Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  She folded her arms, squinted against the too-bright, too-pale sky, and listened to the creature’s plaintive miaows.

  After a moment, she called, “You sound as though you’re stuck.”

  The cat screeched its affirmative like a miniature murder victim. It was small, but wonderfully fat, with fur so gray as to seem almost black, and piercing eyes that said, Surely you won’t leave me here?

  Chloe sighed. “Are you sure you can’t get down? I don’t mean to be rude, but you know how this goes. Some gullible, bleeding-heart type clambers into a tree after a cat, only for said cat to leap mischievously down at the last second—”

  Another shriek, this one blatantly indignant.

  “Fair point,” Chloe conceded. “Just because you appear well, doesn’t mean you don’t require help. I, above all, should know that. I will call the fire brigade for you.”

  The cat miaowed some more and glared down at her, a skeptical smudge against the sky. She was now quite certain that it was saying something like, The fire brigade, you wasteful cow? Don’t you realize we are in an era of austerity? Would you take much-needed public services away from children trapped in bathrooms and old ladies who’ve left the iron on? For shame.

  This cat, like most of its species, seemed rather judgmental. Chloe didn’t mind; she appreciated bluntness in a beastly companion. And . . . well, it had a point. Why should she bother the fire-type people when she had a semifunctional body of her own? Fetching this cat might not be the cleverest way to end her walk, but then, staid, sensible Chloe Brown was dead. New Chloe was a reckless, exciting sort of woman who, in moments of crisis, didn’t wait for the assistance of trained professionals.

  The thought plucked at her like a harpist plucked at strings. She vibrated with ill-advised intent. She would dominate this tree.

  A decent hand- and foothold were required to begin; she knew that from watching a young Dani scamper up and down these things for years. The oak’s trunk was both soft and hard under Chloe’s hands, its bark crumbly and damp, its core immovable. She liked the contrast, even if it scratched at her palms and threatened to snag on her leggings. Her waterproof jacket made an odd, slithery noise as she reached up toward the first branch. Then her fingers closed around a sturdy bough, and she heaved herself up as her feet pushed off the trunk, and everything felt utterly free.

  Her muscles were still weary and her joints still ached; the only difference was, she no longer gave a damn. There was a nasty little voice in her head that warned her she’d pay for this, that her body would demand retribution. She had been practicing telling that voice to eff off, and she did so now. The cat’s whining spiked as she climbed, and Chloe chose to interpret that as enthusiastic cheerleading. Well done, human! miaowed the cat. You’re a total badass! You should definitely add this to your Get a Life list so that you can cross it off immediately and feel extra accomplished!

  Chloe considered, then discarded, the cat’s generous suggestion. The Get a Life list was an historical document that she couldn’t bring herself to alter.

  “Thank you, though,” she panted, and then worried about the fact that she was panting. Her lungs were working overtime and every breath felt like the edge of a saw. She had a metallic taste at the back of her mouth that reminded her, unpleasantly, of blood, and also of the days when she’d had to run laps in PE. Apparently, this climb was wearing her out—but she’d been taking irregular walks for years, damn it. Surely she should be a semipro athlete by now? Apparently not. The human body was an inconvenient and unreasonable thing.

  She kept climbing, anyway, and developed a system. She’d drag herself onto a sturdy branch, shuffle along on her bottom—rather undignified, but it couldn’t be helped—reach for the next branch, drag herself up . . . and so on. It worked like a charm and took forever, probably due to her frequent rest breaks. And then, all of a sudden, she got so high that the branches thinned out.

  Oh dear.

  Chloe was not petite. She was on the taller side, big boned, and well insulated for the winter. Like a rabbit. Except the insulation lasted all year round. Her size wasn’t something she often thought about, but as she reached a particularly slender branch, she could suddenly think of nothing but. She eyed the branch suspiciously. Could it take approximately fifteen stone of woman? She doubted it.

  “Cat,” she said, or rather, wheezed. “You might need to come down just a bit. Throw yourself into my arms, perhaps.” She released her death grip on the branch, clenched her core to ensure her balance, and held up encouraging hands. “Come on, then. Leap of faith and all that.”

  The cat did not look impressed.

  “I won’t drop you,” she said. “Promise. I’m an excellent catch. I played netball for the county team, you know.”

  The cat gave her a hard stare.

  She sighed. “Yes, it was over a decade ago. Which is mean of you to point out, by the way.”

  Perhaps the cat appreciated her honesty, because it extended one delicate paw and seemed to consider a path of descent.

  “That’s the spirit, darling. Down you pop.”

  With alarming agility, the cat did indeed come down. Chloe was surprised, all things considered, that it didn’t leap comfortably out of the tree and leave her behind. Judging by its suddenly silky movements, it must’ve been able to. And yet, instead of making its escape, it hopped from one branch to the next until it came to rest on her lap, precisely as directed.

  She stared at the bundle of smoky fur currently nuzzling her stomach. After a moment of astonishment, she choked out, “You can’t actually understand me, can you? Because if so, don’t worry. I’ll protect your secret to the death.”

  From beneath her, a rough voice punched through the Sunday quiet. “So will I.”

  She almost fell out of the tree.

  After that heart-jolting moment, Chloe clutched a nearby bough for balance and blinked down at the source of the words. She found Redford Morgan squinting up at her, his hands in his pockets, his fine mouth curved into what must be a smirk.

  Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. She became uncomfortably aware of the cool, prickly sweat coating her skin, the strands of frizzy hair that had escaped her bun, and . . . oh, yes, the fact that she was sitting in a tree, talking nonsense to a cat. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Embarrassment leaked past her most stalwart defenses to flood her cheeks with unwanted heat. She searched for something appropriately cutting to say and discovered that every intelligent thought in her head had evaporated.

  Gigi’s voice came to her like a divine message. Keep calm, Chloe, dear. And whatever you bloody do, don’t fall.

  Sound advice from Imaginary Gigi.

  “Hello, Mr. Morgan,” she croaked, then kicked herself. Mr. Morgan?! She’d regressed. Redford had been bad enough. At this rate, she wouldn’t call him “Red” until 2056.

  His strange little smirk widened into a full-blown grin, and she realized that he hadn’t been smirking at all. No; he was holding back laughter, his amusement dancing through the air around him like an electrical current. His big body practically vibrated with it. She considered telling him to just get on with it—to laugh at her, since she was sure she made a hilarious picture right now. But before she could work up the words, he spoke again.

  “Are you stuck, Ms. Brown?”

  She didn’t miss the emphasis he put on her name, as sarcastic as the single eyebrow he raised. Goodness gracious, he’d better stop that. Looking at him was distracting enough; if he started to emote, her brain might short-circuit. Human beings so very vital should not be allowed to roam the streets unsupervised. Someone—Chloe—could die of fascinated envy and sheer self-consciousness.

  “No,” she said, with great dignity. “I am not stuck.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie, since she hadn’t tried to get down yet.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because I wouldn’t mind giving you a hand.”

  She snorted. How on earth would he give her a hand down a tree? “Are you on dru
gs, Mr. Morgan?”

  His smile turned into a scowl. The expression didn’t suit his catlike eyes or his upturned mouth, which just made it all the more effective. “No,” he said shortly. Then he tutted loudly and shook his head, as if he despaired of her. Actually, he did despair of her; he’d made that rather clear.

  For some reason, instead of ignoring him to prove how very little she cared, she found herself blurting, “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” Which was true, actually. She’d been joking, only jokes had never been Chloe’s forte. Something about the delivery. “It’s Sunday, after all. No work, few obligations. A perfectly acceptable day for recreational drug use.”

  He blinked up at her, his scowl replaced by bafflement. “Do you take drugs on Sundays, then?” he asked finally.

  “I take drugs every day,” she said. Then she remembered that he was the superintendent of her building and added, “Legal drugs. Very legal drugs. Doctor’s orders.”

  His eyebrows flew up. They were the same amber-copper shade as his hair, so they stood out starkly against his pale skin. “Is that right?”

  Time to change the subject. Otherwise, he’d start asking questions, and she’d answer out of politeness, and then they’d be sitting there discussing her medical history as if it were a topic as mundane as the weather.

  “Do you know,” she said, sinking her icy fingers into her troublesome cat friend’s fur, “I think I might be stuck after all.”

  He folded his arms. Considering his height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the beaten-up black leather jacket he wore, the overall effect was slightly intimidating. “Thought you said you weren’t?”

  “Don’t be a pain,” she huffed, then immediately regretted it. The problem was, she was in pain, which tended to shorten her fuse. Her joints were stiff and aching, her lower back was screaming, and during physical catastrophes, her politeness was always the first function to go.

  But Red, for once, didn’t snap back. Instead he squinted up at her and asked slowly, “You okay?”

  She stiffened. “Yes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Hurt? No. Hurting? Always. “Are you going to help me or not?” she demanded.

  He rolled his eyes. “You do know how to charm a fella.” But he unfolded his arms and pushed off his jacket, clearly preparing for action. The leather landed at his feet like a dead thing, which she supposed it technically was. Unless it was fake.

  “Is that real?” she asked, nodding toward it.

  He arched an eyebrow again—the show-off—and approached the tree in his T-shirt and jeans. “That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

  “I’m the sort of person who climbs trees to rescue cats. Clearly, I care deeply about animal welfare.”

  “You a vegetarian?”

  Well. He had her there. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “I’m working on it.” Ethical consumption had been easier at home, where they had a cook.

  He grinned up at her, grabbed a branch, and started climbing. “Right. You only eat veal on Sundays, that sort of thing?”

  “Certainly,” she quipped. “Which is no worse than doing drugs on Sundays.”

  “Chloe. I don’t do drugs on Sundays.”

  There; he’d used her name. Now was the perfect time to follow suit and use his. The one everyone else called him, not Redford or Mr. Morgan. But she felt so awkward about it that she couldn’t figure out what to say, and in the end, after an uncomfortable pause, she . . .

  Well. She simply blurted out, “Red.”

  And that was it.

  He hauled himself up another branch—he was much quicker and more graceful than she’d been, the awful man—and cocked his head. “Yeah?”

  Oh dear. “Um . . . do you know this cat?”

  His climb continued. She tried not to stare at his hands and his forearms and the way his biceps bunched beneath his shirt as he lifted himself up. “Why,” he asked, “would I know that cat?”

  “I’m not sure. You are in a position of authority in the local community.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “I change lightbulbs for old ladies and send out rent reminders.”

  “Sounds like authority to me.”

  The cat, which had been purring quietly, chose that moment to miaow again. Chloe scratched it between the ears. She appreciated the vocal support.

  “Whatever you say,” Red muttered, and then he was directly beneath her. Proximity to him unnerved her more and more every time they met. Which might have something to do with the mountains of guilt she carried after spying on him repeatedly.

  At least she knew for sure, now, that he hadn’t seen her last night. Because if he had, he probably would’ve left her to die in this tree.

  “So, is it real?” she asked, mostly to divert her own train of thought.

  “Is what real?” he shot back, sounding more than a little exasperated. His voice was gravelly, its cadence oddly musical, his words flowing together in an elision of consonants and shortening of vowels. He sounded as dynamic as he looked.

  “The leather.”

  “No, Chloe. Don’t worry. I’m not running around wearing a dead cow all the time.” He reached up from the branch beneath her and said, “Can you hold my hand?”

  Could she? Possibly. Should she? Debatable. His touch might stop her heart like an electric shock. Then again, she was hardly in a position to refuse. “Let me secure the cat,” she mumbled.

  “Fuck the cat. It’s playing you like a violin.”

  Her gasp tasted of ice and pollution. “How dare you? This cat is an angel. Look at it. Look!”

  He looked. His eyes were pale green, like spring pears. He studied the cat thoroughly before saying in very firm tones, “That thing could climb down any time it wanted. It’s having you on.”

  “You’re a heartless man.”

  “Me?” he sputtered, as shocked as if she’d accused him of being Queen Victoria. “I’m heartless?”

  She drew back, affronted. “Are you trying to suggest that I’m the heartless one?”

  “Well, you did—”

  “Please don’t bring up the post room incident.”

  “Actually, I was going to bring up the time you made Frank Leonard from 4J cry.”

  Chloe huffed out a breath. “I did not make him cry. He was already teary when the conversation began. It was all a misunderstanding, really.”

  Red grunted skeptically.

  “Honestly, I see no need to rehash the past when I am in a tree, selflessly saving a cat.”

  “If you want to make this a competition,” he countered, “I’m in a tree saving a cat and a woman.”

  “You are absolutely not saving me, thank you very much.”

  “Oh? Shall I get down, then?”

  “Fine. Throw a tantrum, if you must.”

  “Throw a—?” Red’s incredulity was quickly cut off by a growl. “I’m not doing this with you.”

  She blinked down at him. “Doing what?”

  “Arguing. I don’t argue with people.”

  “That sounds dull,” she murmured.

  “You—just—hurry up before I lose my shit, would you?”

  “You’ve not already lost it?”

  “Swear to God, Chloe, you’ve got three seconds.” He waved the proffered hand around for emphasis. There was a smudge of magenta ink beneath his thumbnail.

  Chloe sighed, then picked up the cat to see if it would permit such familiarity. It did. Reassured, she unzipped her jacket a bit, stuffed the cat inside, zipped it up again. A furry kitty head rested against the hollow of her throat, a warm body curling up against her chest. The sensation was so wonderful, for a moment she almost forgot the pain clawing at her senses.

  She rather liked this cat.

  After fiddling for as long as possible, she put on her big-girl knickers and reached for the hand awaiting her. It was the third time she had ever touched Redford Morgan. She knew, because the first time—their first ha
ndshake—had sent a thousand tingling darts shooting up her right arm, darts that had dissolved into a strange, pleasurable sensation that was not unlike a muscle relaxant, and she had not approved. The second time, when they’d bumped into each other a few days ago, had only reinforced her decision to avoid all physical contact with the man.

  Yet here she was, feeling his callused palm in hers, this time not for a handshake but a—she reluctantly admitted to herself—rescue. The usual darts of sensation returned. Red didn’t appear to be sending them on purpose, so she decided, for once, not to hold it against him. Sometimes, when she saw him roaming the halls or the courtyard with a heartrending smile for everyone but her, she wished she had nothing at all to hold against him.

  Usually when she’d taken her strongest painkillers and was therefore high as a kite.

  “Can I keep it?” she asked, to distract herself, more than anything else.

  “Keep what?” he frowned as he helped her climb down. His grip on her was steely; his other hand cupped her elbow. He supported almost all of her weight and pulled her onto a lower branch.

  “The cat,” she said, and concentrated on not falling tragically to her death.

  “What are you asking me for? Put your feet here, look.”

  She put her feet where she was told. They were now a meter closer to the ground. Red climbed down a little bit, then reached up to help her again.

  “I’m asking you,” she said, as he maneuvered her like a particularly unwieldy doll, “because you are the superintendent, and pets are not allowed.”

  “Oh, yeah. You can’t keep it then, can you? On your left, now,” he added. “Left, I said. Chloe, d’you know your left and right?”

  “Be quiet,” she muttered, and finally put her feet in the right place. “Can’t you bend the rules due to extenuating circumstances?”

  “Extenuating circumstances such as . . . the fact that you’re an extra special princess?”

  “Precisely. I knew you’d understand.”