“Aw hun,” Randal said. “It’s just not the right time. I promise you we’ll do it when it’s right.”
Alistair tuned away, a very non-cat like expression on his otherwise feline face. If he had to listen to Randal much longer, he swore to himself he would puke (then again that could just be a hairball, or the mouse he’d eaten this morning). Either way, Lucy was head over heels for the sonovabitch. Love blinded the young ones like that. Alistair also suspected Lucy’d never had an orgasm prior to meeting Randal. So there was also that to consider.
Alistair’s hissing and clawing at the bastard every time he came around wasn’t giving Lucy the hint, any more than the pointed conversations they’d had on the topic. A witch should always trust the instincts of her familiar. If there was a sorcery handbook that would be rule number one. Alistair shook his head. The ones new to their powers were always the worst.
Randal walked by, hand in and hand with Lucy, heading toward the bedroom. Alistair hissed at him one more time for good measure.
“Alistair!” Lucy said, scolding him. She turned to Randal. “I swear I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”
“I’m great with animals,” Randal said. “He’ll come around. Won’t you kitty?” Randal reached out to scratch Alistair’s chin. Alistair swiped at Randal’s hand. Randal’s reflexes kicked in and Alistair’s claws barely missed raking flesh.
“Whoa!” Randal said, chuckling. Alistair bared his teeth. The bastard actually had the nerve to laugh at him.
You wouldn’t have been laughing twenty years ago the cat thought, cursing his age.
Lucy shot Alistair a we’ll discuss this later look as she led Randal down the hall. Alistair watched her, drunk on love and giddy with excitement as she pulled Randal along behind her.
Alistair hadn’t been a man in several hundred years, but any fool could see Lucy was a pretty girl. Brunette, skin like heavy cream, glasses, petite body even though she didn’t believe in working out, tight little butt and the perky boobs only the very young or the very rich possess. She could certainly do better than Randal.
In their haste they left the bedroom door open. Alistair leapt nimble from the kitchen counter and padded down the hall. He couldn’t catch Randal with his claws, but maybe he could at least just piss on his clothes a little? They were far enough into it that they didn’t notice the black cat slip into the room.
Alistair sauntered over to Randal’s pants, which lay neatly folded next to his shirt, socks (?!) and tie.
What kind of asshole takes the time to fold his clothes before a passionate tryst with a beautiful girl? Alistair wondered. The cat shrugged before he started scratching, looking for a good position to urinate. Randal’s wallet slid from his pocket.
Alistair raised an eyebrow. He glanced up at the bed—Randal was spending some time down south, going to town with Lucy’s legs flopping over his shoulders. They’d be there for a while, Alistair reckoned. A peek into this guy’s wallet couldn’t hurt. Right?
Alistair sat back on his haunches and used his front paws to pull the wallet’s contents. Couple of credit cards, a driver’s license, a sandwich place coupon with 3 out of four holes punched (only 1 away from a free sub!), and a business card. Alistair read the card.
Randal Stevens-Second Chance Motors.
Randal was a used car salesman. Well that figured. Alistair frowned. The business card said Randal Stevens. But hadn’t Randal told Lucy his last name was Jones? Alistair took it as a sign to keep digging. He continued his search until he found a photograph.
Oh, hello? Alistair thought. What’s this?
A picture of Randal and a woman, rings on both their fingers.
Alistair put everything back in the wallet just as he’d found it (except the sandwich place card, which he pocketed) and raced back into the living room.
Alistair’s ears perked up. From the sound of things, Lucy had only reached the alto part of her concerto, which meant a good twenty or so minutes of lovemaking remained. Alistair hopped up onto Lucy’s computer desk. He pawed to activate the mouse and Lucy’s screen saver popped up. Alistair chuckled to himself. He loved that picture of the two of them. He’d gotten as close as he could to a shit-eating grin without giving away his true nature. The rest of the coven howled every time they came over to the apartment and saw it.
Alistair got comfortable and directed the machine to take him onto social media. Instead of “Randal Jones,” Alistair did a search for “Randal Stevens.”
“Holy shit,” Alistair said. There he was. Randal . . . and his wife.