Page 31 of Positively Pricked
Chapter 9
Seven hours later, I was standing on Zane Bennington's front doorstep. For the third time, I reached out and slapped at the doorbell. With growing impatience, I listened as the deep, melodious chimes echoed from inside the mansion.
The doorbell was obnoxiously loud, and yet, I could barely hear it over the happy yips of the two hounds pawing at the nearest front window. They'd nudged aside the curtains and were slobbering all over the glass.
Good.
If I was lucky, they'd leave some nice scratches, too.
When they saw me looking, I swear, they smiled. They weren't huge, but they were definitely hounds – or whatever someone called short-haired, floppy-eared dogs that were completely out of control.
When I leaned in for a closer look, the darker one gave a particularly happy yip.
Any other time, I might've smiled. But not today. And not here. Still, a very tiny part of me couldn’t help but feel at least a little guilty, because I'd gotten their hopes up for nothing.
I called out, "I don'thaveany freaking meatballs!"
The dogs stopped yipping for only a split second before starting up again. I told them a second time, but theystilllooked happy.
Goobers.
I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe if they gotreallyexcited, they'd pee on the curtains. And if I got especially lucky, Zane wouldn't even notice until next week, when the stink really set in.
That would show him.
I pulled my attention from the dogs and smacked the doorbell again. Hell, I could do this all night. I mean, it's not like I had a job to go to or anything.
Jerk.
In the back of my mind, I realized that the odds of him actually answering his own door were slim to none. But surelysomeonewould answer eventually.
And whoever that someone was, they'd need to fetch the ass-hat who'd torpedoed my catering job. Or, they'd need to call the police – because I wasn't going anywhere until I saw Mister Fancy Pants in person.
And then what?Honestly, I wasn't quite sure. But Ididknow that if nothing else, he deserved a piece of my mind. He wasn't a customer anymore – not to me, anyway – so I could be as rude as I wanted.
As I continued slapping away at the doorbell, his words from last night echoed in my brain."Call me when you're fired."
Oh, I was going to call him all right.
Already, I had a good selection of names. On impulse, I decided to work my way through the alphabet, starting withasshole.
I slapped the doorbell again and started making a mental list.
Bastard.
Cockwaffle.
Dick.
I hesitated. What begins with the letter "e?"
I tried to think, but nothing came to mind.Damn it.This was no good. If I was already stumbling on "e," what would I do when I reached "x"?
While pondering this, I kept slapping away at the doorbell.
Eater of shit?
No. That was cheating.
