“No, Leslie,” Bell starts. “I don’t think—”
“Mike!” But my shout comes too late. The little fucker leaps from the baby carrier, his teddy-bear-covered ass tearing across the bar floor, pouncing on every moving dot of light.
It’s a cat’s laser light show fantasy come true.
His teddy bear hood falls off, and a woman with more sequins on her ass than all the Elvis impersonators combined screams. “Rat!”
Pandemonium.
The Elvises stop swinging their hips, too busy being body-checked by women hustling their high heels off the dance floor. Men in heavy boots are following, not wanting to lose sight of their dates. The music stops playing, but the disco lights are still in full effect.
All this means a shit ton of people in dangerous footwear are stomping around where Mike is playfully pouncing about like a nudist on acid.
Before I make it two steps toward the beast, a shrill whistle blasts through the air. Everyone slows and looks toward Bell, who takes her fingers out of her mouth and addresses the crowd.
“Stop moving! You’re going to kick Mike Hunt!”
Bell
“It hurts!”
I swing my body away from Chase and the ice pack he procured out of nowhere as he tries to press it against my bruised hand.
“Yeah, well, so does my face.” His eyeisa little swollen.
“Yeah, well, you deserved it.” Yes, I’m aware I’m a grown-ass woman pouting. But all I care about right now are the bones I’m pretty sure were pounded to dust when I connected with Chase’s stupidly firm jaw.
“As Ms. King’s legal counselor, I need to ask if you are going to sue for damages.”
“What?” Chase and I say at the same time, turning to Leslie, who’s standing over us in her superhero boots.
Still looking at Chase, she repeats, “Are you going to sue for damages?” She waves a hand at his face.
Looking affronted at the idea, Chase scoffs, “No, of course not.”
Not relenting, Leslie continues her attack. “Are you willing to attest to that in writing?”
“Jesus, Bell.” Chase looks at me for help. “Tell your lawyer friend I’d never sue you for accidentally punching me in the face while you were trying to save my cat. Or at all, for that matter.”
Still hurt, both hand and heart, I don’t say anything. Instead, I cuddle Mike closer to my chest, which he seems to love, going by his V-8 engine purr.
Mouth hanging open, Chase grabs a cocktail napkin from the bar. “Anyone have a pen?” Three cocktail waitresses with a front-row seat to my drama thrust pens at him.
And that’s not all they’re thrusting.
Chase grabs one, not even glancing at the copious amount of cleavage, and hunches over the bar, scribbling fast. “Here.” He hands it to Leslie.
She scans it, nods, and pockets the napkin. “Everything’s in order then.”
“I’m not really sure a cocktail napkin would hold up in a court of law,” Chase mutters.
Leslie gives Chase the eye. “Then you don’t know me.”
“Huh.” Chase sits back in his seat, eyeing her like he’s thinking. “You want a job destroying my father?”
I feel my eyes bulge.
Leslie taps her finger to her chin. “Stan Moore, the one who stole intellectual property from my client?” She gestures to me.
