What’s New Pussycat
Chapter One
“Mrowwww!” Martine Brooks howled again, extra long and extra loud for the benefit of her viewing audience. Then she hissed, opening her mouth wide for clarity—in case anyone in the room mistook her mewling for anything other than complete dissatisfaction.
Because being so rudely awakened from a sound catnap, then thrown into a plastic sweatbox the size of a sardine can, heinously lobbed into a moving vehicle smelling of beer and Fritos, bounced around for what felt like an eternity, and dumped at a 7-Eleven was surely cause for discontent.
And now she was here. Wherever here was.
Rescued.
By a man named Derrick Adams, who drove like a lunatic. A man who, though he’d rescued her, appeared put out by her very existence.
Which, on his part, was incredibly rude. It wasn’t as though she’d asked to be kidnapped to begin with. Though, she had to admit, as rescuers went, she could have made out far worse, because phew, this Derrick was pretty. So, so delectably pretty.
Angular cheekbones, hair the color of coal just touching the collar of his T-shirt, blue eyes with thick lashes, leaving his eyes looking like they’d been outlined with smudged liner. Dusky skin stretched taut over his biceps and thick thighs flexed against his low-slung jeans.
Yum.
Martine shook off her stray lustful thoughts. First, because who the fresh hell was Derrick Adams anyway, and what did he want with her? Second, how had she ended up in a Dumpster at a convenience store, warranting the need for rescue to begin with? Third what if Derrick Adams was a homicidal maniac and she hadn’t been rescued at all? What if this was the place where he did all his killing?
Though, if this was the killing room where Derrick the Homicidal Maniac did the deed, he kept his sacrificial altar clean as a whistle, because it was beautiful.
But they weren’t alone in this beautiful place. So there was either a Cult of Derrick or these other two scantily clad people in the room were blissfully unaware he was a homicidal maniac.
Derrick and another equally hot, yet edgier-looking man named Max, and a pretty woman with gorgeous hair were in on this, too. This Max, according to the eavesdropping she’d been doing, with the sheet wrapped around his waist and the sinfully delicious body made of steel, was brother to the man who’d rescued her.
Max stuck his handsome face in the opening of the infernal carrier she’d been so callously stuffed into and muttered, “A cat.” He offered this wisdom with wooden words and a confused expression.
That’s right, big and brawny—a cat. Hashtag #Meow and all that feline-ery.
Martine sniffed the air, unable to pinpoint exactly what Max was. He wasn’t human, that much she was sure of, and neither was Derrick.
She sniffed again. Gargoyle? No. They didn’t have the right hint of musty old man and dragon breath to be gargoyles.
Derrick’s sigh grated her ears on the way out of his delectable mouth when he addressed Max. “Yeah. A cat. So what do you suppose this means, pack leader?”
Max tightened the sheet around him and chuckled. “You’d better get a laser pointer? Cat litter?”
Ah. Funny. Max was both funny smelling and ha-ha funny. Two funnies in one.
Derrick narrowed his eyes at Max, sending out a distinct vibe of displeasure. “You know what I mean, Max. Where do I go from here?”
What did Derrick mean? What did any of this mean? And what was a pack leader? Like a Boy Scout leader? Cult leader? Boy-band leader? Thank God she was stuck in full shift. If she had to escape, it would make getting away easier.
Max pulled the pretty woman wearing a bathrobe much too large for her to the couch, settling them both in before speaking. “Listen, you know the rules, Derrick. This is how it goes.”
Derrick held up the carrier, waving it in the air, making her dizzy. “How come when it goes for you, you get a woman who walks and talks, but when it goes for me, I get one with four paws that sheds?”
Wow. That was harsh. She walked and talked. In fact, she’d once had a really great job that involved plenty of walking and talking.
Dickknuckle.
The pretty woman next to Max pointed to the carrier. “Put her down, would you, please? Stop treating her like she’s not in the room and she can’t hear you, Derrick. I thought when you were in shift you paranormal people could still understand everything we humans say? If that’s the case, don’t be an insensitive knuckle-dragger. There’s a person inside that carrier you’re talking about.”
Thank you, pretty woman with the hair to die for. Girl power.
Derrick set the carrier on the coffee table between the couch and an enormous chair, leaving the grate opening to face the far wall so everyone could see inside. “You’re right, JC,” he said to the woman, looking down into the carrier. “My apologies,” he offered, gruff and low.
“Mrowwww!” Martine Brooks howled again, extra long and extra loud for the benefit of her viewing audience. Then she hissed, opening her mouth wide for clarity—in case anyone in the room mistook her mewling for anything other than complete dissatisfaction.
Because being so rudely awakened from a sound catnap, then thrown into a plastic sweatbox the size of a sardine can, heinously lobbed into a moving vehicle smelling of beer and Fritos, bounced around for what felt like an eternity, and dumped at a 7-Eleven was surely cause for discontent.
And now she was here. Wherever here was.
Rescued.
By a man named Derrick Adams, who drove like a lunatic. A man who, though he’d rescued her, appeared put out by her very existence.
Which, on his part, was incredibly rude. It wasn’t as though she’d asked to be kidnapped to begin with. Though, she had to admit, as rescuers went, she could have made out far worse, because phew, this Derrick was pretty. So, so delectably pretty.
Angular cheekbones, hair the color of coal just touching the collar of his T-shirt, blue eyes with thick lashes, leaving his eyes looking like they’d been outlined with smudged liner. Dusky skin stretched taut over his biceps and thick thighs flexed against his low-slung jeans.
Yum.
Martine shook off her stray lustful thoughts. First, because who the fresh hell was Derrick Adams anyway, and what did he want with her? Second, how had she ended up in a Dumpster at a convenience store, warranting the need for rescue to begin with? Third what if Derrick Adams was a homicidal maniac and she hadn’t been rescued at all? What if this was the place where he did all his killing?
Though, if this was the killing room where Derrick the Homicidal Maniac did the deed, he kept his sacrificial altar clean as a whistle, because it was beautiful.
But they weren’t alone in this beautiful place. So there was either a Cult of Derrick or these other two scantily clad people in the room were blissfully unaware he was a homicidal maniac.
Derrick and another equally hot, yet edgier-looking man named Max, and a pretty woman with gorgeous hair were in on this, too. This Max, according to the eavesdropping she’d been doing, with the sheet wrapped around his waist and the sinfully delicious body made of steel, was brother to the man who’d rescued her.
Max stuck his handsome face in the opening of the infernal carrier she’d been so callously stuffed into and muttered, “A cat.” He offered this wisdom with wooden words and a confused expression.
That’s right, big and brawny—a cat. Hashtag #Meow and all that feline-ery.
Martine sniffed the air, unable to pinpoint exactly what Max was. He wasn’t human, that much she was sure of, and neither was Derrick.
She sniffed again. Gargoyle? No. They didn’t have the right hint of musty old man and dragon breath to be gargoyles.
Derrick’s sigh grated her ears on the way out of his delectable mouth when he addressed Max. “Yeah. A cat. So what do you suppose this means, pack leader?”
Max tightened the sheet around him and chuckled. “You’d better get a laser pointer? Cat litter?”
Ah. Funny. Max was both funny smelling and ha-ha funny. Two funnies in one.
Derrick narrowed his eyes at Max, sending out a distinct vibe of displeasure. “You know what I mean, Max. Where do I go from here?”
What did Derrick mean? What did any of this mean? And what was a pack leader? Like a Boy Scout leader? Cult leader? Boy-band leader? Thank God she was stuck in full shift. If she had to escape, it would make getting away easier.
Max pulled the pretty woman wearing a bathrobe much too large for her to the couch, settling them both in before speaking. “Listen, you know the rules, Derrick. This is how it goes.”
Derrick held up the carrier, waving it in the air, making her dizzy. “How come when it goes for you, you get a woman who walks and talks, but when it goes for me, I get one with four paws that sheds?”
Wow. That was harsh. She walked and talked. In fact, she’d once had a really great job that involved plenty of walking and talking.
Dickknuckle.
The pretty woman next to Max pointed to the carrier. “Put her down, would you, please? Stop treating her like she’s not in the room and she can’t hear you, Derrick. I thought when you were in shift you paranormal people could still understand everything we humans say? If that’s the case, don’t be an insensitive knuckle-dragger. There’s a person inside that carrier you’re talking about.”
Thank you, pretty woman with the hair to die for. Girl power.
Derrick set the carrier on the coffee table between the couch and an enormous chair, leaving the grate opening to face the far wall so everyone could see inside. “You’re right, JC,” he said to the woman, looking down into the carrier. “My apologies,” he offered, gruff and low.