Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(77)

I’m just about to open my mouth to protest when there’s a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it!” I offer, already scrambling up the stairs.

I hustle to the door and yank it open. It’s Leyna and Hunter. Together. Which annoys me a little bit, though it’ll annoy me a whole lot less if I find out Leyna sent me a picture of her Bermuda Triangle.

I send Hunter down to the basement, tell him they need his help setting up. And ask Leyna if I can speak with her for a second.

We go into the family room and sit on my uncle’s ratty old dust-billowing sofa.

“What’s up?” Leyna asks, not looking anxious or embarrassed at all.

I take out my phone and call up the picture of her Fur-tress of Solitude. I need to do this quick before I lose my nerve.

“Oh, hey, you got it,” she says, smiling and sounding relieved. “I wasn’t sure it went through, when I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“Um, no. Yeah. I got it,” I choke out, feeling sweaty all over. “It’s just . . .”

Oh, jeez, Leyna looks adorable. And she smells spectacular. Her almondy-sweetness. God, it’s like a drug or something. The scent of her makes me light-headed and tingly all over. I just want to nestle into her and never leave.

“So.” She gestures at my phone. “Have you had a chance to look at it?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure. I’ve been looking at it a lot.” Oh, come on. Just ask her what it is and be done with it.

“Well, what’s your diagnosis?” Leyna giggles and gives me a nudge. “Doctor.”

Doctor? Is that what we’re playing here? So this is what I think it is? Holy crap.

My heart takes off like a jackrabbit, my breath all shaky.

“Well, um, it’s, uh.” I gulp. “I mean, I’m glad you sent it to me and everything. . . .”

Leyna places her hand on my thigh, which sends a rush of excitement right into my lap. “Do you want to see it in person?” she asks. “I know the picture’s not very clear. It wasn’t the easiest thing to get that shot.”

“No,” I say. “I imagine it wouldn’t be.”

“Maybe you could come over to my house to have a look? I don’t want to impose or anything, but I seriously think it needs some attention.”

My leg begins to bounce, and I find I’m chewing my tongue like a maniac. “Yes,” I say. “Of course I’ll come over. Just tell me when and I’ll be there.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. What about next weekend? Would that be okay?”

“Okay? Absolutely. Yes. That would be very okay.”

“Thank you, Sean.” Leyna leans over and hugs me. “And my little Muff-Muff thanks you too. I mean, she would.” Leyna laughs. “If she could talk.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Coop says, sticking his head in the door. “But we’re on a bit of a time crunch here.” He looks at me knowingly. “I think we should get started.”


Forty-five minutes later and we’re still down in Uncle Doug’s dimly lit basement trying to get him to hold Buttons on the “lab table” so he can use the fake needle and pretend to draw some blood from her. She’s the most docile cat you’ve ever met, but Uncle Doug’s acting like we’re asking him to handle a Siberian tiger.

“These things carry all sorts of diseases,” he says, holding his hands up high and close to his lab coat. “There’s a reason they don’t want pregnant women going anywhere near kitty litter.”

“Well”— I take a furtive whiff of my palm —“It’s a good thing you’re not a pregnant woman.”

“Anyone can get sick from cat feces,” Uncle Doug argues.

Coop sighs. “We’re not asking you to stick your finger up its ass. We just want you to hold it. Like a billion people do a billion times a day.”

Leyna and Hunter are crouched outside, looking in the open basement window and laughing. They’re supposed to be catching Dr. Schmaloogan in the act of doing evil experiments. But the only thing they’re witnessing is my uncle’s breakdown.

“It’s not just their excrement.” Uncle Doug tugs on his bushy beard. “It’s their saliva too. These things bite. They carry all kinds of pathogens. Staph. Meningitis. The plague. Not to mention, cats are one of the main transmitters of rabies. Believe me, I’ve done the research.”

“Buttons doesn’t have rabies.” I start to chew my tongue nervously. “Look at her. She’s a sweetie. Besides, I have her trained. She won’t move unless I tell her to.”

“Be that as it may.” Uncle Doug steps back from the table, looking flustered and sweaty. “Cats are unpredictable. I’d just as soon do the scene with some kind of replica. I’ll put up with having the animals in cages in the background for verisimilitude. And I’ll deal with the aftereffects of all the fluff and dander. But I am not about to have my penis bitten off by a venomous disease-ridden feline, thank you very much.”

“Your what?” Hunter calls from the window.

“I just don’t want to be bitten. Or scratched. Anywhere. Okay? So”— Uncle Doug wafts his hands at Buttons —“take this thing away from me. Immediately.” He grabs his pack of American Spirits and taps one out. The cigarette’s in his mouth and lit before I even have a chance to move.