Read Feral for Free Online

her ribs like the laces on a football.
    Becca righted herself and pried his hands free, wearing a look on her face that Claire interpreted as surprise—surprise at being caught, maybe even surprise that Owen was actually there to catch her.
    â€œHe’s inside,” Becca repeated. “I see him. I’m asking him where Serena is. He’ll know. Trust me. Breakups lead to makeups.”
    Owen sighed, shook his head, and followed her up the front steps of ’Bout Out.
    Claire blinked into the bitter wind, watching the screen door swallow the two of them.
    Behind Claire, wind attacked a metal trash can. The sound of it crashing against the ground made her jump, swivel with her arms up, ready to defend herself.
    Empty, the can rolled in the wind.
    â€œStupid,” she muttered to herself. “Get a grip, Cain.”
    She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, as her dirty-blond, wavy hair clung to the large lapels. She tucked her chin down, trying to use the coat to hide her cheeks from the vicious slap of wind. She closed her eyes, listening to the gusts torture loose pieces in the corrugated tin roof above the gas pumps and hiss through the nearby naked trees. In between the hisses, she heard a soft, pleading meow.
    Claire opened her eyes. The meow hit her ears again, begging for attention. She turned as a sweet yellow tabby emerged from behind the pump, curling his tail into a question mark.
    Her heart ached at the sight of the lonely cat out in the cold. “Hey, sweets,” Claire cooed, squatting so that her coat made a deep blue puddle on the gravel around her.
    â€œAin’t no house cat,” the man at the side of the truck called out to her.
    Claire bristled. “If you know he’s a stray,” she mumbled, “then maybe you should take him home.”
    She extended her fingers toward the tabby, cooing for him to come closer, the stretch pulling against her scarred skin and making her back ache.
    â€œThat ain’t no kitty that curls up with you at night and starts kneadin’ your stomach like dough,” he went on, his voice saturated with a Midwest twang. In between the twang, Claire detected the singsong notes of warning: You’ll be sorry . . .
    â€œCome here,” Claire called sweetly as the wind picked up, sending a cold mist flying across her lips. She wiggled her fingers as she tried desperately to ignore the man. “Come here, babe.”
    â€œThat ain’t no cute little thing that licks dribbled drops a’ cream off the kitchen floor,” the man shouted, loud enough this time for his voice to bounce against the tin roof.
    Claire glanced at the front of the general store, wishing her father would hurry up.
    â€œAin’t no different than a sewer rat,” the man cautioned her, nodding once at the cat.
    When Claire didn’t respond, he continued, “That’s a barn cat. Which is just a nice way a’ sayin’ feral.” He pointed at the yellow tabby, then dragged his finger toward the cats perched beneath an awning at the far end of the lot, rubbing at their whiskers and ears with their front paws—then toward the cats crouched under the front porch of the old general store, lying close together for warmth, front legs curled contentedly under their bodies—and finally toward the cats taking shelter under a half-rotten canoe that leaned up against the side of the building, one of them with his back leg pointed skyward as he cleaned himself.
    â€œSame as any old squirrel or chipmunk or possum,” he said. “Wild creatures, all of ’em,” he added, smiling sickly. “Live under the store, most of ’em.
    â€œMaxine feeds ’em all the food that’s hit their expiration date,” the man babbled, not caring how his unwanted conversation was making Claire begin to sweat, even in the frigid temperatures. “Got a soft spot for anything ain’t got a home a’ its own.