked me to give it to you since she didn't know your apartment number, and I'm not at liberty to give it out." I smile, knowing he's talking about the woman who was the only bright spot in my day. I can still picture the look of absolute concentration on her freckled face as she took care of the scratch. Fuck, she was adorable.

"Thanks, Jerry; I appreciate it." I snag the white envelope with my name written in neat penmanship on the front, then head back straight for the elevator.

I don't open the envelope until I'm safely home, and I can't help but smile at the note inside the generic card.

Dear Jason,

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