Page 31 of Mistle-Ho

That’s how I ended up with the temperamental tabby. A few months ago, I discovered celibacy is lonely, so I made a trip to the local shelter. When I stuck my fingers into Cilantro’s cage, the woman with me gasped because so far no one had been able to get close to the stray. But instead of peeling the skin from my bones, she started to rub against me, her purr loud and insistent. She’s an acquired taste—one some people will never get—but I love the shit out of her.

Blowing out a breath, I dig my cell from my pocket and call Leo up, planning to tell him I won’t be coming out tonight.

“Don’t try to get out of it, dick.” He doesn’t even say hello. “You’re going with us even if I have to drag your ass there kicking and screaming.”

“But—”

“Don’t care if the world is ending. I’ll be there at eight to pick you up.” Leo hangs up on me.

Cilantro weaves between my legs, meowing because she expects to be fed, and the lizard starts to sag, single eyeball closed.

Is it asleep?

I made it well into adulthood only having myself to take care of, and now, in the span of a few months, I’ve acquired two more mouths to feed.

One of them being a squatter.

I’m back to thinking going out is a good idea. I could use a fucking drink.

15

How Not to Diffuse a Situation

Alexis

I DO A spin as I look myself over in the full-length mirror propped up in the corner of my bedroom. After sifting through the contents of my closet, I decided to wear the flowy black and gold romper I picked up at an after Christmas sale. Is it a little light for January? Possibly. But I’m willing to suffer so I can use it as an excuse to go the heck home when my social battery flatlines.

I’m usually the first to dip out, but I try to have a reason. It might not always be agoodreason, but it makes me feel less bad about not being able to last as long as everyone else in a loud, crowded bar.

I peer over one shoulder and frown, scowling at the pantylines peeking through the delicate fabric. I could wrestle on some shapewear, but fighting a romper when I have to pee is bad enough. I don’t want to add the evils of spandex into the equation.

“Welp. Guess you’ve got to go.” I strip down, dropping the garment to the floor before kicking away my panties and pulling the fluttering fabric back into place. Then I do another spin, making sure all my bits and pieces will remain under wraps ifI bend over. Thankfully, it appears—barring any high-kicks—no one will get a glimpse of my nethers.

After smoothing down my hair and double checking my lip gloss, I grab my bag and shoes and make for the door, hustling through the high-ceilinged space because—shocker—I’m running late.

After pausing at the door to slip on a pair of strappy, thick-heeled, black pumps, I duck out into the hall and book it to the elevator. It’s on the floor under mine, so soon I’m outside, rushing to my car.

We’re meeting at a tiny spot in downtown Sweet Side not far from the office building where I work, so it’s a short drive. Just long enough to give me time to wish I was in my sweatpants on my couch, eating pasta while watching Netflix. Which is still not as much fun as other things I’ve done on my couch, but stupid Gavin had to go and be an idiot and screw all that up for me.

When I reach the bar, I nearly groan at how full the lot behind it is. Again, I consider turning around and going home, but my friends would kill me. And I don’t necessarily want to do all the work it would take to find new ones. After circling the lot, I finally get lucky and someone leaves. I tuck my small, white crossover into the spot, then get out, adjust my romper, and head for the door.

The noise of the bar hits me like a wall as I walk inside. It’s overwhelming and has me wishing I called an Uber so I could get drunk enough not to care about the way it grates on my nerves. But without my car, I’m at someone else’s mercy, and that’s not an enjoyable spot for me to be. I like knowing I can leave whenever I want. That my escape is close by. It helps take the edge off.

Isla waves at me from across the room, flagging me down with exaggerated movements–like I might miss the flaming redhead yelling my name. I flash her a smile and return her waveso she stops pulling everyone’s attention to the group of single women circling the high-top. As much as I don’t love being in a noisy bar, I love it even less when I’m sitting around while my friends get hit on by everything with a heartbeat.

And frequently an insane amount of audacity.

Hooking one foot onto the stool’s rung, I hoist myself into the only vacant seat as everyone tells me how great I look and I return the favor. Even though we’re all very different, my friend group is an attractive one. Besides Isla and her long, attention grabbing, wavy red hair, there’s Wren who is tall and willowy with a sleek black bob. Lola is warm and sweet with lush curves and dark curls. And Hazel’s blonde hair and thick-rimmed glasses make men trip over each other, hoping for a chance with the hot chemist.

Then there’s me. I’m just as cute as my friends, but my facial expressions make me look either half-ready to stab anyone who gets close, or half-ready to walk out the door. They don’t necessarily lie, but I wish they would a little so I could be the one getting hit on now and then.

“How was work?” Lola leans across the table, nose scrunching with distaste. “Has Dillon tried to get you to go out with him again?”

I blow out a breath, slumping back in my seat at the reminder of how stupid I can be when it comes to men. “Ugh.” The waitress comes to bring everyone else their drinks and I place an order of my own, buying myself a little time before I have to tackle that conversation. “I don’t know what possessed me to go out with him in the first place.”

“He can be kind of charming when he wants to be.” Wren lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. “And lots of happy couples meet at work.”

That had been my very same reasoning. Since I don’t go out unless I have to, and dating apps make me want to throw up inmy mouth, my opportunities for meeting a man are slim to none. I decided to give Dillon a shot, assuming he’d be able to keep it professional if things didn’t work out.

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