Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  The lying, the cheating, the manipulation, all hidden behind a brilliant white smile that could convince the world he was a saint, she wasn’t prepared to walk that path again, she owed it to herself not to.

  So why are you with Johnny?

  She pondered this thought for a moment, it was something both Christina and Lisa had asked her a number of times. What did Johnny have that Jeremy didn’t? The more she mulled over the situation, the more she realized that it was what Jeremy had that Johnny didn’t. Johnny was predictable in many ways. She was able to keep Johnny at arm’s length in a way she didn’t think she could ever do with Jeremy. So far, she’d been able to keep herself from falling hard and fast for Johnny, but she knew if she were to ever date Jeremy, she likely wouldn’t be so lucky.

  What if Jeremy is different?

  She snorted. Right.

  She’d seen him out at the bars, he was a ‘player’. He was acing his way through college majoring in flirting with a minor in collecting pretty girls’ underwear.

  Probably.

  And yet, when she thought of his brown-eyed gaze in her presence, it never strayed. It was fixed only on her.

  What if Jeremy IS different?

  It doesn’t matter if he is. I’m with someone else. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of my relationship with Johnny. Hell, it doesn’t even matter what I think of my relationship with Johnny, we’re together. Jeremy should respect those boundaries. Live isn’t a goddamn movie, you can’t just hop a plane and fly across the country to ask her to dinner at her office!

  You just…can’t!

  “Agh.” She growled in frustration again.

  “Oh, wait. You didn’t know you are in love with him, did you? Oh, wow. This is just the gift that keeps on giving. You go ahead and catch up, I’ll wait.” He turned his attention back to his fries and watched her while he chewed.

  I can’t love Jeremy. I can’t.

  I mean…maybe I…could? But I don’t, right?

  “Girl. If you don’t love that boy, you at least L– him. And from the looks of it, the O-V-E part is in the mail. It’s a-comin’ atcha like a freight train. If you don’t love that boy, he wouldn’t drive you to these murderous tendencies you’re feelin’. And not for nothin’ but no man who doesn’t love you, crosses the country to ask you out to dinner. It’s not like he drove across town, or even across the state. Girl…it’s not exactly a hop, skip and a jump from Alabama to Iowa.”

  She nodded silently, contemplating her situation.

  “I’m in a relationship,” she protested, feebly, knowing herself that it was a weak defense. She knew in her heart that Johnny wasn’t her happy ever after, she couldn’t ever be with someone who took longer to do their hair than she did. But she was willing to give it a try and she’d committed, quietly convincing herself that perhaps things with Johnny would improve. He wasn’t a monster, by any means, but he was…something. He was popular, but not too popular, he played hockey, but his life wasn’t ruled by it…when it came to Johnny it felt as though he lived on the ‘right’ side of all the lines, the safe side. She thought that maybe going after the safe guy for once in her life could finally result in something other than a broken heart.

  “Are you happy with Johnny? Even if he’s not cheating on you. Say for the sake of argument that he’s fully committed to the relationship, are you?”

  She considered his question.

  “I saw that flicker across your face, Chelsea. The woman I’m currently having a conversation with doesn’t exactly reflect the personality of someone who drives that car out front.”

  “Are you judging me by my car?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a badass car. Does Johnny make you feel like a badass woman?”

  Damnit. I could be happy with Johnny if Jeremy would leave me the hell alone!

  Right?

  Right.

  “What would your best friend say?”

  “Hm?” She knew she was distracted now. All she could think of was Jeremy’s stupidly kissable lips and how when Johnny kissed her there was no spark, no excitement, and she certainly didn’t feel that tingly thing Jeremy made her feel. She closed her eyes and thought back to the last time she and Jeremy had kissed. The flush creeping across her cheeks, her racing pulse, butterflies in her stomach, and excitement creeping up her spine. Johnny didn’t make her feel any of those things.

  Is that because he’s dull and beige, or because you keep him at arm’s length and don’t let him make you feel any of those things? Maybe he could in time? Maybe these things don’t just happen overnight?

  “I said, what would your best friend say?”

  “My…? Oh! Lisa? She —eh…she’d tell me to ‘stop feckin’ about and go get the guy.”

  “I like her already.”

  Go get the guy.

  “But he lives in Alabama.”

  Go get the guy.

  “Okay…I mean, that’s not ideal, because, well, Alabama. But even Alabama has planes, trains, and automobiles, Missy.”

  Go get the guy.

  She sat staring at her phone as she mindlessly ate the fries in front of her. Mitch finished his food and took the basket back into the kitchen. The door to the bar opened behind her and a man in leathers with a helmet tucked under his arm walked in. He nodded in greeting, pulled out the stool across the bar from her, and placed his helmet on the seat next to him. She gave him a small smile and returned her attention to the airline website staring back at her from the screen.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Going to get the guy, like Lisa would tell me to. Right? I can blame this on Lisa, right? Or at least on Mitch. But Lisa would totally say screw Johnny and his weird sucky kisses and go get the guy who makes you feel alive. Right? She’s all up in that romantic shiz, isn’t she?

  Just do it!

  Go.

  Get.

  The.

  GUY!

  She had her flight booked before Mitch got back from the kitchen and after he handed the biker a bottle of Sam Adams he turned his attention back to Chelsea.

  “Well? What’s it gonna be, sugar?” he cooed in a rich, exaggerated southern accent.

  She flashed the phone screen at him. He whooped and clapped his hands together in glee.

  “Well, ho-leee-chit. We got ourselves a barn dance now, y’all! This kitty cat found her claws!”

  “Yeah. No.” She cut him off and waved a hand at him. “Whatever that is, that needs to stop. You sound like a cartoon character from Texas.”

  “Just call me Cupid,” he replied, winking at her.

  Her stomach churned, threatening to expel the cheese-loaded plate of carbs she’d just shoved in her mouth as she willed herself to calm. She summoned an Uber on the app, pulled cash from her wallet to square away her bill with Mitch and readied herself for the task at hand.

  It was all well and good booking that flight while you’re loaded with Dutch courage, Chelsea Davis. But standing in front of that boy and telling him you like him is a whole other story.

  After a few moments, she pushed the stool back from the bar and stood, hesitating.

  Stalling.

  The stranger across the bar asked Mitch for a menu. He ordered a loaded burger with sweet potato fries. “That your Hellcat parked out front?” he asked, handing back the menu. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mitch jerk his head in her direction.

  The biker couldn’t keep the astonishment from his voice when he asked, “That’s your Hellcat outside?”

  “She is the freakin’ Hellcat,” Mitch joked, with a wry grin.

  I don’t feel very hellcat-y right now, but thanks for the vote of confidence, Mitch.

  Returning his smile Chelsea handed him the cash, he made her promise him to come back and tell him how her trip went. “If you have babies, you gotta name your first-born Mitch after me!”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “He’d be freakin’ lucky,” she muttered.

  “You said your name was Ch
elsea, right?”

  “Mitch! I’m hurt. We shared a moment you and me, and you forget my name already? Don’t I mean anything to you?” She swept her arm across her face as though she were a damsel in distress. “Heartbroken, Mitch. I’m heartbroken.” He chuckled and she nodded. “Yessir. Chelsea, why?”

  “We’re picking up my daughter’s new kitten from the shelter on the way home this evening.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “The cat has attitude. Like you…like your car.”

  “So you’re going to call your new cat Hellcat?”

  “I was thinking more like Chelsea.”

  “Hey now!”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Uh…Lea? You want my social while you’re at it?”

  He laughed and winked at her again, his ice-blue eyes twinkling with mischief. She knew she’d come back to this place and share another basket of fries with this bubbly man who had lightened her load today, but for now, she had an elsewhere to be. Throwing him a two-fingered salute she picked up her purse and strode out of the bar with purpose, convincing herself she could do this. She knew Jeremy. They were already friends. They were already more than friends. It wasn’t like she was flying across the country to a stranger she’d never met before and it wasn’t like it was some irrational and extravagant romantic gesture. He’d done it first; she’d just shot him down and needed to fix her mistake. Climbing into an Uber, her tummy flipped as the driver set a course for the airport, hoping and praying that her resolve wouldn’t waver and she could force herself to actually board the plane to Alabama and face the man who made her go weak at the knees.

  This was the dumbest idea you have ever had Chelsea Lea Davis.

  You need to go home, call Johnny and tell him you’re coming over with dinner.

  Netflix and chill with Johnny. That’s your new plan.

  She rolled her head and swallowed hard. Staring at Jeremy’s door was far more intimidating than she’d expected it to be. Her stomach twisted, she was holding her breath, and frantically trying to get her heartbeat to shut up before it disrupted the neighbors. Stepping forward, she raised her hand to press the doorbell when an unusual sound caught her attention.

  Is that…?

  Oh.

  My.

  GOD.

  She leaned forward and pressed her ear and palms flat against the door.

  Her jaw dropped open at the intensifying noises coming from inside the building. She felt her cheeks heat up.

  That son of a—

  So THAT is how you get over me, eh, Jeremy Lewis? By getting off the plane and under someone else?

  I can’t even!

  Realizing she was still eavesdropping on Jeremy and his friend she carefully pushed herself back from the door and turned on her heel.

  A wave of fury draped foolishness washed over her.

  Hockey players are all the freakin’ same!

  She smoldered the entire journey back to the airport until she was shaking so much she could barely hold her credit card to pay for her ticket.

  That…that…douche canoe!

  “AGH!” she harrumphed as she flopped into a chair to wait for her plane to board.

  I’ll show him.

  She plucked her phone out of her pocket and pulled up Instagram. Scrolling through her picture gallery she flicked through pictures of her with Johnny.

  You don’t get to be all, give me a chance, Chels’ and then fly home to pick a random name from your little black book as a freakin’ Band-Aid. That’s not cool, Jeremy Lewis, not cool.

  She found a picture of her with Johnny, he was kissing her neck and her head had lolled to the side, a smile on her face. It wasn’t something she’d normally post on social media, but she was mad and screw him.

  Before she hit ‘post’ she made sure the hashtags were sufficiently puke-inducing and that the picture would auto-populate her Facebook and Twitter pages. She knew when he saw it, it would sting, but she kept coming back to: screw him.

  Lisa: #younglove #powercouple #hockeylove?? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?

  Chelsea: Men suck.

  Lisa: Of course they do, hence the sickening hashtags.

  Lisa: Need an alibi? Who do I gotta junk punch?

  Lisa: Or are we at DEFCON 1?

  Chelsea: I love you.

  Lisa: I love you too. What’s up?

  Chelsea: Men.

  Lisa: I’m gonna need a lil more than that, girlie.

  Chelsea: I’m officially quitting men.

  Lisa: All of them?

  Lisa: For…like…ever?

  Chelsea: I’m going to spend my life eating bacon cheese fries, drinking Moscato, and watching Pitch Perfect in my pjs.

  Lisa: I’m booking my flight right now. Sounds amazeballs. Our just-made group needs a motto.

  Chelsea: Already got it.

  Lisa: …

  Lisa: …

  Chelsea: Fries before guys.

  Lisa: I’ll bring the Moscato.

  Chelsea: I’ll text Christina.

  Screw you, Jeremy Lewis. Screw you to Hades. I can’t believe I fell for your lopsided grin and charm. I should have freakin’ known better!

  Maybe I’ll get a cat!

  With a penchant for both travelling, and writing, Lasairiona McMaster started a blog during her first international relocation. Since repatriating to Northern Ireland, she decided to take everyone’s advice to finally write a book and get it published. She quickly learned that it’s never ‘just one book’ and is now 3-series deep into NA romance.

  Find out more at amazon.co.uk/Lasairiona-E-McMaster

  30

  My Familiar

  by Erin Lindsay McCabe

  “Let it be said, Reader, I have never lacked courage.”

  When his mistress--the only person who has ever understood him--mysteriously vanishes, and Dandy is banished from the manor where he's certain she's been imprisoned, the cat attacks out of desperation, risking everything to rescue his dear Antoinetta in this “Jane Eyre” reimagining.

  I knew I’d made a mistake the moment after I released my claws and sunk them into the master’s ankle, deep. Deep enough to pierce right through the man’s trousers and into the muscle.

  It was a satisfying feeling.

  For an instant, anyway.

  Just long enough for me to enjoy the howl that came from the master’s mouth. “Goddammit!” the man bellowed.

  As a cat not known for tolerance, not known for patience (except in front of a mouse hole), I had been thrown before. I had been warded off with a broom. I had been shoved and shooed and once, shot at. What I mean is, I have often found myself shunned by the humans I deigned to grace with my presence. They would touch my velvet fur, you see, without the slightest hint of invitation. I do not suffer the fool who would try such.

  But being kicked… That was an experience entirely unparalleled.

  And it was not something that my Antoinetta would ever countenance. But Antoinetta was not in the room. In fact, I did not know where she was at all, which is how I came to be clawing the master’s leg in the first place.

  Finding the sensation of swinging from the master’s muscular calf unpleasant, I dug my claws in even deeper. Such is generally effective in stilling mice and other small creatures. Not so with brutes, apparently. My situation did not improve, though my pleasure at the master’s renewed curses did.

  “Mr. Rochester! What is happening?” The new woman’s small, raspy voice came to me in the vague way one notices the crickets singing outside. This particular woman had come with the rest of the new servants, but the master seemed to have singled this one out for especial privileges. With her drab dresses and wan face, I could not understand why. Despite his affinity for her, she was none so bad as the master, but she was also no fan of cats—she of the shoe-shove and broom-shoo’ing—she’d made her preferences clear enough in the short time she’d been at Thornfield. Thornfield. How I hated this place. I
would have never come, were it not for Antoinetta.

  “Get this infernal beast off me!” came the howled reply, whilst all the while I continued clinging fast to the master’s leg.

  “Stop!” the woman cried. “Stop it right now!” Normally in front of Rochester she was a meek thing. Not at all like my Antoinetta. But this time—her words, her tone, so commanding, had some effect. The humans liked to think I had no knowledge of what they were saying. They liked to think it was some amusing coincidence when I seemed to comprehend, when I acted on some utterance of theirs. Meowing when they asked if I was hungry, that sort of thing.

  But since I didn’t especially like the swinging and shaking the master’s leg was doing, I did stop it. And that—the moment between when I retracted my claws and when I should have landed with all four upon the floor (for despite my large size, I am an agile cat)—was my second mistake. For whilst I was airborne, the master must have taken aim, and the toe of his fine, polished black leather boot met with my ribs.