The Deal

The Black Cat

The sheets are soft and cold against my naked flesh, the morning light filters through the window and warms my cheeks, and the bed feels as if I'm sleeping on a vat of feathers.

Not a sound, not a thought; just pure bliss.

Except, it's not the chill in the room that wakes me or the warm glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains, it's not even the weight of my mother's ghost. No, it's the wet and rough feeling of a tongue lapping up my bare shoulder.

I'm dazed and a little disoriented after waking; my thighs sore and my head pounding from the inhuman amount of whiskey consumed last night. My hair is matted and my lips feel as if they may crack from their dryness.

I groan as my lids crack open, wincing from the light in the room, as the events of last night finally come reeling back to me.

Harry. I slept with Harry.

And it was dirty too. So dirty and so very, very hot.

Just, as I thought –Morning Nova really, really hates Drunk Nova.

My head spins and my nerves grow taut as I think about facing Harry and facing what we did last night. It was so very stupid of me and now I have no idea where we stand. It may have been delicious and distracting and the perfect end to a shitty day, but it was irresponsible.

The licking that woke me persists all the while and it's only when the morning fog clears from my brain that I acknowledge just how rough the tongue is... and how small.

I know Harry's tongue more than I know my own and that is definitely not his.

Curiously, I turn my head to peak over my shoulder and my heart nearly rips through my flesh, my life flashing before my eyes.

I'm met with the creepy and wicked amber eyes of a cat. A cat with inky black fur and a penchant for my blood, no doubt.

The scream that rips through my chest is not a sound I've ever heard myself make and the little demon nearly jumps out of its skin from the noise as I scramble away from the monster, dragging the bedsheet with me and nearly falling on my ass off the bed.

Pounding footsteps run down the hall as I eye the cat, reciting my last prayers and memorizing the final goodbyes for my loved ones.

Harry scrambles into the bedroom, shirtless and hair mussed, holding a spatula like it's a weapon, eyes wide in alarm and bare chest heaving from the adrenaline, "What?! What is it?"

If I wasn't so traumatized I might find the scene humorous, but instead, I wordlessly point to the bad omen with a shaky hand as I watch it lick its paw seemingly bored with the whole situation. Or trying to trick me into thinking it's docile.

The spatula lowers slowly as confusion dawns on Harry's face, glancing from the cat and back to me like I'm the crazy one in this room. He's the one who owns a walking talisman of bad luck!

Recognition slowly dawns on his face and the confusion is replaced by an amused grin as he walks over towards the mussed bed and –to my ultimate horror- scoops the bad luck up into his arms.

"Yeah, I thought you might not like this..." He sighs, but there is still a glint of amusement in his eyes as he cuddles his face into the cat's neck, "This is my cat, Hitchcock."

Harry dares to begin walking towards my sitting position on the floor, but I scoot away from him in alarm, holding up my fingers in a sign of the cross as if to ward off the evil emanating from the furball. He laughs boisterously as the monster emanates a low meow that makes my skin prickle.