Page 93 of The Obsession
She bolts upright. “Oh, my God. Has something happened?”
“Come,” is my only reply as I hold out my hand.
I’m not prepared for the jolt that hits me when she wraps her dainty fingers around mine, completely trusting.
I tug on her arm slightly when she throws back the covers. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed to see she’s wearing a nightgown.
I look away as she rises because I don’t want to get caught staring at her bare legs or get confirmation she’s wearing nothing underneath.
Once she’s risen, I begin moving towards the door, keeping her hand locked in mine the entire time.
When we enter my room, she doesn’t even hesitate to follow. She has no idea why I brought her here until I point towards the annoying offender.
“Oh, Babooshka,” she says, clutching her chest with her free hand. “He came back. Bless his little heart.”
“Little heart? Statistically improbable, given his mass.”
“Hey!”
“He’s been sitting there for over an hour, meowing like a fucking peasant that hasn’t eaten in days.”
“Babooshka isn’t a peasant; he’s homeless.”
“He isn’t homeless, Emily. I bet the fat fuck weighs more than Lil’ Peach. And while we’re on the subject, Babooshka is a girl’s name, he has balls, remember?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you singshesigned the letter?”
“Oh … right. My bad. I’m sure there’s another male named Babooshka somewhere in the world.”
I scoff. “I highly doubt that, and if there is, I bet he got the shit kicked out of him at school.”
“Nobody is going to beat him up because of his name,” she deadpans.
“I was beaten for far less when I was a kid,” I admit.
Her pretty blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. “You were beaten as a kid? Why?”
I run my hand over my hair. I don’t even know why I told her that. She doesn’t need to hear my sob story or how I was pushed around and laughed at for the dumbest shit.
For a haircut one of my foster dads’ messed up. For wearing a jacket three sizes too big because nobody gave a damn. For not having parents, or for being the kid everyone assumed would fall through the cracks.
The list of petty humiliations go on forever, and no one ever noticed or cared.
It all stopped when I had my growth spurt and figured out how to turn all that anger outward instead of letting it eat me alive.
“It doesn’t matter. What are we going to do with Fat Cat? He can’t stay there; if he does, I’ll probably end him before whatever medical disaster he’s brewing gets to him first.”
“He doesn’t have a medical disaster brewing inside him, Dominic,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah?” I lift a brow. “You sure? Because he looks like he’s about three snack breaks away from a full-blownhealth crisis. Heart disease, diabetes, and gout. Hell, he probably has high cholesterol, joint pain, and an untreated eating disorder. That cat’s carrying more conditions than most pensioners are.”
Emily presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “Stop it.”
“I’m being realistic, Em. He needed a running start just to get up on my windowsill. I swear I heard his knees cry in pain the second he landed.”
She snorts. “Cats don’t have knee problems.”
