Author's Note: I have not written anything in the world of fan fiction in years so needless to say, I am a bit on the rusty side. This will be a slow burn story so if you hang in there, I promise there will be juicy bits in later chapters. Comments/reviews/criticisms are welcome.
Chapter 1
"The night was…"
So, here I am again on another Friday night, it is payday and the end of a long week. I should be out having dinner at the bar with a few friends or kicking back a few brews at a hockey game, but no. I am at home in my pajamas watching Throw Momma From the Train. I would feel somewhat lonely if it wasn't for the fact that I have two cats; both of whom are curled up sleeping on both my legs, only waking when I cannot stop myself from laughing at Danny DeVito hitting Billy Crystal in the head with a cast iron frying pan while the eggs go flying to the floor.
It wasn't until the movie was over that I received a message from an old friend from back home that I realized how much I missed my old life. I had moved my entire life and my cats away as well as sold my house all while taking the risk of jumping head first into my career field and starting back to school for my Master's. I was more than relieved when I got the call back saying that I got the job. It was a lab technician position at the USS Constitution Museum; it was entry level, but at that point I would take just about anything as long as I got to put my Bachelor's to work for me. I did not spend all that time and money to get it and have it go to waste. Shortly after I started at the museum, I began to rediscover my love of archaeology and decided that the next logical step was to go back and work on my Master's. Granted, anthropology is a pretty limited field as a whole, but being able to find a school that would enable me pursue my ambitions was tougher than finding a job and a roof over my head. I eventually settled on Boston University to pursue a Master's in Forensic Anthropology as well as talk a few people into letting me enroll in the Linguistics program as an undergrad.
To say the least, I managed to keep myself busy but between work and school, I always felt like I was neglecting my cats. I quickly texted my friend back, changed into a pair of jeans and grabbed the cats' harnesses and leashes. Trust me, I know it may look strange to walk a pair of cats on leashes on the streets of Boston, but the boys love being out in the fresh air and it's a good excuse to not have to a) clean out the litter boxes and b) watch them fill it up again not even 5 minutes later. Who could argue with free fertilizer?
Generally speaking, I haven't left my apartment much since moving to Boston. I have some family here, but I had only met them once and I wished it had been under better circumstances when I did. Before moving here, I made sure to brush up on the carrying concealed laws. My dad was always cautious about me owning my own home and was adamant about keeping at least something with me at all times as a means of protection. Not only because he wanted me to be able to protect myself, but also because I have always been so independent that he was just scared for my safety.
I went with my gut tonight and decided to not only carry my pepper spray with me, but I also strapped my pistol to the belt loops of my jeans. It wasn't anything fancy; my dad had given me a Sig Sauer P229 as a parting gift. The best advice he'd given me to date was to make sure it was always loaded with one in the chamber. I never thought I would actually have to use it, but it was better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.
I managed to get the boys into their harnesses and attached the leashes with relatively few scratches this time around. Normally they tag-team me with one going after my arms and the other going after my legs, but once I managed to get the door of the apartment opened they ran out as quickly as they could. The building that I live in would not have been my first choice but considering that it was cheap, err… rather illegal loft housing, I took my chances. I had been mooching off my aunt & uncle for the first few months that I had been in Boston and even though they insisted that it was no trouble for me to stay there, I loved having my own space so when this place opened up I took it. I always hated riding on this fucking rickety elevator, but you just have to conquer your fears of being stuck in one, right?
I would've kissed the ground when the elevator stopped, but not knowing what kinds of things had fallen on the ground, I opted for a quick "thank God!" The boys had a pleasant walk despite getting the odd looks from strangers and a group of teenagers exclaiming "black cats are bad luck" when we passed by. Yes, black cats have a bad reputation, especially with today being Friday the 13th, but my boys are nothing but sweethearts who want nothing more than to be loved. I wish I could say though that the way back home was just as pleasant. They freaked the fuck out when a siren started going off just a few blocks away followed by gun shots, so I had the misfortune of carrying them back home. It was times like this that I'm also thankful that I grabbed their carrier before we left.
Once the boys were safely stowed away in their carrier, I high-tailed it back home but as I crossed in front of one of the alleys I felt something catch on my hair. In my naivety, I had thought it was just caught on some invisible force like a spider web. I felt myself being dragged backwards into the alley when my instincts kicked in; I hated having to do it, but I dropped the carrier my cats were in and pulled the pepper spray from my pocket. Unfortunately, I panicked and dropped the canister. My attacker threw me against the wall and upon glancing up saw that his face was covered (the pepper spray wouldn't have done any good had I been able to use it). My head hit the wall pretty hard so I had no clue what it was he was muttering, something about killing me and then killing my cats. There was no way in hell some stupid motherfucker was going to hurt my cats.
Before I had a chance to grab my pistol out the holster, I felt a sharp sting pierce through my left shoulder. "Did you just fucking stab me?" I was shocked and in disbelief that it actually happened and believe it or not it was the only thing I could think to say.
He wrenched the blade around in my shoulder for what seemed like an eternity, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins told me to grab the pistol and fire away. I did just that. I flipped the safety off and pressed the barrel into his left shoulder. Payback was a bitch; I squeezed the trigger and put a round through his shoulder (it's only fair, right?) Once he lurched back in pain, I squeezed off a couple more rounds, not really caring where they hit, put the safety back on, grabbed the cats, and ran like hell all the back home.
It wasn't until I reached the confines of the elevator that I heard an accented voice ask if I was alright, exclaiming that I looked like I just ran a half marathon in a somewhat amused tone of voice. I muttered, more to myself, that I was fine and quickly climbed out once the elevator reached the third floor. I wanted nothing more at this point than to get the cats inside and check them for any injuries. My cats mean everything to me and if anything were to happen to them, I don't know what I'd do. They are like my kids and I would do all in my power to make sure they were safe. It didn't dawn on me that in my haste to make sure the cats were okay that I had forgotten to lock the deadbolt and throw the chain on the door.