Page 13 of Murder Mittens

As the flag didn’t bar me from picking up new jobs, I searched through the available contracts for a naughty lycanthrope in need of a whooping and some community service time. A kill bounty would put more money in my pocket, but with the one big job ready to put me in the running for starting the scar-removal process, I refused to ruin it all taking too many chances.

My entire family wanted me to accept my scarred face, but I’d accepted long ago I hated everything my scars represented and wanted them gone. In part, I blamed my momma, as she’d raised me to be stubborn. My daddy took the rest of the blame, because I wanted a man to look at me the way my parents looked at each other.

That initial flinch, which happened so damned often, even among my family when I showed up without makeup or warning, ruined the whole thing for me.

The only damned man who hadn’t flinched over my scars was the lion I loved to torment into roaring at me. Without fail, his roars brightened my day, pleased my virus, and could get me through just about any shitshow intact.

Flinching followed with guilty adoration didn’t fly with me and never would. I would find a permanent solution to my problems through my hard work, and I’d take pride in accomplishing my goal. That my hard work involved hunting those who’d crossed the line with the law didn’t bother me but would bother my entire family. When Uncle Henry did things like play the bounty hunter system and make good money, they loved it.

The thought of me even breaking a nail induced panic attacks, and some days, it amazed me they only bothered me three times a week making sure I hadn’t done something they’d regret.

My cell rang, and the display showed a private number. Scowling, I weighed the odds between a government contractor or a telemarketer. Had I not just logged into the bounty system, I would’ve assumed telemarketer. Dodging a government call might land me in hot water, so I answered, “Wells.”

“Where are you?” the growly voice of my favorite lion demanded.

Some days, it rained. Today, the sun shined, I had coffee, and I got to annoy the damned lion I loved pestering into roaring for me. Better, yet, I could walk up to him with my scars showing without him grimacing. “Somewhere neither here nor there. Finally getting around to confessing how much you miss me, Sumners?”

“I need to speak with you in person, you murderous little fur-freak.”

Oh, oh, oh. When the lion got feisty, I got my roars early in the conversation. Unable to help myself, I purred. “Did the little lion get the tuft of his tail pulled?”

“Where are you, Wells?”

“Somewhere.”

“Don’t you dare say over the rainbow or out there.”

Next time, I needed to remember to do that, as I could have secured a roar already if only I’d known song lyrics could annoy him as much as my general tail-tuft yanking. “Did you miss me that much, Sumners? Last time, I swore I heard you say you never wanted to see my ugly mug ever again.”

He hadn’t actually said that, but twisting his request for me to ‘go do something productive’ never failed to get him up in arms. The lion’s wordless snarl promised it would be an interesting and rewarding call. “I didn’t say that. I said I wished you’d go in to get an attitude readjustment and to not bother me until you acquired some common sense. I said nothing about any mugs.”

Oh. Right. He had said that, too. I snorted, although I smiled at the lion’s reply. How much of his frustrations stemmed from his unwillingness to admit my face terrified most babies? “I have plenty of common sense. How good is my live capture rate again? And how about that kill rate of mine? Hmm? I’m perfection, little kitty, and you know it.”

Work wise, I did my best to live up to my boast. Personality wise? Once I got off the phone, I’d be roaring from laughter. One day, Sebastian would figure out how I ticked, and he would be all calm and poised, ruining my fun. If he didn’t make talking with him so amusing, I would’ve tried a little harder to be a stoic professional.

He made my job so damned fun.

While he knew I was a single lycanthrope, he had no idea I was a cat out for his roars. I bet he assumed, like everyone did, I was a wolf. Since enough wolves invaded my turf, I often smelled like them, too. And since more cats than anyone could shake a stick at lived near Fargo, smelling of feline was the default no matter what species one actually was.

“Unfortunately for me, that’s why I’m calling you.” Sebastian growled, another good sign I’d get a good roar out of him soon. “I need to meet with you about your work.”

“Will this meeting take more than ten minutes?”

“For my sake, I hope not.”

“And is there a reason it can’t be over the phone? I’m busying registering shit in the system here, Mr. Mane. That’s me, busy, busy, busy.”

“Yes, there is a reason it can’t be over the phone.”

“If you want me to make you cry in person, Mr. Mane, you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

“My name isn’t Mr. Mane,” he growled.

“Well, it should be. That hair of yours is just so fluffy. You must make all the single ladies swoon when you walk by.” He certainly did a good job of making me want to swoon—while purring—whenever he strutted his stuff, and my virus was only partially responsible for my interest in him. “Have you tried flipping it over your shoulder?” The lion kept his hair cut short to avoid the mane jokes, but I refused to play by his rules. Or anyone’s rules, really. “It must be hard being pretty enough for the both of us.”

“Damn it, Wells!” The lion inhaled and roared. My poor abused phone buzzed. “Could you take this seriously?”

Sweet victory belonged to me, and I allowed myself a few moments to purr my enjoyment of having nettled him so early into our talk. “Making you roar is very serious business, Mr. Mane. Also, I think you broke my phone with that one. Well done. That was a spectacular roar. Such a manly lion lycanthrope, roaring so impressively.”