Cat's Out...a Darla The Alpha Cat Novel

Chapter 1 - Goodbye to the Dogman

Episode 1.1

I tug my long sleeves down, making the scar on my wrist disappear as if by magic. This will be easy enough. I simply have to wear long sleeves for the rest of my life, claim I have some rare skin disease, and ignore the hunger pangs that ripple through my stomach whenever I see a deer or rabbit.

There are a lot of deer in northern Michigan. Just one more reason to get out.

A soft tap at my bedroom door. I look beyond the hazel eyes of Don Riviera in his Tiger's uniform, staring at me from the poster on the door, and visualize my father standing on the other side. He'll be leaning on the door frame, all Ward Cleaver like, looking his best to look concerned and dad-like.

"Yes." I try to keep my speech to single syllables. Less chance of a conversation developing that way.

"Darla...you coming down for dinner?"

My stomach churns at the thought of it. "Don't know." Darn. Two syllables. Better watch that.

He sighs so heavy that I'm sure he'll pass out. "I made your favorite. Veggie pizza."

Now I want to puke. This is not exactly his fault. Five months ago I would have been thrilled with veggie pizza, if not so much the dinner company. How does one explain to her father of fifteen years that she no longer desired vegan cuisine and would much rather go roam the highway shoulder for fresh road kill?

"Not hun--" I hesitate. That would be two syllables in one word. I'm slipping. "Sick."

"Do I need to call Doctor Luzands?"

Dr. Loose Hands wouldn't be coming near me ever again if I had a say in it. Not if I were bleeding out after a tragic pyramid failure at a Cherry Hill football game. Which was not an unlikely scenario, given the lackluster performance of the cheer squad last year. "No." Think think think. "Flu." I moan for effect.

"Well, okay. Let me know if you change your mind. I'll keep it warm." He mutters a few curses in Spanish as he pads toward the stairs, as if I can't translate. Straight As, mi padre. And I am only one generation removed from our Mexican roots.

It's better this way. The more we talk, the greater likelihood I'll lose it and tell him a thing or two about himself. Not that he'd ground me for it or anything. He's given up. My therapist calls it repressed anger issues. I call it giving people what they have coming to them.

I doubt that the pizza was actually cooked in the first place. Getting the father end of a divorce has its perks. For one thing, all I have to do is utter "Girl stuff" and he'll back off faster than a rabbit off a terrier. Mmmm....rabbits. Wait...where was I? Oh, yes, divorced fathers. But one of the downsides was a substantial reduction in the meal quality. Before Jacques the Dogman changed my life last fall, if somebody said "McDonalds" in this house it was like an invitation to a five-star restaurant.

Jacques. My mind drifts back to him. I'd known him such a short time. And yes, he was entirely too old for me anyway, but, oh my God. Who would have suspected an almost 300 year old French guy could be so hot? I mean, a Romanian or Spaniard, sure. But the French just never floated my boat.

The crush was entirely one-sided, though. Which was probably for the best, him being dead and all. Which was rather fortunate for me. I have enough issues. Being a dog certainly wouldn't improve my self-esteem. But his sudden departure did leave me without any guidance. I'd changed only once, immediately following the bite. I scratch the spot on my forearm. It doesn't hurt anymore but it still itches. Given the fact that I'd nearly killed half a dozen people, I haven't tried to change again since. To be honest, I don't even know how.

An Alpha without a mentor or a pack, stuck in the rabbit-craving body of a fun-sized high school freshman girl. Though one with an impressive batting average. Terror on the baseball field. Not so much among the human--or rabbit--population.

I close out this week's posting of It Could Be Wertz and open Outlook, willing an email to come through. From somebody. Anybody. Like my sister, maybe. Where are you, Star? My last connection to a real family. She's out there somewhere, as is some semblance of a normal world, but I'm not seeing it. No one in Cherry Hill is. Most of them didn't even know why. I know, though. I remember.

I also know it isn't over.