Gone With the Witch by Heather Blake Page B

headdress, I noted that Chip’s hair was flaxen blond, even now, while wet. Dry, I’d bet it was closer to a pale blond, like Starla’s. And he was tall. He towered over my five feet six. Amused, I realized he looked a bit like a Ken doll.
    He sat in an angular armchair and motioned me toward a futon with a threadbare mattress cushion.
    Grateful the futon wasn’t currently being used as a bed, I reluctantly sat and immediately felt a cushion spring pinch my thigh. I shifted to my right and set my purse on the floor. I gave it a nudge with my heel, pushing it under the futon so Pepe and Mrs. P could climb out unseen.
    â€œI’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “Natasha—”
    â€œI appreciate it.” He abruptly stood, yanking up his slipping towel. He anchored it with a new knot and headed for the kitchen. “You want a drink? I got it all, from juice to vodka.”
    I thought about him possibly slipping a cyanide pill into a coffee cup and said, “No, thanks.”
    He pulled a plastic pitcher from the stainless steel fridge. The container was filled with what looked like green goo. Pouring some into a glass, he then wiped the counter, set the pitcher back in the fridge, turning it just so, and sat back down. His movements had been precise, no energy wasted.
    Short tendrils of blond hair curled around his forehead as he sipped the green slime.
    â€œWhat is that stuff?” I asked, eyeing the glass.
    â€œKale smoothie. A little banana, some pineapple, and protein powder. You want to taste?”
    I vehemently shook my head. No way, no how.
    â€œWhat’s this about Titania?” he asked, sitting again, one of his legs jiggling. “Is she with you?”
    â€œYes, she’s at my house. Well, at As You Wish.”
    Spreading his knees, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on their tops. The towel slipped a bit, and I averted my gaze. He was just a cough away from showing me all his manly goods.
    He kept glancing over my shoulder toward the bedroom at the back of the apartment, and I wondered if he’d heard my accomplices at work. I didn’t hear anything, but I was out of place here. He’d know if something didn’t sound normal.
    â€œI didn’t like the cat much,” he said, “but I hope she finds a good home.”
    â€œYou didn’t like Titania?”
    He shrugged. “Not a big fan of cats.”
    If he hadn’t been crossed off my list of candidates to adopt Titania because of his allergies, he certainly was now. She needed to be with someone who wanted her. “Because you’re allergic?”
    â€œNah. Because they look at you all judgmental-like. I get enough judgment from when I go on auditions. I don’t need any more of it.”
    I’d been at the receiving end of my fair share of feline snobbery, so I couldn’t argue about that trait. But I thought about Titania’s purring and wondered if he knew that he was missing out on a lot of kitty love by not giving her a chance.
    I doubted he’d care.
    â€œDo you go on many auditions?” I asked, lookingaround. To call the place Spartan was putting it mildly. Other than the living room grouping—an uncomfortable-looking chair, uncomfortable futon, and glass coffee table—there was no other furniture to be seen, especially since I didn’t count the gym equipment as furniture.
    The machines filled the rest of the living and dining space. A treadmill, an elliptical, some sort of weight machine that looked as if it doubled as a torture device.
    Movie posters plastered the wall. Everything from the original
King Kong
to
Maleficent
. There had to be hundreds that overlapped each other, giving the look that he had decorated with eclectic motion picture wallpaper.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “Gotta earn a living. I do plays, commercials, and an occasional local movie. Once in a while, I model on the side. Pays the bills until I get my