Rumors of My Death by Ranalli Gina

Author:Ranalli, Gina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloo Skize
Published: 2016-06-24T00:00:00+00:00

The phone rang less than an hour later.

I was in the kitchen, bathing my new cat in the sink and trying to keep the skin on my hands at the same time, which was no easy feat. I was more than a little surprised to find the cute ball of fur suddenly turned into a Tasmanian devil the instant water hit it. I’d heard cats hated water—everyone knows that—but I had no idea they really HATE water. I quickly found out that, if cats could talk, this one would sound like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. It was not happy with me. Oh, no. Not happy at all.

Therefore, I was happy when Jayne decided to call early and I could end the massacre of my hands. I quickly pulled the kitten out of the sink, wrapped him in a dishtowel and put him on the floor. I hadn’t even begun to reach for the phone and he was already gone, leaving only the towel and a trail of water droplets behind.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Aster?” It was a man’s voice. Annoyed, I glanced at the clock. 11:46 PM.

“Who is this?” I demanded, assuming it was another bill collector. “It’s almost midnight!”

“This is Stan Stanley. I apologize for the time. I meant to call you earlier, but—”

I cut him off, maybe a little rudely. “What the fuck do you want, you cocksucking maggot?”

“Please, Ms. Aster. I’m calling to try to make amends.”

I barked out a laugh. “Oh. Well, in that case, by all means, go fuck a rolling doughnut!” I slammed the phone down as hard as I could, then cringed when I thought I’d broken it. I picked it back up and held it to my ear, checking for a dial tone. I heard a fuzzy, “Hello? Ms. Aster? Hello? Hello?”

I slammed it down again. I couldn’t believe the nerve of that prickless prick. In fact, I was willing to bet he would call right back again too. I waited, staring at the phone and drumming my fingers against the counter. The goddamn bald asshole.

A minute passed. Then another.

Hmm.

“Oh, well,” I mumbled and went in search of the kitten, hoping he wasn’t too traumatized.

I made it as far as my bedroom doorway when the phone rang again. “Motherfucker!” I stared back in the direction I’d come from—I don’t believe in having phones in the bedroom—debating on trotting back to the kitchen to verbally rip the cum-clot a new piss-slit. I decided against it and got down on my hands and knees, poking my head under the bed.

“Here kitty,” I gently called. “I’m sorry I gave you a bath, but I have enough problems without adding ear-mites to the list. Come on, kitty.” I had no idea if the cat was even under the bed; there was too much crap under there to tell. Clothes, shoe boxes, books, magazines, Chucks, an old guitar case, a couple stuffed animals and, to my surprise, a moldy half-bagel. “Come here, kitty. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

In the other room, the phone continued to ring.

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