Being a fiancée apparently is being a worry wart.
Being King of the Cat Pack is much easier. All have scattered to their usual hangouts, but only mine is so soft and comfy and comes with a built-in massager.
This time I sigh and close my eyes. I personally am enjoying a little alone time with my roomie. Mr. Matt can take his own sweet time about getting home.
Chapter 59
Motorcycle Melodrama
Matt’s heart rate at the moment was nothing he’d want to parade on a visit to his primary care physician.
The single headlight had stopped behind him. In the red glare of his brake lights—he’d kept the car in Drive, brake on—he could see the massive bulk of a heavy-duty cycle tilted on its kickstand.
The ride was in his left rear blind spot, but he heard the creak of leather through his slightly lowered driver’s-seat window.
A black helmet with a smoked plastic visor made the approaching rider into an alien in his side-view mirror.
Matt waited, ready to burn the Jaguar out of there at zero to sixty in 4.4 seconds, as advertised.
The rider passed the window and self-boosted up onto the car’s sleek front fender.
The bare-knuckled black leather half gloves came off one by one and hit the car’s hood.
Matt winced internally.
The helmet came off to sit atop them.
Matt watched the rider shake out her long black hair. Motorpsycho Medusa.
The hip-length leather jacket was unzipped to reveal the feminine version of a wife-beater undershirt, not in Marlon Brando white, but femme fatale black.
She crossed leather-clad legs, the lower booted foot swinging against the Jag’s front wheel well.
Matt breathed an invisible sigh of relief to see no weapons drawn … yet. He zoomed the window full down.
“So,” she said, leaning out over the hood to address him. “The frequent Chicago trips weren’t just to cozy up to the audience of The Amanda Show. You have family there, and here, be it ever so humble.”
“Most people have family,” he said, “unless, like in a melodrama, they’re separated at birth.”
His remark had hit the target dead-on. She slid fast off the fender, her boots hitting asphalt hard together. “You were separated at birth, from your so-called father.”
The last word curled off her lips with loathing.
He understood why Jesus had banished demons. Some people lived with them for so long, they became them. How did she know his family drama? A job for SuperMax.
Matt got out of the car to face her. It was hard to read expressions in the dark.
“You were a pariah,” she charged. “From birth, as I was.”
He kept an unemotional tone. “True, on the surface of things. Your childhood was living hell. I just had purgatory.”
“I know who told you about me.”
“I know who you really want to harass. Why bother with me?”
“You’re easier.”
“Maybe not.”
“Being Mr. Big-time Radio Headshrinker has gone to your own head. You think you can get into my mind? I can get into those crawly little places in your soul you don’t want to admit exist.”
“I guess I’m as entitled to ‘crawlspace’ as you are.” Matt thought of the two casinos where the security “crawlspace” had been invaded by death in the past couple years. That was a great metaphor for what was happening here.
“You don’t want to kill anyone … at least not right away,” he told her. “You like to play with your prey. This is Las Vegas. Let’s make a bet.”
“You, Mr. Careful, gamble?”
“Stay away from your other favorite targets and sign up for some personal counseling with me. I bet I can ‘reach’ your inner angel.”
She laughed delightedly. “You’re actually being sardonic, Mr. Ex-Priest. ‘Inner angel.’ Even you don’t believe that.”
He could sense her eyes searching his expression for underlying motives. He kept it noncommittal. She fed on extreme emotion.
“You’d see me secretly?” she asked. “Leave your precious fiancée in the dark?”
“You can certainly see me secretly any time you like,” he pointed out.
She edged closer. “You think you can save my soul.”
“I’d have to find it first.”
“What arrogance! Souls don’t exist, but guilt does. Do you want to know my bet?”
“Breathless about it.” He was already seeing his refusal to overreact had drawn her into his bargain. He would have felt a little like Satan if she hadn’t been playing the same role.
She pressed herself close, full frontal, her upraised hands at his sides. He controlled the urge to draw back or push away, but his fingers made claws, ready to repulse another razor-knife attack.
She whispered, “I’m betting I can unchain your inner devil. Your body will betray you before my lost soul will fail me.”
Her hands clapped to his sides. He resisted the instinct to grab her wrists to hold off any unseen weapon. Her raised knee slid up the inside of his thigh. She habitually won by making love–hate, not war.
Matt was betting Kathleen’s obsession to seduce would keep her from killing him … too soon anyway. This unholy bargain with a sociopath would test just how good he was, as a psychologist and a man.
Tailpiece
Midnight Louie Has Mixed Feelings
I cannot believe it. After my expedition to the Oasis Hotel and reunion with the winsome Topaz, it looks as if little me is finally going to get the girl! This is unprecedented for the usual hard-luck noir hero. Usually the girl gets him.
I am an unusual dude for one of my breed, although I will admit, when pressed … or petted … that I am an exceptional example of it.
Yet both of my poor Miss Temple’s beaux are dallying with wicked women. What a rude turn of events. I must have words with my collaborator. She had not mentioned my promotion to Number One Male in this book.
I would have taken a thorough bath while Miss Temple was showering so I could appear in peak, glossy glory in the key bedroom scene of the Entire Book. At last my potential as an all-species sex symbol has been realized and allowed to shine forth.
I must admit I am … speechless.
Please do not mistake that for modesty.
I do not.
Very Best Fishes,
Midnight Louie, Esq.
If you’d like information about getting Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter and/or buying his custom T-shirt and other cool things, contact Carole Nelson Douglas at P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, Texas 76163-1555 or the Web site at www.carolenelsondouglas.com. E-maiclass="underline" cdouglas@catwriter.com.
Tailpiece
Carole Nelson Douglas on Other Matters
Because some of the earlier Midnight Louie mysteries are dedicated to “the real and original Midnight Louie, nine lives are not enough,” some readers have thought the inspiring stray cat was part of my personal family.
Not so. His rescue was detailed in the Tailpiece to the first Midnight Louie book, Catnap. The woman who rescued the koi-loving homeless black cat from a Palo Alto motel and shipped him to her Minnesota apartment found him friendly but unable to adapt to confined living arrangements.
She put a long and intriguingly expensive ad in the classifieds section (remember those?) of the newspaper I worked for as a reporter and feature writer, offering him to a good home for one dollar. (She’d spent a lot more than that on his airfare back.)