Petting Them: An Anthology of Claw-ver Tails

by Tate James

  “Gig’s a gig, X,” Dutch says with an apologetic little smile that he tosses over his shoulder. And even though I know it’s all an act, a show he puts on without even meaning to, I fall a little harder for Dutch Wylde in that moment. My heart skids, stutters, stops. I almost wish it would stay frozen in time like that, so I didn’t have to feel the pain of it starting back up again, of Dutch ignoring me, of pining for an unrequited love.

  Have I mentioned that for the past six months, I’ve had a major crush on him? Hard enough to crush freaking diamonds. Does it hurt that he flirts with every pretty girl except for me? It makes my heart feel soggy and fragile like wet paper. A breeze would be strong enough to tear me apart.

  Dutch turns back around and opens the door with a flourish—hell, everything the man does is embellished. He waltzes in, adjusting his hat and smiling with white-white teeth.

  “How can I help you, Miss?” he asks the girl as she turns around and gapes at him. A lot of girls gape at Dutch Wylde. A lot of guys too, for that matter. And why shouldn’t they? He’s a gorgeous study in humanity, even if he eats everything covered in mustard. And I mean everything: he even puts a dab of the yellow in his coffee.

  Gross.

  “Kasselin Claire,” the girl says, extending her hand and then smirking flirtatiously when Dutch sweeps his hat off his head, reaches out, and takes it. He kisses her knuckles, making sure to meet her eyes as he does. I wish I could say he greets all the girls like that, but he didn’t greet me that way so that’d be a lie. I’m not into hating other girls for Dutch’s actions, but … I kind of do hate her a little. Does that make me a rotten apple?

  I sigh and set down the cat carrier and the camera bag, getting ready to head back outside to grab the rest of the cats, when Rhythm comes back into the room with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  His brown eyes flash briefly to mine, and my pulse picks up speed, my heart thundering in my chest. My hands curl into fists as he frowns hard, and I feel a surge of white-hot emotion. Î really, really don’t like Rhythm Newhart.

  Eventually, he refocuses his gaze back on Dutch and Kasselin, and frowns. Dutch and Rhythm are always fighting over girls. Drives Luke, Tate, and me up the walls of the Ten Cats office.

  “I see you've met our newest client,” Rhythm drawls, his voice this dark brooding shadow that percolates through me, like my bloodstream is filled with tiny bubbles. I've never felt that way around another person before; I can only assume it's because I dislike the man so damn much. “Kasselin's just inherited a haunted house.”

  “Very haunted,” Kasselin says, withdrawing her hand carefully from Dutch's and rewarding him with a seductive smile that makes the artery in my forehead throb. “Your friend here was just explaining your fees to me. You know, most ghost hunters work for free.” She levels her blue eyes on Dutch, but he doesn't skip a beat. He's heard this line before—we all have. And, of course, we have a canned response for it, too.

  “Most ghost hunters,” Dutch begins as Kasselin takes the coffee from Rhythm's fingers and flashes him a coquettish smile, “can record spirits, but they can't get rid of them. Here at TCPS, we guarantee a ghost-free home or your money back.” I mouth this last part and roll my eyes, moving toward the front door, so I can head outside and grab the rest of the cats.

  “The reason I came here,” Kasselin continues, and something in her voice gives me pause. My headache throbs, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to ward off the pain, pausing and turning to put my back against the front door. When I open my eyes again, I see Kasselin holding her mug close to her ample bosom—I'm a dork, I know, but my grandma taught me to say bosom—and smirking with a darkness that's at serious odds with her angelic, heart-shaped face. “Is not for a sale's pitch,” she finishes as Dutch gives his self-named 'Mollifying Smile of Doom'. This is the look he puts on whenever he thinks someone might be getting mad. “I came here because every other paranormal society within three hundred miles has come … and left running.”

  Dutch runs his tongue over his lower lip as Rhythm takes a seat in the black wingback chair with the broken arm. Dutch says that if it were restored, it'd be worth thousands. Buuuuuut, it could also as easily be worth zilch. I take everything he says with a grain of salt … or a heaping spoonful.

  “Where others fail, Ten Cats prevails.” Dutch bends down and opens Tom Thumb's carrier, whistling so that the cat hops up on the gold pedestal made of PVC pipe, scrap wood, clay, and spray paint. With a click of his tongue, he gets the black and white cat to stand upright on his hind legs, one paw tucked close to his chest, the other raised in a sort of salute. “For a nominal fee—”

  “I don't care what it costs,” Kasselin interrupts, taking a sip of her coffee, and raising her eyebrows in surprise. Dutch says that we might live like paupers, but why shouldn't we drink like kings? Everyone expects us to serve cheap joe, but Ten Cats has the best coffee in town.

  Once, on my way to Dutch's office to discuss the daily report, I heard him having a conversation with Rhythm about changing Ten Cats Paranormal Society into Ten Cups Coffee and Cakes.

  Dutch lost his ever-loving mind.

  As much as I wanted to be on his side that night, I knew in my heart that Rhythm was probably right: we'd make more money that way. Then again, I'm not sure where we'd get the capital to get the café off to a running start in the first place.

  Dutch's silver eyes sparkle at Kasselin’s words, and he reaches up to run a single finger along the brim of his gray hat. Every day, he changes the ribbon around the base to something new. For Christmas last year, it was cartoon penguins on a green and red striped background. Today, it's a simple, elegant turquoise.

  “The first consultation is always free,” Dutch purrs, and Rhythm rolls his eyes, glancing toward the crackling embers in the fireplace. Looks like it's business over pleasure today. On a gig this big, it seems both boys are in agreement. The flirting has ceased completely.

  I feel a huge rush of relief knowing that at least for today, I don't have to see Dutch take yet another random girl out on a date. Rhythm, well, at least I won't have to hear him having sex with anyone in the supply closet. Gross.

  “Well,” the girl says, finishing her coffee and setting the cup aside on the already messy front desk. Supposedly, I'm the receptionist. But, I'm also Dutch's assistant, kitty wrangler, and more often than I’d like, the maid.

  Ugh.

  I'm an okay actor, but I hate lying. It gives me this hollow, sick feeling in my stomach. And yet, I also want to finish school, have a hot meal at the end of the day, and a bed to sleep in at night. We all do what we have to in order to survive.

  “You can do the consult tomorrow, but I'm having a party next Friday. The ballroom will be full, but the rest of the house will be empty. The activity seems to peak with every person we have under that roof; bring your cameras and your voice recorders.” Kasselin reaches into her pink wool Jackie O coat and pulls put a gold envelope with a live butterfly glued to the flap. Its wings flutter helplessly as it tries to escape.

  It's one of the most grotesque things I've ever seen, so unnecessarily cruel. I give Kasselin this look of horror that she takes in with a wicked smile. Rhythm and Luke look properly disturbed, but Dutch maintains his composure, accepting the invite with an over-the-top bow.

  “The dress code is formal attire only.” Kasselin glances over at my school uniform and wrinkles her nose in distaste. Our eyes meet and the stark superiority in hers makes me want to curl my lip. Instead, I stand there stoically, blinking past dry contact lenses and wishing she’d just leave, so I could get on with my day. “Unicorn socks won’t cut it.” She gives my knee-high stockings with the snag a quick flick of the eyes, and lifts her nose in the air. I already got an infraction at school today for not wearing regulation socks; I don’t need her judgment. Besides, I can’t exactly afford another pair of fifty dollar socks right now, and the last pair got completely ruined when Rhythm washed his new blue jeans in the same load and stained
them. Then he threw them out without asking me. Just one more reason why I can’t stand the guy. “Stop at my tailor before the party, and he’ll fit you with proper clothes.” She flicks a business card at my chest, and it bounces off, drifting to the floor.

  Wow. I should tell her what an awful, awful person she is, but I don’t want to blow this job and ruin things. Not only for Dutch, but a fee for a job this big could put money in all our pockets—including mine.

  I stay where I am as she heads for the door, glaring. But Dutch rushes to open it for her and scoots me aside, giving our new client a bow on her way out. She ignores him completely, breezing past and heading into the icy wind with her blond ringlets bouncing.

  When Dutch turns around, I can see any thoughts of wooing our newest client have fled his mind completely. Also, pretty sure her rude behavior and her creepy invite have also failed to disturb him. When it comes to money and love and dignity, he always chooses money. I’d like to think he lost interest in her when she started treating me like crap … but I doubt it. No, it was definitely the money.

  I slip the gold envelope from his hand and stare at the live butterfly, wondering how I can free it without killing it. But that’s the conundrum here, isn’t it? Its tiny legs are embedded in glue; it’ll never be free.

  “This could be it,” Dutch says, as Rhythm finishes his own coffee and scowls, standing up and abandoning his cup on the desk with Kasselin's. Inevitably, I'll have to clean it all up later. I'm the only person in this place who lifts a finger, and I can't keep up. That's why the front window is grimy, and there are cobwebs in the corners. It's nothing compared to the Fifth Street House though; that place is a nightmare.

  The entire basement is literally hoarded to the ceiling.

  But, beggars can't be choosers, right?

  “It, meaning what?” Rhythm asks, moving over to the fire and tossing a new log onto the embers. It's always warm and cozy in here, even with the drafty old window and the roof that leaks. The fireplace really does its job.

  “Meaning, this is our chance to get the money to buy this building, and get the landlord off our asses,” Dutch says, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other. He's got an idea now, and once that takes, he's virtually impossible to deal with. I set the envelope in the window, wishing the butterfly a few, last beautiful hours in the sun. What else can I do?

  “This building is worth three hundred grand, Dutch. Rich people are stingier than poor people as a rule. Even if this girl is as loaded as she pretends, she's not going to pay you a fortune for a con.” Dutch waves his hand dismissively in Rhythm's direction. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that they've been friends since childhood; they hardly ever get along.

  “He only really needs the down payment,” I insert, always taking Dutch's side. I don't mean to do it, but it happens. Rhythm flashes me an irritated look—pretty sure he hates me as much as I hate him—and runs his hand over his raven-black mohawk. The burn scars on the left side of his scalp are covered when his hair is down, and visible only when he gels it up. He's covered them with a series of tattoos, but I imagine if I put my fingers there, I could still feel the roughness of his skin …

  We’ve both been burned, physically and emotionally, Rhythm and me. Too bad it does nothing to endear us to one another. We’ve been like oil and water since the day we met.

  “And I have half saved already,” Dutch adds, whistling and heading toward the kitchen. He sidesteps the hall door as Tate steps out, her long, dark hair plaited and threaded through with gems and bits of bone. She even has a purple head wrap on, covered in crescent moons. It's all part of the act.

  “What did I miss?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, her coin-covered belt jingling as she pops a hip out.

  “We've got the gig of a lifetime, that's what,” Dutch says, grinning and throwing his arms into the air as he backs into the swinging kitchen door and disappears inside.

  He couldn't have possibly realized how right he was.

  He couldn't have possibly realized that for the first time in his seven year career … that he'd be seeing real ghosts either.

  2

  “Headaches, Heartbreak, and Hauntings”

  Oh.

  Claire House is … actually pretty scary.

  I'm standing at the end of a long driveway while Dutch slides underneath Lorraine, and tinkers around with something. He has no freaking clue what he's doing, but that's okay because Rhythm knows a ton about cars. He usually stands there rolling his eyes and rattling off instructions to Dutch even though it'd be ten times faster if he did the work himself.

  I guess, even though they fight, that's a measure of their true friendship right there?

  As I'm staring at the peaked towers of Claire House, I hear the rumbling of a motorcycle and glance over my shoulder to see Rhythm in his leather jacket with his shades on. My heart jumps in my throat for a moment as he skids to a stop in the gravel, but then he lifts his sunglasses, his eyes meet mine, and he scowls.

  Prick.

  I turn around to flip him off, slip on the gravel and stumble forward, losing my footing on the steep hill. I end up slamming into Rhythm's leather-covered chest with a squeak, nearly knocking my glasses off my face.

  He catches me in one arm, pushes my frames up my nose with a single tattooed finger on his other hand, and then holds me there while I gape. I can feel my heart beating like crazy, so I bet he can, too.

  “It's probably the carburetor again, Dutch.” Our fearless leader grunts, but doesn't move. “The carburetor is in the hood, bro, not in the undercarriage.”

  There's a long, awkward pause before Dutch slides out from underneath the van, and sits up, rubbing a smudge of oil from his face. He notices me standing in the circle of Rhythm's arm and gives us a curious look.

  “This has got to be the first time I've ever seen you two so close,” Luke says with a cloying little awww tacked onto the end of his sentence. He lifts the camera on his neck and snaps a photo while I push back from Rhythm and almost trip again. This time he catches me, sets me upright, and lets go like I'm poisoned.

  “Pop the hood and let's do this. I have plans tonight.”

  “You have plans?” Luke asks, even though I don't want to know. When Rhythm says he's going out, it means he's going on a date. It means he'll probably bring a giggling girl back to the house on Fifth, the one with the old windows that gets too cold in the winter but that I love anyway. Dutch's house. Well, his mom's house that he inherited anyway. “Do tell. Some of us without social lives need to live vicariously.”

  “Can we please keep this work-related?” Tate inserts, turning around in the front seat to glare at Luke. I suspected from moment one that they were into each other, but neither of them seems ready to acknowledge it, so I keep my mouth shut. Hell, I've never confessed my feelings to Dutch, so what room do I have to talk? “This job is too important for us to be late. Chop-chop.”

  “I, uh …” I have nothing to say, but everyone turns to look at me anyway, and I exhale sharply. It's so damn cold out that my glasses fog up, and I wish suddenly that I'd worn my contacts. “We really should try not to be late …” I hazard, but then I feel stupid for simply copying Tate. If I'm going to speak up, I should have my own words.

  Some people talk too much … I don't talk enough. I feel like I never know quite what to say.

  I glance over at Rhythm as he sighs, ruffles up his dark hair, and moves over to the van. Dutch pops the hood, and the two of them look inside together. Tate is actually a better mechanic than either of them, but she says fixing vans isn't in her job description, so …

  I plop down on Lorraine’s dirty floor, sitting on the edge next to the door and looking up toward the house, the breeze catching my pink hair and swirling it around my face. Swiping it back, I notice movement in the upstairs window, a face with eyes as blue as sapphires, skin like ice, hair like snow.

  It shocks the crap out of me because for a moment, I swear I've ju
st seen a ghost, but then I blink, and the figure's gone. Of course it is. Because there was never a figure there in the first place.

  Not the first time I mistook a smudge on my lenses for a ghost. Working this job, sometimes the con is so good, it almost gets me. That, and I’ve got the glowing orbs teasing the edges of my vision again. I woke up seeing them today, dozens of them. It feels like with every con we work, I acquire a few more. Maybe they’re really just manifestations of all my stress?

  Claire House has got to be at least three stories, maybe more. The exterior is well-kempt, the grounds immaculate, but there's just something off about it, like maybe the foundation's shifted and it's leaning off to one side or something. I tilt my head, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is that's bothering me.

  “I have a sexual health paper due on Monday,” I blurt, keeping my attention focused on the house. I don't realize everyone's staring at me until I reach back for a water bottle, and find four sets of eyes looking my way. My cheeks flush pink, but I stammer out a defense anyway. “There's nothing wrong with that,” I mutter, noticing Dutch's eyebrows go up. Rhythm frowns, and shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything. No, it's Luke that decides to be the asshole. “Sex is perfectly natural.” Oh god, why did I say that! I try really hard not to look at Dutch.

  “We all know Rhythm doesn't have a problem with sex.” Luke throws his head back with raucous laughter, but Rhythm doesn't seem to find it so funny. He tweaks something under the hood, nods for Dutch to start Lorraine up, and walks around to flick a lit cigarette in Luke's direction.

  “You're such a prick,” he scowls as he storms past and climbs on his motorcycle again. Luke holds his hands up in a who me? gesture.

  “What? We all have to hear you having it often enough. It's not like it's a secret!” Luke curses under his breath, flipping Rhythm off as he rides past us and continues up the hill. “He sure is cranky today.”

  “Rhythm?” Tate asks, raising one dark brow as she gives Luke a skeptical look. “Isn't he like that every day?” They both laugh, but I don't. I mean … I hate Rhythm, but it doesn't feel right to laugh at him either. He’s suffered just as much as I have; we’re both marked by fire.