Page 32 of Betting on the Brainiac

I’d sat on the floor the rest of the afternoon, answering emails from vendors and bottle girls about deliveries and shifts for Friday, while alternating kittens in my lap. Turns out, kittens can make even a pretty good work environment one hundred percent better.

When Oliver was done for the day, I’d hovered while he transferred the babies into the crate, and refrained no less than four different times from throwing myself in his path to either keep him from leaving with them or begging him to take me with them.

Ultimately, I settled on extracting a promise that he would text me regular updates until midnight.

That’s how I know when I walk in, I will see some well-fed, well-rested kitties. According to him, they’d eaten well all evening.

I’m in such a rush to get in and see the kittens that I fumble the security code twice, and I have to force myself to take deep breaths and slow down so I don’t lock myself out of the system.

I rush in and fling my bag in the direction of the office, not even slowing before I hit the main club floor. I skid to a stop when I catch sight of the cat carrier sitting in front of the nearest booth, the door open. Oliver’s work bag is on the bench, but there’s no Oliver.

A peek reveals four sleeping kittens, and I’m crouched there, debating whether to pet them and risk waking them, when I hear a loud curse come from the kitchen pantry.

“Oliver?” I hop up and hurry in that direction. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Stay there!” he calls.

No chance. I cross the kitchen to the stockroom. “What’s going on? Is Tabitha with you?”

“What? Wait, stay there. We have a situation.”

The gray mama cat saunters out from a shadow and brushes against my leg on the way out.

“All the cats look fine,” I say.

“They are. But this mouse, not so much.”

I squeak and jump back. I do not want to be That Girl, the one who squeals and acts helpless when confronted with things that scurry. But I am. The idea of small critters with naked tails and weird hairless paws is revolting. I don’t know what deep primitive instinct tells me to be totally grossed out at them, but I’m going to trust that my biology is smarter than me on this one; rodents aren’t to be trusted.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s dead. The mama cat killed it and dropped it in front of me. I think it means thank you.”

The image of that sweet mama cat killing anything, even a dirt-colored rodent with a naked tail, makes me queasy.

Oliver glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s okay, Madison. I’ll take care of it if you want to go call an exterminator to make sure you don’t have a rodent problem in here.”

Suddenly my skin itches, and the fine hairs on my nape bristle. I’ve never seen a mouse—or even droppings—in Gatsby’s, but now I sense them lurking everywhere, watching me through vents.

“I’ll do that.” I back out and do my own scurrying to the cat carrier, where Tabitha has climbed in and settled down for her kittens to feed.

A minute or two later, I hear Oliver open the back door and then there’s a long pause before he reenters. He stops in the employee restroom and walks out on the floor a couple of minutes later, drying his hands on his jeans.

“Did you call that cat Tabitha?” he asks when he reaches us.

“Yeah. I looked it up last night, and striped cats like this are called tabby cats. She’s clearly a lady, so a fancy name fits.” I scrunch my nose at her. “A murderous lady.”

“I don’t want to freak you out, but Tabitha is probably going to be a serial killer.”

“More dead thank yous?”

“If you’re lucky. Maybe prepare yourself for if they’re . . . not dead.”

I press my hand to my stomach. “Great. Something to look forward to.”

He laughs. “It’s grim, I’m not going to argue. But maybe if you think of it as a tribute it will help?”

“I’ll try.” I nod at the kittens. “Looks like they’re still doing well.”

He slides into the booth and catches me up on how they did overnight, and I stop him with a hand on his knee since I’m still kneeling in front of the kittens.

---