Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

nervous.
    Matt took off the stupid baseball cap, stuffing it in the pocket of his baggy Dockers. He regretted the carefully casual clothes, regretted not looking like himself. Not looking like this impeccably dressed man three elevator doors down the hall.
    The man, maybe—forty-five. A cousin? Not a brother, his real father had been too young. Matt had to be an only child. The mystery man cleared his throat. Looked away.
    The elevator indicator tinged.
    They both froze.
    Watched the door open between them, neither wanting to meet the other as they rushed to claim it.
    The man glanced at the EXIT sign over the stairwell where Matt had lived most of today.
    He knew. Or suspected. He wanted to run.
    The elevator doors opened. Closed. A couple inside watched them with puzzled, and finally contemptuous, stares. Why call for an elevator if you weren’t going to take it. Why indeed?
    And then they were gone.
    Alone again.
    “I think,” Matt said, “that your last name might be the same as mine should be.”
    The guy stared at him. His eyes were gray. So was his skin color. Matt saw he was older than he’d looked at first glance, and began to fear he might be having a heart attack.
    He began to have one too. This guy was actually old enough... to be his father.



Feline Shepherd

    I am shocked. Shocked, I tell you!
    With my own concealed ears, I hear my Miss Temple consign young Miss Molina to the questionable oversight of Mr. Rafi Nadir, who may be her unacknowledged sire.
    Being an unacknowledged sire myself, I feel a deep sense of obligation to keep an eye on this extremely unlikely pairing.
    If my Miss Temple has set the wolf to watch the lamb, I will be the mountain lion set to watch the wolf.
    And when it comes to major matches, felinus versus caninus always wins.
    So, when Miss Savannah Ashleigh betakes herself inside, I pad after Rafi who pads after her.
    Once she is fully attired, if you can ever call the belly button-exposing, cleavage-baring clothing of MSA that, we follow her to her office quarters for the day and stand guard in the hall.
    He is in the standard feet apart, hands crossed in front posture of security guys since my forebears stood guard duty in the palaces and temples of ancient Egypt.
    I assume the deceptive stance of a sleeping feline. It works every time.
    Sure enough, along comes Miss Temple, escorting Miss Mariah to her first appointment of the day.
    “Mariah, this is Mr. Nadir. He will help you if anything goes wrong.”
    Mariah is having none of it. “You mean if Savannah Ashleigh is strangled in her own monokini by the time I go In for my appointment?”
    “Hey,” Mr. Rafi Nadir says in a cajoling tone. “Nobody buys it on my watch. What say I accompany you on your rounds and make sure?”
    “What about your client?” Mariah asks, savvy kid that she is.
    “Oh, I suppose your friend Xoe Chloe will be responsible for her.”
    Miss Mariah consults Miss Temple, who shrugs in typical, deplorable Xoe Chloe fashion.
    And so the deal is struck. My Miss Temple will watch Miss Savannah Ashleigh, a personage we both wish would be boiled in canola oil and put on the South Beach Diet until death did them part. And Mr. Rafi Nadir, the bane of Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s life, past and present, will be watching over his own daughter, unawares. If Miss Savannah gets restive and calls for male reinforcements, instead of Mr. Rafi, I myself will rush to the scene to distract her and the Persian babes. It is the least I can do, and I have been known to drive Miss Savannah to distraction in the past.
    It is amazing the things an observant feline can know, and not say.
    I decide where to invest my time and energy, and decide it is the unlikely partnership of Nadir and Molina.
    Miss Temple watches me ankle off down the hall after them, looking worried.

    So we all three end up waiting outside various offices for Miss Mariah’s daily consultations.
    “You pull bodyguard duty often?” Mariah asks.
    I am about to answer but Rafi Nadir beats me to it. “Nah. Most people who hire bodyguards need the publicity more than the muscle.”
    ‘This is a weird place.”
    “You got that right.”
    “I mean, it is supposed to be a contest but it seems like someone is pulling the strings.”
    “How so?” He leans down like a gentleman to hear her answer.
    I lean up.
    “I mean, it is supposed to be a fair contest but everything so far is rigged. All the Teen Queen candidates are tall, thin, and