Page 6 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Jerk,” I huff, struggling to stand.

“Hold on, let me help you.” He grasps my elbow and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. “Dylan’s really a good dog. You don’t need to fear him.”

My gaze darts involuntarily to the cage containing the giant beast. The good dog watches me like a potential meal.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I mumble without conviction.

“Here,” he says, kneeling before me.

A small moan builds in my throat as his hands brush my bare calves, sliding jeans from first one ankle, then the other. All I can focus on is the proximity of his mouth to my center. One small move, just a slight raising of his head, and he can slide my underwear aside, press his tongue against my?—

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Sorry, what?” I blink my eyes open, realizing I’ve been biting my lower lip hard enough to taste blood. No, I’m not all right. I’m lost in fantasy about the world’s biggest asshole right in his veterinary office.

Afraid of what might emerge if I speak, I nod.

One eyebrow rises as he studies me. Then he stands, holding my pants, and folds them over a nearby chair. “Get on the table.”

“What?” My gaze bounces between his face and the metal table. Surely he’s joking.

“Please?” he adds, voice dropping a register. “Can you please get on the table so I can check you?”

“But-but I’m not an animal!” My voice emerges as a squeak.

Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the exam table and climb up. Cold metal presses against my thighs despite the paper. Nervousness sets my legs swinging wildly as he approaches, like a child at a doctor’s appointment.

He retrieves a small tray of instruments from the cabinet and sets it beside me. Metal tools gleam under the harsh lights, looking more menacing than they probably are. He pulls on latex gloves with a snap that makes me jump.

Why am I doing this? Nobody’s forcing me. For all I know, he does plan to kill me. Maybe he’ll tie me to this metal surface, gag me, and dismember me. I wish I could speak to my parents and little brother one last time before heading straight to hell, where goldfish will nibble my flesh for eternity.

I swear, I didn’t want to kill them. It’s not my fault those dumb goldfish kept floating to the surface with their creepy little mouths open.

They chose to end their miserable, way-too-brief lives when they discovered their grave error: ending up in a bowl on a shelf above the dining room table in the house where I lived. Tiny red Samurai soldiers committing seppuku, except with food instead of swords.

Poetic, until that poetry got flushed down the toilet. The life of a goldfish is miserable. After the fish’s tenth suicide attempt, my parents gave up and told my younger brother that his pet had died.

My brother probably threw a thank-God-she’s-gone party when I finally left for college. Now, he has a whole aquarium fullof multicolored fish. Oddly enough, none have ended up in the toilet.

My lips begin to tremble. I don’t want to die like all of those goldfish.

“Please, I didn’t want to kill it!”

CHAPTER THREE

Logan

I’ve never met a more infuriating contradiction than her. By tomorrow, my forehead will be permanently etched with lines from trying to decrypt what the hell she’s saying. She has like five different personalities crammed into one small frame. And it’s fascinating and maddening at the same time.

I grab disinfectant and gauze from the cabinet, desperate for something to focus on. A few scratches mark her thigh, but nothing serious. The knee wound looks worse than it is. Lucky girl. Or maybe just stubborn enough to defy death.

Between her legs, my body aligns with hers too perfectly. What if my hands drifted up those thighs to the edge of her panties?

I shake this thought away and start dabbing disinfectant on her upper thigh. She flinches, and her lips quiver.

“I didn’t want to kill it!” Her enormous doe eyes snap open, locking onto mine.

“What?”

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