“Just four that I know of.”
Four. I counted them in my head. Miguel, Sean, and Eric, and…“Was that Ryan?”
She nodded solemnly.
“He hasn’t…?” Unable to finish the question, I stared at the concrete, studying a long crack a couple of feet from my cage door. I couldn’t ask her if my brother—her own cousin—had raped her.
“No,” she said, and I exhaled in relief. Abby stared at her shoe, scraping dirt from the sole with one jagged pink fingernail. “Just Miguel and Eric. Ryan only brings the food.”
Thank goodness. It wasn’t exactly good news, yet stil better than the alternative. I was certain Ryan hadn’t touched Sara either, because if he’d made physical contact, Vic would have smel ed his scent on her. Or maybe Vic had, and Michael had lied to me. No, I thought. Michael wouldn’t lie. And Ryan wouldn’t rape. So what the hell was he doing here?
With Ryan, there was no tel ing. He’d always been different from most other toms. He had the strength and speed of a cat but never developed the instinct to properly use them. And until his eighteenth birthday, he never seemed to mind his own mediocrity.
A couple of months after Ryan came of age, Michael quit his job as an enforcer to attend law school full-time. Ryan wanted his job. Unfortunately, with the best interests of the Pride in mind, my father couldn’t give it to him; Ryan just didn’t have what it took. Daddy hired Marc instead, though he wouldn’t turn eighteen for another month. Ryan left the Pride that night, in spite of the only screaming, crying fit I’d ever seen my mother throw.
I pushed damp, stringy hair back from my face, trying to push back my memories at the same time. Thinking about my family would only make me homesick, a cruel irony, considering I’d nearly fled the ranch on my own only hours earlier.
“What about the other jungle cat? The second stray?”
My cousin’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I’ve only seen one stray. Miguel.”
Hmm. Was it possible that the two crime sprees, both committed by foreign strays, were unconnected? Surely not.
“How did they catch you?” Abby asked, smashing tiny clumps of dirt into powder with her thumb.
“I got stupid,” I admitted, my face warm with embarrassment.
She looked up expectantly, but a faint creak overhead saved me from having to elaborate. We both turned toward the sound, just as the door opened. This time, along with light, I caught the aroma of beef and onions. I tensed, expecting to see Miguel’s black work boots on the steps, but saw a worn-out pair of tennis shoes instead. That, combined with the scent of food, told me who was coming.
Time for a little family reunion.
My pulse raced in anticipation as Ryan slunk down the stairs. A hundred questions chased each other in my head, and I bit my lip to keep from shouting them al at once. I wanted answers, and he was going to give them to me. One way or another. Starting with what the hell had happened to him.
My brother’s formerly bright brown eyes were dul , his sandy hair lank and lifeless. He looked tal er than I remembered, and it took me a moment to understand the optical il usion at work. He wasn’t tal er; he was thinner, as if he hadn’t been getting enough to eat. But for a cat, hunger should never be a problem.
Even if he was too broke to buy food, he could always hunt. So why did he look like he belonged in a commercial alongside Sal y Struthers?
Ryan carried two fast-food bags in one hand and two plastic bottles of springwater in the other. My stomach growled, fighting with my anger for top priority as I realized I hadn’t had any breakfast. I wanted answers, but I needed food.
He dropped one bag and bottle on the floor next to my cage and marched right past me, without a word of acknowledgment. But I watched him closely, and his gait was anything but relaxed. He knew he’d have to face me eventually.
At Abby’s cage, he slipped the bag between two bars, holding it out to her, but she backed away from him, al the way into the far corner. Ryan’s narrow shoulders slumped. “Come on, Abby, be reasonable,” he said, clearly exasperated. “Take the burger.”
Burgers. How original.
Abby shook her head, curls bouncing around her face. “I told you, I’m on a hunger strike.”
He sighed, lowering his arm. “You’ll only feel worse when you’re too weak to move.”
“What do you care?”
“He’s right, Abby,” I said. “Take the food. You need energy to fight.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ryan turned to glare at me, brows furrowed. “It’l only be worse if she fights them.” His gaze flicked to the empty cage next to mine, then back to me quickly.
“How much worse could it get?” I gripped the door of my cage, my hands white with tension. “She’s already been kidnapped, caged and raped.”
Ryan winced at my last word, dropping his eyes to the concrete. American tabbies were protected and often spoiled by the men in their lives. Hitting a woman was grounds for expulsion from the Pride. Even if she deserved it. Even if she threw the first punch. Even if she begged for it. And though I’d never heard of a tabby being raped before, I was pretty sure such a crime would justify a death sentence.
Ryan must have thought so too. He was clearly troubled by what had happened to Abby. But not enough to stop it. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”
“No thanks to you,” I spat, pleased to see him wince again. He was suffering major guilt. Good. I could work with guilt.
Four. I counted them in my head. Miguel, Sean, and Eric, and…“Was that Ryan?”
She nodded solemnly.
“He hasn’t…?” Unable to finish the question, I stared at the concrete, studying a long crack a couple of feet from my cage door. I couldn’t ask her if my brother—her own cousin—had raped her.
“No,” she said, and I exhaled in relief. Abby stared at her shoe, scraping dirt from the sole with one jagged pink fingernail. “Just Miguel and Eric. Ryan only brings the food.”
Thank goodness. It wasn’t exactly good news, yet stil better than the alternative. I was certain Ryan hadn’t touched Sara either, because if he’d made physical contact, Vic would have smel ed his scent on her. Or maybe Vic had, and Michael had lied to me. No, I thought. Michael wouldn’t lie. And Ryan wouldn’t rape. So what the hell was he doing here?
With Ryan, there was no tel ing. He’d always been different from most other toms. He had the strength and speed of a cat but never developed the instinct to properly use them. And until his eighteenth birthday, he never seemed to mind his own mediocrity.
A couple of months after Ryan came of age, Michael quit his job as an enforcer to attend law school full-time. Ryan wanted his job. Unfortunately, with the best interests of the Pride in mind, my father couldn’t give it to him; Ryan just didn’t have what it took. Daddy hired Marc instead, though he wouldn’t turn eighteen for another month. Ryan left the Pride that night, in spite of the only screaming, crying fit I’d ever seen my mother throw.
I pushed damp, stringy hair back from my face, trying to push back my memories at the same time. Thinking about my family would only make me homesick, a cruel irony, considering I’d nearly fled the ranch on my own only hours earlier.
“What about the other jungle cat? The second stray?”
My cousin’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I’ve only seen one stray. Miguel.”
Hmm. Was it possible that the two crime sprees, both committed by foreign strays, were unconnected? Surely not.
“How did they catch you?” Abby asked, smashing tiny clumps of dirt into powder with her thumb.
“I got stupid,” I admitted, my face warm with embarrassment.
She looked up expectantly, but a faint creak overhead saved me from having to elaborate. We both turned toward the sound, just as the door opened. This time, along with light, I caught the aroma of beef and onions. I tensed, expecting to see Miguel’s black work boots on the steps, but saw a worn-out pair of tennis shoes instead. That, combined with the scent of food, told me who was coming.
Time for a little family reunion.
My pulse raced in anticipation as Ryan slunk down the stairs. A hundred questions chased each other in my head, and I bit my lip to keep from shouting them al at once. I wanted answers, and he was going to give them to me. One way or another. Starting with what the hell had happened to him.
My brother’s formerly bright brown eyes were dul , his sandy hair lank and lifeless. He looked tal er than I remembered, and it took me a moment to understand the optical il usion at work. He wasn’t tal er; he was thinner, as if he hadn’t been getting enough to eat. But for a cat, hunger should never be a problem.
Even if he was too broke to buy food, he could always hunt. So why did he look like he belonged in a commercial alongside Sal y Struthers?
Ryan carried two fast-food bags in one hand and two plastic bottles of springwater in the other. My stomach growled, fighting with my anger for top priority as I realized I hadn’t had any breakfast. I wanted answers, but I needed food.
He dropped one bag and bottle on the floor next to my cage and marched right past me, without a word of acknowledgment. But I watched him closely, and his gait was anything but relaxed. He knew he’d have to face me eventually.
At Abby’s cage, he slipped the bag between two bars, holding it out to her, but she backed away from him, al the way into the far corner. Ryan’s narrow shoulders slumped. “Come on, Abby, be reasonable,” he said, clearly exasperated. “Take the burger.”
Burgers. How original.
Abby shook her head, curls bouncing around her face. “I told you, I’m on a hunger strike.”
He sighed, lowering his arm. “You’ll only feel worse when you’re too weak to move.”
“What do you care?”
“He’s right, Abby,” I said. “Take the food. You need energy to fight.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ryan turned to glare at me, brows furrowed. “It’l only be worse if she fights them.” His gaze flicked to the empty cage next to mine, then back to me quickly.
“How much worse could it get?” I gripped the door of my cage, my hands white with tension. “She’s already been kidnapped, caged and raped.”
Ryan winced at my last word, dropping his eyes to the concrete. American tabbies were protected and often spoiled by the men in their lives. Hitting a woman was grounds for expulsion from the Pride. Even if she deserved it. Even if she threw the first punch. Even if she begged for it. And though I’d never heard of a tabby being raped before, I was pretty sure such a crime would justify a death sentence.
Ryan must have thought so too. He was clearly troubled by what had happened to Abby. But not enough to stop it. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”
“No thanks to you,” I spat, pleased to see him wince again. He was suffering major guilt. Good. I could work with guilt.
