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Chapter Thirty-one

Saturday September 27, 2014

12:00pm

Her idea.

She sat across the table, muzzle in her lap. The place: a high-backed booth in downtown Hollins, comfortably isolating with low-hung light fixtures casting islands of bronze light over each table. The color of wine in the upholstery and quiet carpet.

He watched her, observed a happy little pull at her dark lips as she stared at her cellphone, but when she looked up--noticed him watching--the pull left her muzzle.

"Sorry!" she said, sheepishly holstering the phone.

Tyson took a bite of his lunch, chewed deliberately.

She had insisted on meeting somewhere, insisted so intently that she may as well have just said that she didn't want to surround herself in the products of his drinking and loneliness. Maybe she was trying to fatten him up. It didn't matter. The food tasted gray. Everything did. Even beer, after a couple.

"You're like Dad," said Anessa. "Hating phones." A different kind of smile appeared on her mouth as she latched back onto her knife and fork. "I won't use it anymore if it's bugging you."

Tyson said nothing.

The afternoon sat on the peak of a Midwestern warm front, and the sun over the parking lot was blinding. It hit hard off of the smooth black body of a fourth-generation Camaro.

"When did you get this?" Anessa asked, a paw over squinted eyes.

"Last summer," Tyson grunted, his rump in the driver seat and one foot kicked out onto the blacktop. He had dragged the 2001 in from Chicago, had thrown a lot of money at its interior and suspension before realizing that he didn't give a shit about the car and leaving it to the dust in his garage. He looked up at his sister. "Want a ride?"

She hesitated, played with the strap of a crossbody bag. "A short one," she agreed.

Tyson glared while his sister passed across the dark windshield of the Camaro. She was being difficult.

Minutes later they were roaring west from the Hollins metro. The Camaro snaked through midday traffic with the subtlety of a machine gun-- Tyson's eyes flicking lifelessly about as his paws signaled and steadily adjusted course.

"This thing is so loud!" Anessa shouted over the V8.

Glancing over, Tyson saw his sister's arms limp in her lap.

He let the throttle breathe for a few minutes before slinging the car around an overpass and starting back towards the city.

"That reminded me of when Bella gave me rides from school, but her driving was so scary! At least I feel safe when you're driving."

Tyson said nothing. Didn't want to think of Bella.

"I can't believe she'd be twenty-three now," continued Anessa. "I wonder what college she would have gone to. She did really good on her ACTs."

Tyson opened the throttle again, and Anessa fell quiet.

She spoke when they were back inside the city--headed north. Away from the restaurant they had lunched at and away from her little Rabbit in the parking lot. "Where are we going?"

"I want to show you one more thing," said Tyson.

"But my car--"

"I know."

She sounded, looked: worried? Maybe she wasn't so naive.

She wasn't any more relaxed when they arrived at the apartment, muttering excuses about reading and schoolwork, but she followed him inside nonetheless. "Here," Tyson grunted, pushing open the door of apartment 109 and stepping aside. "This is what I wanted to show you."

Anessa paused at the threshold, cautiously peeked inside. "Wow!"

The coffee table sat naked upon vacuumed carpet. The kitchen counters lay bare. The scents of dry cum and booze had been buried by aerosol products.

"It looks really good," said Anessa, still not entering into the apartment, "but I really gotta get back home--"

"I get it," said Tyson.

* * *

A short, quiet ride. Or, as quiet as the Camaro allowed.

Anessa could feel her brother's frustration like the vibrations of the V8. He was upset with her.

They stopped in the parking lot they had met, just behind the tail of her Rabbit. Her brother didn't speak. Anessa grasped the door handle in a nervous paw. She wanted to make her exit short. She did have classwork to get through. A little reading. More importantly: something in her gut.

"Ty--" she started.

But tears slackened her jaws.

Shocked, Anessa stared at her brother who looked back with chestnut eyes wetting the fur beneath them.

"Hey!" she exclaimed--and now she felt bad. "Why are you crying?"

The chestnut eyes closed, and Anessa watched while her brother shelved his brow upon the steering wheel.

"What's wrong?"

"Go," growled Tyson, his voice still flat as ever even as his shoulders shook. "If you're in such a hurry to get away, just go."

And then she was the one crying.

* * *

Behind his arm, Tyson made a cold smile.

You must be so proud, he thought, and his face darkened.

He could hear his sister's sniffles, imagined her scrubbing at her tears. He took a deep breath and fell back against his seat and saw his sister's muzzle in her paws.

"I'm sorry," he said dryly, and when she didn't immediately answer, he rested the pads of a paw upon her leg--soft, even through the denim.

"No, I'm sorry too," she whispered after some sniffles and deepening breaths. "I've been weird today. I've just felt weird."

Muscle stiffened against Tyson's paw as his sister's leg shifted.

She was looking at him, sadly, and sunlight was shining through the open door beyond her.

"I love you, Ty."

She was gone.

* * *

She waited for the Camaro to rumble away before softening against the seat of her Rabbit, tiredly gazing at her phone.

Maybe I'm freaking out over nothing, she thought.

Anessa brought her paws together and vigorously prayed, then composed a hasty text.

"Can I call you tonight?"

A quick response: "Please do! I'll be up late :-)"

Seconds later, an image of a long-coated feline appeared below the response, the cat holding a cylinder of coffee grounds beside his smiling face. Anessa looked at the picture for a while, then gladly put the Hollins metro in her rear-view.

She declined the after-supper walk that night and hit the bed with her phone ringing in her ear. A rumbly hello put a smile on her face, and Anessa returned the greeting in earnest.

She had met him--him being Vincent Day, a third-year sports medicine major at Justin University--at a campus bonfire only weeks before, and she had developed feelings fast. She had never developed feelings so fast, nor certainly so intense. She suspected that her feelings were mutual. They had been texting and calling every day, but until then, nothing beyond the interest of friendship had been exchanged.

"So, now to reveal me secret agenda," the cat said on the tail end of their usual banter.

"Oh, no," said Anessa, her voice taking on a theatrical tone of trepidation whilst her heart and breath raced quite sincerely. Time took on a slow plod as the cat took an audibly-deep breath. Anessa's free paw found the corner of one of her pillows and squeezed it as she waited.

"Anessa, I like you a lot--"

Her grip tightened.

"--and I thought, if you feel the same--"

A nervous laugh wriggled free of Anessa's muzzle. She moved her paw to stifle it as a chuckle came through the line.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes!" Anessa wheezed.

"As I was saying," resumed the cat, feigning indignation. He took another breath. A long, deep breath--clearly reveling in the tension he was creating. Then, finally, and in a rather nonchalant voice, Vincent said, "I thought we could do something next weekend." And clarified. "As a date."

Anessa's giggling spilled into frenzy.

After the call, she bounced around her room--jumped, hopped, skipped, and spun. Then, finding her old bedroom limiting, she rushed down the hall, pirouetted down the small set of stairs and into the TV room. She might have been squealing when her eyes locked with the shepherd who raised his brow from the recliner.

"Good news?" Her father smirked.

Anessa scurried back to her room, laughing and nuzzling her pillows. Embarrassed and happy as she had ever been.

* * *

"Oh my god, Ty--"

She craned her neck with a whimper. Her tail swept against him.

He stood behind her, reaching underneath her thin top. He reached up to the soft undersides of her breasts, but he did not squeeze nor stroke, merely let that soft, delicious weight rest upon his palms, swell with every breath, and as he held his sister, his tongue darted from his muzzle and made for her neck, caressing her with long strokes of his tongue, from her neck to the whiskers of her muzzle, to taste the drizzle from her round nose and black lips, prying those lips apart and grooming her sharp canines, her short incisors, her rough premolars and larger molars. He wanted her.

She wasn't there. It was only him, mildly drunk and bathed in semen. Tyson licked at his paw, numb to the flavors of lotion and cum, and he thought to himself that he had had enough.