Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
And me saying it back.
Oh. My. God.
Doubt curdles in my belly as I ease Nana’s old Cadillac chugging down the street, the spring sunshine making me squint as a cascade of conflicting feelings makes me queasy. But I have a plan. Get the food, tell Duffield about the dumping, then figure out how to at least keep my job and get on the right side of the cat food supply chain.
What I really want is to keep him. But maybe this kitten is in over her head.
Thirty minutes later, I'm waist-deep in discarded pet supplies, rummaging through the dumpster with my hoodie concealing my face and ears. I toss out anything salvageable to bag later. Technically illegal? Yes. I’m no newbie to the dumpster game. In Michigan, it’s theft if the dumpster is on private property.
But come on. I’m stealing garbage. No harm, no foul, right?
I hit the jackpot—premium foods for Butterbean, Misty, Clementine, and Jasper. I’m not seeing the one I give Gumball, but I have enough for now. If purchased new, these would cost hundreds monthly. I also unearth a salvageable blanket and a scratching post with a bent pole my crew will adore.
Satisfied, I climb out and begin loading my hold-all when a deep voice freezes me mid-motion.
"Do you know who you're fucking stealing from? By the time I'm through with you, you'll wish I'd called the police."
My spine tingles, instincts warring between turning to face the threat or fleeing.
"Wait. I—I'm not stealing." My voice betrays me with a quiver as I stand surrounded by my half-packed bounty.
"Nobody steals from me. Nobody. You hear me?"
"But it's just being thrown away!" Indignation warms my blood. "Who are you anyway?"
I spin around, breath catching at the massive silhouette blocking the alley's exit, the bright sun behind him making features impossible to see. No escape route. No way past.
"Let me go," I demand, aiming for confidence.
He steps forward, and I retreat until my back nearly touches the brick wall. If only I had a real cat's climbing abilities.
"I'll scream!"
Another step forward brings him into clear view.
Wild dark hair. Arctic blue eyes.
"Duffield?"
At first, no response—just stillness. Then recognition dawns in his expression, jaw tightening while his eyes soften with something resembling hurt.
"Little kitty?"
His legs seem to buckle, body swaying without collapsing. Wind gusts down the alley, bringing the scent of recent rain and tearing my hood back.
"If you'd asked, I would have given you the world," he says, shaking his head. "Why did you have to steal? I can't have someone stealing from me. I won't."
Part of me wants to beg forgiveness. The rest—the dominant part—feels outraged.
"It's not stealing!" I step forward, emboldened by righteousness. "These things were being thrown away! Do you know how much perfectly good food your pet shops waste every day? That’s criminal. But this? This is hardly the crime of the century. It's not like I'm taking money from your wallet, Mr. Grumpy Pants."
"Kittycat," he growls, straightening to his full height.
"No." I cut him off sharply, advancing as wind whips my hood back and tangles my hair. "You always get your way, huh? Well, not with me. I need these things. Yes, technically they're yours, but I'm an alleycat, and this is my turf. Legal schmeegal. Anything out here is mine. Besides, if you knew they were throwing all this away? Shame on you." My voice rises nearly to shouting. "And what exactly did you mean by 'you'll wish I'd called the police'? What were you going to do to me?"
I plant my fists on my hips, noticing his clenched jaw as he stares.
"You need to get over yourself. There are people with their own needs, and you can't always get your way. What if I was homeless? Would you deny me a tin of..." I glance down "...premium tuna chunks just because it's technically stealing? Boo fucking hoo."
"Kitty..."
"Uh uh. I don’t know why your shops throw all this away, but I don’t think I want to be with someone that doesn’t think to donate all of this. I mean, you have two stray cats. Don’t you think about all the others out there in shelters and foster homes? No way, you don't get to—"
"You're right."
Those two words hang between us. Then Duffield does something unexpected—he drops to his knees in the filthy alley, among puddles and rat droppings, taking my hands in his. He clutches them like lifelines, pressing his lips against my knuckles.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "You're right. I have no right to keep these things. I came here..." He shakes his head, and shock ripples through me at the sight of tears in his eyes. "I came looking for you. Hadn't seen you on camera for a while, and when I went to your house, you weren't there. I wanted to know you were safe. I've been a complete fucking idiot. I’m not the man you think I am."