Free Stirred by Blake Crouch, J.A. Konrath Page B

Phin said.
    Then he left. Duffy gave me a sad, backward glance, and went with him.
    I hated myself for a few seconds and then rolled my chair over to the printer and quickly read the letters the agent had faxed over. They didn’t reveal anything new, but Violet King apparently lived in Peoria, about a three-hour drive from me.
    I was eating my sandwich and weighing my options, deciding if a personal visit would be better than a phone call, when I found the biggest diamond ring I’d ever seen hidden under the pork rinds.
    Oh…shit.
    I immediately got up, realizing what a jerk I’d been, and padded into the living room in time to see Harry McGlade pull into the driveway and Phin drive off in his Bronco, right over my lawn.
    I called him on my cell, but he didn’t pick up.
    The tears came fast and hard.
    I was still sobbing when McGlade pressed the security code and strolled in.
    Duffy—who apparently hadn’t been let into the Bronco—was all over him, jumping up and down, wagging his tail.
    “What’s up with Phin? He looked pissed. You do something?”
    I sniffled. “I’m…I’m the…I’m the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
    “No shit. You have been a bit bitchier than normal. But I wouldn’t call you the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
    “Thanks, Harry.”
    “You’re more like the Master of the Bitchiverse.”
    I waddled into the kitchen and grabbed the box of tissue. Empty.
    “Or Bitchzilla. You’re such a giant bitch that you stomp through cities, crushing smaller bitches.”
    I looked around for another box of tissue and spotted Mr. Friskers on the counter. He hissed at me.
    I wiped my nose on my sleeve and turned to face McGlade. “Do you want to go to Peoria?”
    “Can’t. The Tesla can only go about two hundred miles per charge.”
    “We can take my car.”
    “What’s going on in Peoria? Some kind of Bitch Convention? Are they voting to make you Queen?”
    “Goddamn it, McGlade! Enough already!”
    Mr. Friskers was apparently tuned into my feelings, because he launched himself at Harry with a terrible screech and attached himself to my partner’s chest. McGlade tried to pull him off, but that was the wrong move, as it just made the cat dig his claws in deeper.
    Duffy the dog, excited by—well, all the excitement—ran up and bit McGlade on the leg.
    I yelled at Duffy and then looked for my squirt bottle that I used when Mr. Friskers got nasty. It was next to the sink, empty. Mr. Friskers got nasty a lot.
    “I’M SORRY I SAID YOU WERE A BITCH!” McGlade cried out. “CALL FOR HELP!”
    I reached over to swat Duffy. He gave me sad eyes and peed all over McGlade’s leg.
    “THAT’S EVEN WORSE THAN THE BITING!”
    I grabbed Mr. Friskers by the scruff of his neck and twisted. He detached from McGlade and took a swipe at me, but I released him.
    He landed on the dog.
    What happened next could best be described as basset hound rodeo .
    The dog howled, running around the kitchen, the cat clinging to his back like a jockey.
    “I’m bleeding,” McGlade wailed. “This was a new shirt. Do you have stain remover?”
    As Harry unbuttoned his shirt, Duffy began to buck, but his stunted little hound dog legs weren’t suited to the task. Mr. Friskers hissed and spat, clinging to Duffy in a wholly unnatural way, his cat eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out. Eventually, Duffy’s floppy ears blocked his vision, and he ran full force into the refrigerator with a thud .
    The ride finally over, Mr. Friskers bounded off, straight at McGlade.
    The cat leapt up just as Harry took off his shirt and clung to his bare chest, claws sinking in.
    “BOTH NIPPLES!” McGlade screamed. “HE’S GOT BOTH NIPPLES!”
    Duffy, excited by the commotion, trotted over and bit McGlade’s leg.
    “HE BIT ME IN THE SAME EXACT SPOT! THE PISSING WAS BETTER!”
    I grabbed another bottle from under the sink and squirted all three of them until they parted ways.
    “IT