Call Me Cat (5 page)

MY CALLS THE
rest of the night became a blur of cocks and pussies and sucking and licking and fucking. I used language that would make a horny sailor blush, but no longer me. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Over the next few weeks, as more calls came in, I started looking at my fellow classmates differently. Did Rob who sat next to me in Torts have secret
a fantasy of wearing women's pantyhose? (One of last night's callers did.) Did Larry dream of being slapped with a wooden spoon while someone sucked his cock? (Because apparently that's a thing, at least for one guy.) Would Harry prefer his woman to pee on him while having sex? (Yup, that's a thing too. A pretty common thing, it turns out.)

Some of the calls gros
sed me out, and I had to focus to stop from gagging as I pretended to get turned on by sucking on dirty feet. One guy wanted me to force him to lick my muddy boots, and boy did he come hard the dirtier those boots were. I walked through mud and dog shit and fertilizer and rotten food before making him polish them with his tongue. "Mmmhmmm yes, clean those boots. I want my face shining in them by the time you're done."

But I didn't hear from or see Ash again, which totally did not disappoint me. It wasn't like I
was thinking of him each night, hoping he was on the line each time. Nope, not at all.

My class load increased the closer we got to winter break
. Sleep became non-existent, and I started wishing for caffeine IVs. But I had money for food and ren
t
, an
d
that helped a lot. I even tucked some cash away for next year's tuition.

It's alway
s when life is going well that shit explodes in your face.

The day started out well enough, with my normal classes and a quick brunch with
Bridgette at the cafe.

"Still at the sex work?" she asked as we sat at our
usual booth.

"Still
at my acting work, yes." I glared at her. We'd made up after our fight, but things were strained between us. She couldn't understand I had no other options.

"Right. So, any total perverts, or the normal ru
n-
o
f-
th
e-
mill pervs?" She sipped her coffee and batted long eyelashes at me.

"A little of both." I hadn't told her about Ash.
Not much to tell, at any rate.

When the waitress came to take our order, I
changed the subject, asking Brig about med school and boys and her life and avoiding questions about my own until it was time to go.

As fall flirted with winter
, leaves died and snows fell, and my strolls became an ordeal of shivers and chills. My car still needed repairs, but I wanted to make sure I had money for food and shelter, then school, before taking care of the wheels.

As I walked back to my apartment, the
familiar rev of a Harley engine came up behind me. "Hey Law School, can I give you a lift?"

I turned to face Ash, looking dangerous and sexy and not my type at all. "No, I like walking, thanks. Are you stalking me?"

"Nah, if I were stalking you, you wouldn't know it. Besides, do I look like the type that needs to stalk a girl to get a date?" He held his hands out as if showing off his sex appeal.

No, but you also don't look like the kind of guy who needs to call a 900 number to get a date either.
"What do you want?"

He parked his bike and started walking with me. "Why so hostile? Have I done something to offend you?"

Besides not calling me back?
"No, I'm just busy. Unlike some people, who apparently have nothing better to do than ride around all day harassing the innocent, I have work and studying."

"See, this is what I don't get. You're clearly a smart girl. You wouldn't have made it into Harvard Law if you weren't. But like so many smart people before you, you fail to grasp what is painfully obvious to me." He smirked, waiting for me to swallow his bait.

Which I did. "And what's that?"

"It's not
about working hard, sweetheart." He nudged my shoulder as if telling me a great secret. "It's about working smart. Leveraging your time and skills so that your money is working for you and not vice versa. You know, I could teach you how to get rich without all this needless pandering to an intellectual wasteland of regurgitated facts meant to enslave you to an outdated system that never made anyone happy or wealthy."

"Aren't you a pedantic ass posing as someone socially enlightened," I sneered. "Besides, how do you know my aim is to be rich?"

His eyebrow shot up. "Because you want to be a lawyer."

"I'm going into law for social justice. To punish those who are guilty. To keep society safer."

He threw his hands over his face. "Oh God, it's worse than I thought. You want to work for the DA's office? Too much work, zero pay, and always dodging the bullets of bigwig defense attorneys who are paid nicely to get their clients off. Prepare to be disillusioned within six months of graduation, sweetheart."

"My name is not sweetheart." We were nearing my apartment, but I didn't want to lead him straight to my house, so I turned a corner and walked around the block.

"It's that or Law School, since you still haven't told me your name."

"And I'm not going to. I have to go. Or rather, you have to go. I don't want to lead a stranger home. That wouldn't be wi
se." I stopped, refusing to move until he left.

"Of course. Keep playing it safe, Law School. We'll see how far that gets y
ou." He bowed in mockery of old-fashioned gentlemen and strode off, his jeans hanging from his hips like they were made for him.

Irritated, I jogged the rest of the way around the block to release tension, checked m
y mail in the lobby, and read through envelopes as I walked up the stairs.

When I got to my door, I dropped my mail and stood slack-jawed.

My door had been broken open, and a peek into my apartment showed it ransacked.

That bitch, Violet the Violent. She'd come back to take more of my shit!

I ran in, unconcerned with who may still be in the apartment, and searched for missing items, but couldn't tell if anything was missing since it was all destroyed. My bookshelf had been thrown to the floor, all my prized books torn or stepped on. My couch and favorite chair had been slashed, their insides strewn about the room. And on the wall under my parents' portrait, written in red, were words that made my blood turn cold.

One is
such a lonely number.

MY PHONE RANG
, scaring me out of my frozen panic. I glanced at the clock on the microwave, the only thing that hadn't been destroyed, and realized my work shift was about to start.

Shit. I didn't want to lose my job, but I
couldn't do this tonight. I answered the phone anyway, since it could have been important, and heard a low voice more machine than man.

"Hello there, Kitty Cat. I was going to call through your new hotline, but didn't think you'd be taking client calls tonight. Do you like the present I left you?"

Did he mean my apartment? Or… Oh God. I dropped the phone and ran to my bedroom. There, hanging on the wall by nails, was Crackhead, surrounded by torn out pages of my mother's book, the only signed copy I had left, covered in the cat's entrails. His head had been crushed in, brains leaking out. The message in the living room hadn't been paint.

It had been blood.

I leaned over and vomited, until nothing was left in my stomach, then dry heaved some more for good measure. When I regained my ability to walk I stumbled back into the living room, while the sadistic asshole laughed from the receiver on the floor. I left the line open and grabbed my purse, then ran out the door to call 911 from my cell phone.

The day had turned from a balmy autumn t
o winter while I'd been inside. Without a coat, I sat outside my apartment complex, shivering, tears dried up but heart heavy with fear and sorrow as the cold froze over the grass under my feet, leaving green icicles clinging to life.

Bridgette
beat the cops over and pulled a blanket from her trunk—God only knew what she'd used it for—and wrapped me in it. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I can't believe this. You can't stay here, you know that right? You have to come live with me, now. You have to!"

Sirens blared through the air, and I no
dded, agreeing to anything as long as it didn't involve me going back into that apartment.

I groaned when the police car pulled up and the
unhelpful jerk from before stepped out. He had an older man as his partner, someone who had one foot squarely in retirement, with white hair growing from his ears and a potbelly that hadn't missed any meals, or beers.

Detective
Gray spoke into the radio attached to his stiff and underused uniform and stalked over, frowning, the scar over his left eye twitching. "We were told there's been a break-in?"

Bridgette
stood, taking over, which I didn't mind for once. "Yes, and it took you long enough to get here. Her apartment was destroyed, and her cat… he was nailed to the wall. It's the Midnight Murderer. He left a note."

The detective glanced
up from his notepad. "A note?"

"In blood. On the wall. Same thing he always sends her each year."

Gray scribbled some things down and put his notebook away. "And who might you be?"

"Her best friend.
Bridgette Beaumont.”

The officers pulled their guns and told us to wait downstairs. After what felt like forever, they came back down with grim faces.

"It appears your stalker has escalated his behavior," Gray said.

Well no, shit, S
herlock.

"We'll have forensics dust for prints and look for any clues as to his identity. Have you made any changes i
n your life lately? Met anyone new?"

My mind went to Ash. It was technically possible. He would have been old enough at the time to kill them. B
ut that was ridiculous. First off, if he was behind this, why give me his whole name and make it easy to hunt him down? Second, like he said, if he was stalking me, I wouldn't know it. Third, I couldn't bear to tell the detective about my new job, so I shook my head. "Just normal stuff. School, work, studying."

He handed me a card. "Let me know if you think of anything else. Tomorrow morning, please come down to the precinct to fill out some paperwork, but for tonight, stay with family or friends." He looked up at the
building. "You won't have access to your apartment for a while."

I nodded, too numb and tired to care about anything.

When the cops drove off, Brig pulled out her phone. "I'm calling my mom. We're staying with them for Christmas break. I was going to invite you anyway, so this is perfect. They'll help us figure things out." She patted my arm. "It's going to be okay, Catelyn. I promise."

I knew she meant well,
but her promise meant nothing to the Midnight Murderer. He knew where I lived. Knew where I worked. Knew where I went to school. I would never be safe while he lived.

THE
BEAUMONTS LIVED
a thirty-minute drive from downtown Boston in Dover, Massachusetts. Their sixty-acre property sat atop Strawberry Hill, clustered behind trees and a private road leading to the 10,000 square foot estate.

I couldn't fathom growing up someplace like this. When my parents were alive, we lived
comfortably on their lawyer's salaries, but nothing this extravagant. After they died, I lived closer to poverty level in a handful of foster homes until I turned eighteen and got kicked out of the system and into the world with just a backpack full of personal items and a small cash stipend to help me 'get on my feet' while I went to college. It ran out when I graduated and continued on to grad school.

In this other life,
Bridgette had gone to prep schools since preschool and still had a room in her private mansion, decorated the same way since high school. When you have a ten-bedroom house, I guess you can afford to keep your kid's room untouched.

I didn't resent her
these luxuries. I'm glad she had them. I just wished life wasn't so polarizing sometimes.

We didn't talk much on the way to her house. Mostly we listened to music. I leaned my head against the cool window, closing my eyes as I considered what I was going to do.

All of my law books had been ripped apart, except the ones Professor Cavin had given me when I'd said goodbye before leaving for winter break. I still had them on me and so had something with which to study over break.

But my
clothes had been shredded, down to my last pair of underwear. And it would take weeks of work to buy everything back.

Fortunately,
the portrait of my parents had been spared. It had been tossed to the ground, crushed in the glass of its frame, but hadn't been badly damaged.

I was grateful to have a home to stay with over break, but it did present a unique challenge to my current employment.
"Hey, I still have to work for the next few weeks, or I won't be able to afford food and housing for spring semester."

She looked over at me, and her eyes widened. "You cannot have phone sex while at my parents' house!"

"Brig, I have to. Don't you get it? Do you want me to drop out of school? Or starve to death? Or live on the street? Because those are my options, okay?" My voice cracked and the tears finally came flooding down my face. "Do you think I like this? Do you think I want to talk to these men about this shit after what's happened? But I want out of this life of poverty. I want out of this helplessness I feel all the fucking time. And I don't know another way."

My thoughts flashed to Ash, how he swore he could teach me how to make money without working so hard
, but it took money to make money. I knew that at least. And hard work was rewarding to the soul. My dad had taught me that. I wouldn't take the easy way out. I would earn my living.

She reached for my hand, squeezing it. "I'm sorry. You're right. I've been a shitty best friend. We'll make it work. The house is big. You can hide in my room if you need to."

I closed my eyes again, relieved, and hoped The Pleasure Palace would understand why I had to take a few days off.

When we pulled into the long driveway, the house was lit up with lights and other cars were parked in front. A valet in a tux came to our door. "May I park this for you, Miss Beaumont?"

"No thanks, we got it. What's going on here?"

"Your parents are having their annual fundraiser tonight." He
scanned us over, especially me—mussed hair, smeared makeup, clothes a mess—and frowned. "Why don't you and your friend go in the back and get cleaned up before making your entrance?"

She rolled her eyes. "Sure."

I followed her around the house, trepidation settling into me. "Brig, maybe I should stay at a hotel. I can't handle a party tonight of all nights."

She pulled me along by the hand. "It's just what you need. A night of distraction. If it's too much, we'll ditch them and hide in my room with Ben & Jerry,
'
k
a
y
?"

"Fine. But I'm only staying for a minute."

Half an hour later I was clean, hair in an u
p-
do, makeup perfect, and wearing a borrowed Vera Wang made almost entirely of sequins, lace and mesh in black and white. We glided like royalty down the spiral staircase, and everyone in the room looked up and stared.

I had to admit
Bridgette and I were striking together, her so pale and blond, me with the darker exotic look. But it wasn't the stares that made me almost trip over the last step.

And it wasn't the horror of that night.

It was the man waiting at the bottom with an ironic grin on his face, wearing a tux in lieu of his leather jacket, but looking just as dangerous.

He held out his hand to me. "Might I finally come to know your name, Law School?"

Bridgette glanced from me to him and back again. "You two know each other?"

We both spoke at the same time. "No." "Yes."

Ash laughed. "We've met a few times under haphazard circumstances, but I've never been able to nail her down for a name."

Brig looked at me like I'd just sprouted wings. "Catelyn, please tell me you weren't rude to this man?" She
appeared chagrined. "You'll have to excuse my friend. She's never afraid to speak her mind."

I scowled at them both. "No I'm not
, and I don't need anyone to make apologies for me either."

Mrs. Beaumont, looking stunning as always in red chiffon
, saved us from further verbal sparring when she walked up to us smiling. "Ashton, I see you've met our house guest for the holiday. Catelyn, this is Ashton Davenport the Third. Ashton, this is Catelyn Travis, a friend of the family."

He took my hand in his and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across my skin. "It's a pleasure to meet you properly, Catelyn. Or
can I call you Cat?"