Scared Stiff by Annelise Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

is less than a mile away so it takes only a minute or two to get there. Along the way William glances at himself in the rearview mirror several times—taming his comb-over with a lick of spit, examining his teeth, and looking up his nose once, presumably for stray hairs.
    He follows my directions and parks in front of my cottage. I climb out of the car quickly, not wanting to encourage the suitor scenario any more by waiting for him to open my door. Once we get inside he stops, looks around, and assumes an expression of obvious distaste.
    “You’re a bit of a clutterbug, aren’t you?” he says.
    “Sorry.” I take the envelope Hurley gave me out of my purse and toss it onto a nearby chair. “Neatness is not one of my strong suits.”
    William looks like he is about to say something else but sneezes instead. Then he does it again. Three more follow in succession, like rapid-fire gunshots. “Do you have a cat?” he sniffles, taking out his hankie and dabbing at his nose. “I’m allergic to cats.”
    Suddenly I see light at the end of the tunnel . . . a way out of all this without rejecting William outright. “I do. He’s a kitten, actually, about four months old, and his name is Rubbish because I found him in a garbage Dumpster.”
    William glances around the room with an utterly horrified expression and I half expect him to bolt for the door.
    “Don’t worry. He’s probably in hiding somewhere. He does that when I come home, like a game of hide-and-seek.” I gesture toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get us some wine.”
    He walks over to the couch and bends down to examine it carefully. When he starts brushing at the cushion, I head into the kitchen with my purse and grab the closest thing I have to wine-glasses: a couple of juice tumblers. As I hear William sneeze several more times, I dig in my purse, find a tube of lipstick, and put some on. Then I take both of the glasses and wrap my lips around their rims, one at a time. When I’m done, I examine the glasses carefully in the light and deem the lip prints satisfactory. Then I open a bottle of Chardonnay and fill both glasses.
    I return to the living room to find William sitting on the couch, red-eyed, sniffling, and tearing. He sneezes twice more as I approach and they are violent enough that his comb-over springs loose, standing up on one side of his head like a lopsided rooster comb.
    “You poor thing,” I tell him, handing him a glass of wine.
    He takes the glass and true to form, holds it up for inspection. Despite the fact that his eyes are swollen halfway shut, he manages to widen them to startling proportions when he spies the lipstick mark. “Did you wash this glass?” he asks nasally.
    I shrug. “I gave it a good rinse. Why? Is there a problem?”
    He sets the glass down, blows his nose, and then sneezes again. I notice movement behind him and realize Rubbish has finally appeared, climbing up the back of the couch to perch just behind William’s head.
    William leans back into the couch and dabs at his eyes and nose. He looks truly miserable and I feel a pang of pity for him. Then I notice that Rubbish has hunkered down, his furry little ass wiggling in the air, his pupils dilated like a meth addict’s. His eyes are focused on the flopping strands of William’s comb-over, and I realize with horror that he is about to make a kill.
    William retrieves his glass as I start forward in hopes of grabbing Rubbish before he can attack but I’m a step too late. The kitten launches himself forward, all claws out, and lands on top of William’s head. William shrieks and pushes himself off the couch, managing to spill wine all over his shirt and knock over the coffee table in the process. Rubbish loses his grip, slides down the side of William’s head, and then scampers into my bedroom.
    At least now I don’t have to worry about William trying to take me to bed.
    “Jesus Christ!” William yells, holding a protective hand