Bad Kitty

by Michele Jaffe

  “I should have listened to you,” Fiona told her. “I never should have trusted Mr. Curtis. Thank you for coming to save us.”

  Alex looked around at the two men being pinned to the deck, chuckled when she saw the pyramid of cement blocks Roxy had erected on the Fabinator’s chest, and said, “Actually, Fi, you should thank Jasmine for our being here. Her father found a note she left that described some threats against her and included impressively lifted fingerprints of the person who’d done the threatening.70 He sent her note to the police, who ran the prints and matched them to Mr. Curtis’s. But we wouldn’t have found you so fast if a man named Captain Doom hadn’t gotten worried when he couldn’t raise the Pink Pearl and sent out an all-points bulletin for it. Still, I’m not sure you needed to be saved. It looks to me like this situation was pretty well under control. All that’s left for me is the cleanup and the paperwork.”

  She pulled out a pair of handcuffs,71 and took over where we left off, getting the Fabinator and L. A. Curtis properly cuffed and stowed.

  Which freed up Jack to walk over to Red Early, give him a long hug, and say, “It’s over, Dad. It’s finally over.”

  Thirty-two

  That’s right. Red Early was Jack’s father.

  Which made Fred—

  “My half brother,” Jack said, coming over to me. “But we spent a lot of time together growing up. I was eleven when he was born, and he seemed like he was eleven when he was born, so even though I was in England half the year with my mother we—Jas? Is something wrong?”

  I guess maybe the stress of almost being killed for the second time in two days got to me and I cracked. “He’s your dad? Fred is your brother? Why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you play all mysterious and lie to me? I would have helped you if you’d explained. You said you trusted me.”

  “I did it to protect my father and Fred. Fiona had told Fred not to speak to me, afraid that I would somehow get in the middle and get hurt, which is why he ran away from me in the casino. I couldn’t tell anyone. It was nothing personal about you.”

  I really wanted to believe him. But I was too tired and fed up and confused. So I—well, let’s just say I’m not proud of what I did.

  Little Life Lesson 57: Be prepared for surprises, because if you’re not, you might act really stupid and ruin the rest of your life.

  Little Life Lesson 58: For example, upon finding out that the guy of your dreams was sort of lying to you the entire time you knew him—possibly for a good reason—calling him a trash-talking moldy Monchichi and saying you never want to hear another word from his lying mouth again may feel cathartic at the time, but in the long run only ensures you will never hear from him again and therefore lead an existence of unremitting pain and loneliness.

  Little Life Lesson 59 (one to go!): Also, if you happen to be involved in a life-threatening situation that you get out of unscathed, and police in two states praise your quick thinking and even say they would not have solved the case without you; if the police department of the city you live in makes you an honorary deputy, and offers you a chance to go on a ride along with Alex, the coolest woman you have ever met, and a part-time job, you might think your father would be pleased, proud even.

  You would not, however, be thinking of the Thwarter. Or, as I have taken to calling him, the Grounder.

  Yes, Air Jas was grounded for the rest of her life and beyond, parked forever at Little Life Lesson 59. I was pretty sure my father was researching options in cryogenic grounding, enabling grounding from beyond the grave. Some of his best lines, which he would periodically pop into my room to repeat, were, “The next time you set foot outside this house alone will be to go to my funeral,” and, “Our species has evolved for thousands of years to avoid the kind of situations you cavalierly waltz into,” and, my favorite, “You could have drowned. Drowning is supposed to be the worst way to die.” A real hit parade.

  Although I guess the fact that he hugged me every time and sometimes I would hear him whisper really softly, “I was so scared I’d lost you, little one,” kind of took the sting away.

  The only people it ended worse for than me were L. A. Curtis and the Fabinator. It turned out they had met doing community theater, and had actually performed that little fight scene they did in the clearing for an audience during a run of West Side Story before showing it to us. Mr. Curtis will stand trial for the murder of Len Phillips in Los Angeles, after he’s tried for the murder of Adam Nightshade in Las Vegas, captured entirely—and accidentally—on film by Red Early. Len Phillips had been with Red that day, and Mr. Curtis spotted both men. His plan had been to get rid of them both and the negatives by murdering Len and framing Red for it. When that didn’t work, he enlisted Fiona’s help to lure Red out of hiding and into his lap, by convincing her that getting Red recaptured would help the police and was the only way she and Fred could have a normal life.

  The Fabinator is looking at some time for trying to kidnap us, and dealing with a series of smaller lawsuits brought by the firm of Prentis & Prentis in re: destruction of one pink leather dashboard; destruction of one pair of pink sparkle pumps with gold heels.

  Red and Fiona were making up for lost time playing happy family. I got an email from Fred saying they were all doing “really good and Mad Joe says hello.”

  I didn’t hear from Jack.

  “Should I call him and apologize?” I asked Polly on the phone.

  “No. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “I called him a moldy Monchichi,” I reminded her.

  “Hang on, let me ask Tom’s opinion.” Muffled noises that did NOT sound like talking.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. Then a little laugh. “Tom says you shouldn’t call him.”

  “Thanks.”

  The capture and arrests made the news big-time, and although my father would not let me talk to any reporters, Sherri! started a scrap-book of clippings about it. I also started getting a lot of emails from people asking me if I could help them find their dogs or solve the unsolved murder of their daughter or lend them $10,000 at a very good interest rate. In among them, a few days after we got back, I found this one:

  * * *

  To: Jasmine Callihan

  From: J.R.

  Subject:

  Congratulations on your heroic work in Las Vegas. You truly are Winnie Callihan’s daughter. Your mother would be very proud.

  I will be watching you.

  * * *

  I wrote back and got no reply.

  But I didn’t really have time to think about it, what with obsessing about Jack and whether Jack would call and if I should call him and apologize and if—

  It was totally stupid. He was going to be a sophomore at UCLA, I’d discovered. I was in high school. Oh, and I had told him he was a Monchichi.

  Or rather, a trash-talking moldy Monchichi.

  Yeah, I’m sure I was very much on his mind. But what if he was The One and I’d blown it forever? What if I were destined to a lifetime of broken dreams and one-night stands because of this? I couldn’t even consult with Polly over what kind of clothes I should start laying in for my new chaps-and-cheap-motel life because she was always busy in Tom’s room—although Roxy reported the door was always open and mostly she saw them sitting on opposite ends of the bed reading Hot Rod.

  Still, it was a start.

  Roxy was too busy to be any help either. Ever since Veronique diagnosed her as being slightly paranoid, she’d been so excited that she spent all her time at the UCLA medical library looking up her symptoms.

  Why couldn’t I have normal friends?

  Why would someone send me an email saying they were watching me?

  How was I supposed to learn my sixtieth Little Life Lesson if I was stuck in the house?

  Why were the only things in my Meaningful Reflection Journal haikus?

  Could I write a haiku college essay?

  And, speaking of college, what was Jack doing?

  And wh
y did I care?

  I didn’t care, I told myself. Especially tonight. It was the last Friday night of the summer and somehow Sherri! persuaded my dad that I should be allowed one night of fun before school started, so he was letting me go out with Polly and Roxy and Tom to a club to hear some band Roxy was crazy about. As long as I was home by 11:30. “And that means without a police escort or handcuffs,” he said, and laughed like he’d said the funniest thing in the world. Ha ha. It’s only MY LIFE we’re joking about.

  The club was packed when we got there, but Polly and Roxy managed to talk our way into a section near the stage, possibly qualifying for yet another superpower, while my total remained at zero.72

  “Who are we hearing play again?” I asked as the warm-up band finished their set.

  “The NASCAR Dads,” Tom said. “It’s the band that did that song about the piñata I told you about.”

  “Right.” The truth was, I didn’t care. I was out of the house and with my friends and alive. And in many respects, as the Thwarter enjoyed pointing out, that was a lot more than I had any right to expect.

  The lights went down and people started screaming and an announcer said, “Let’s welcome to the stage the NASCAR Dads.”

  And then the stage lights went up and I was staring at a pair of worn-in green Adidas just like Jack’s. And a pair of jeans like his. And a green-striped shirt like the one he’d been wearing in the gondola. And then I looked up and it was Jack. ONSTAGE. Behind the microphone and with a guitar.73

  He said, “This song we just wrote and recorded for our next album. It’s called ‘Super Girl.’”

  And he started singing and it was a totally adorable song, all about how this girl lived in disco-ball motion, and how she was too smart for his own good, and listening to it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Because it was awesome.

  And because it definitely wasn’t about me.

  I looked around at the beautiful girls crowded by the stage and tried to guess which one was his girlfriend. It would take someone special to be the girlfriend of a rock star and inspire songs like that. I hoped it was the really pretty brown-haired girl standing in front of me with the cute necklace and the perfect skin because she seemed like she was nice and would smile at him and be a lot of fun to hang out with. She totally looked like a super girl. I bet she had a dozen superpowers, half of them sexual.

  “I’m going outside for some fresh air,” I yelled in Polly’s ear. Which was code for “My heart is breaking in one million zillion pieces and I am now going to sob very, very hard for a long time.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said, grabbing my arm. Which was not code.

  “I really think I should—”

  “Pay attention!” Polly said.

  Jack sang:

  She has the power to make you wish her

  With you all the time so you could whisper

  About how just much you’ve missed her

  And how badly you want to

  Take her out for dinner bring her flowers chocolate see what

  socks she wears under her cowboy boots make her smile so

  you can see her dimples—those dimples, God—while you…

  And as everyone in the audience sang KISS HER, he dropped his guitar, jumped off the stage.

  And said, “I’ve missed you, super girl.”

  And kissed me.

  ME!

  ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  SUPER GIRL!!!!!!!!

  Little Life Lesson 60: If you meet a guy who is six feet three inches of perfect manly splendor with green eyes and a British accent and a slight scar on his cheek and warm soft hands and a nice-smelling chest who laughs at your jokes and has lovely manners and makes you melt inside when he kisses you and he is named Jack and is perfect in every single way, keep your distance.

  He’s mine.

  Over and Out74

  * * *

  And they lived….

  * * *

  * * *

  …. happily….

  * * *

  * * *

  …ever after.

  Whoever locked > us in the bathroom is going to be so sorry-slash-dead! I mean it! This is totally not Visa!

  * * *

  * * *

  Ha!

  * * *

  About the Author

  Michele Jaffe is the author of several adult novels, including the thrillers BAD GIRL and LOVERBOY. After getting her Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from Harvard, she retired from academia and decided to become an FBI special agent or glamorous showgirl—but somehow ended up writing. A native of Los Angeles, California, Michele lives in Las Vegas with her husband, her disco ball, and her zebra wall-to-wall carpeting.75

  Visit Michele’s website at www.michelejaffe.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Credits

  Cover art and design © 2007 by Sasha Illingworth

  Copyright

  BAD KITTY. Copyright © 2006 by Michele Jaffe. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub © Edition DECEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061973826

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  1Polly: Roxy? Pssst, over here.

  Roxy: Hi, Polly. What are you doing down here?

  Polly: Trying to get your attention stealthily.

  Roxy: I love stealth!

  Polly: Look, I’m worried about Jas. I was—

  Roxy: Shhhhh. They might be listening.

  Polly: Who?

  Roxy: THEM. Her overlords. BE STEALTHY.

  Polly: Um, Rox, I don’t think—

  Roxy: Uh-oh, Jas is getting restless! We’d better go back up there before she gets suspicious and gives the game away.

  Polly: What game? What are you talking about?

  Roxy: Nothing to see here, nice overlords. Not a thing. Tra la la. (Call me later, P.)

  2Polly: Do “Stole car. Got arrested. Met man of dreams. Must go die now. Miss you,” count as sentences? Because that is what the email said.

  Roxy: Well, they have periods. And verbs in them.

  Polly: Yes, verbs like “arrested” and “die.”

  Roxy: Those aren’t my favorites either—I like “eat” and “order dessert” best, I think. Or maybe “slurp milkshake.” It was nice of her to say she misses us.

  Polly: Um, Rox? That’s not the point.

  Roxy: Oh. Do you think we should do something? Wait—DOES THIS CALL FOR AN INTERV
ENTION? INTERVENTION! I love interventions! What should we confront Jas about first? Her increasing drug use? Her slipping grades?

  Polly: Jas doesn’t use drugs, and she’s, like, number two in our class. I was thinking more about her freakish behavior today. Clearly, repressing her interest in Fiona Bristol is leading to all kinds of acting out.

  Roxy: It’s not that unusual for Jas to find herself in the hands of a security team.

  Polly: But auto theft?

  Roxy: Hmm, good point.