Okay, so on second thought, the eyes aren’t giant. They’re actually pretty beady, and they’re not that creepy either, just those of an albino.
A white lab rat is sitting on my chest. Upon closer inspection, besides hunger, I also notice a glimmer of intellect in its gaze, though maybe that’s just my jittery imagination.
“Mr. Spock,” Ada says sternly from the doorway. “How many times have I told you to be mindful of my guests?”
The rat looks at Ada, then back at me, its eyes seeming to say, “I can read your thoughts, Mike, and I’m warning you, here and now, don’t try any funny business.”
Ada scoffs at Mr. Spock and comes toward me.
I ignore the rat long enough to notice what Ada is wearing, or more specifically, what she isn’t wearing, which is pretty much anything other than a large towel. The towel is wrapped midway around her chest, and her breasts are perkier and lovelier than I imagined—and my imagination has worked overtime in this area. Even more interesting is the fact that the towel only extends a few inches past her bikini area.
I suddenly feel like I’m in a banya—a steam bathhouse Russians like to visit in winter. It’s as if the temperature in the room just tripled.
Seemingly oblivious to my reaction, Ada gently takes the rat off my chest, and I glimpse even more of her flesh. To avoid breaking my promise about being a gentleman, I try not to gawk as she walks away. Still, I’m only human, and I can’t help noticing her shapely legs and the dancer-like muscles of her back. I also spot a brightly colored tattoo on her shoulder.
“Let me feed you, my furry troublemaker,” Ada says to the rat in a voice people usually reserve for babies or dogs. In a normal, or perhaps slightly playful tone, she tells me, “Come if you want to watch.”
I’d watch her do her accounting, knit, or perform any other boring activity as long as she was wearing that outfit. I get up, suddenly feeling spryer, and follow her into the kitchen.
Putting her little charge on the floor, Ada reaches into a drawer and pulls out a box.
“These are lab blocks,” she says, forestalling my question, and gives the box a shake.
I hear the scurry of many little feet on the floor as Ada takes out some blueberries and spinach from the fridge.
She pours the brown pellets from the box onto six teacup saucers and then adds a little fruit and veg. Each plate is instantly taken over by a white lab rat.
As I watch them eat, I notice the rats’ fur isn’t perfectly white. Someone, probably Ada, added colorful streaks on top, like a Mohawk. There’s a green-streaked rat and a blue one, while Mr. Spock’s streak is a very un-mister-like pink, though I guess the color does match his eyes.
“That’s Kirk, McCoy, Uhura, and Scotty.” Ada points at each rat. “That there is Chekov, and I bet if he could speak, his accent would be stronger than your uncle’s.”
“That’s kind of racist, specist, and maybe ratist.” I snicker, then add seriously, “They all had Brainocytes in their heads?”
“Not had. They still have them,” Ada says and pours water into a big bowl. “It’s all still up and running. Why do you think my babies are so smart?”
I examine the rat crew with renewed interest. When developing Brainocytes, Techno initially experimented on so-called brainbow rats—rats that were genetically modified to have a spectrum of florescent colors added to their neural cells, making them ideal for study under a confocal microscope. To see real-life versions of these famous critters, plus ones with a brain boost to boot, is a big surprise. It also makes me wonder if maybe I didn’t imagine the intelligence I saw in Mr. Spock’s eyes. Maybe he took better advantage of his rat version of the intelligence boost than I did.
“Can I pet him?” I ask, looking at the pink-streaked rat.
“He’d love that,” Ada says. “But not while he’s eating.”
As though on cue, Mr. Spock stops eating, drinks from the water bowl, and scurries over, giving me an uncannily cat-like stare that seems to say, “I’ll tolerate you, mortal.”
I gingerly reach out and rub the fur. Spock graciously allows it, or at least he doesn’t bite me, which I think is the rodent equivalent.
I guess I never inherited my mom’s deep-seated fear of rats. Quite the opposite, I find this little encounter kind of soothing, and I wonder if rats can be employed as some sort of pet therapy. Then again, given the day I’ve had, it wouldn’t take much to lower my blood pressure.
“Where’s the shower?” I ask softly, afraid I’ll spook Mr. Spock.
“I’ll show you,” Ada says and leads me down the corridor, past her office, and to the bathroom all the way at the end.
Since I’m still trying to be a gentleman, I primarily study Ada’s tattoo as we walk. Unfortunately, I have to give up and look elsewhere, because the towel is hiding most of it.
“You can use those towels and wear those boxers once you’re done.” Ada points at the pile of fluffy towels and the pair of purple shorts.
“Where did you get those?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to come across as ungrateful, but if they belonged to her ex-boyfriend, there’s no way I’m wearing them.
“I like sleeping in boxers,” Ada says, and I worry I might start drooling at the image. “They’re clean, and I don’t have cooties.”
“I definitely didn’t mean to imply you have cooties.”
The Enterprise crew in the kitchen might have something worse, but I don’t mention that.
“Do you need help?” Ada asks, her expression unreadable. “With all your injuries, is it hard to undress?”
“I should be fine,” I say quickly. Inhaling a breath, I discreetly swallow and add, “Thank you.”
She nods toward the kitchen. “I’ll go hang out with the gang. See you in a few.”
“One moment,” I say, and Ada stops in the doorway.
“What’s your tattoo supposed to be?” I ask, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see slight disappointment flit across Ada’s delicate features. Maybe she hoped I’d ask for her help undressing?
“It’s the donkey and the dragon,” Ada says. “I got it after watching Shrek. It’s also why I never mix pot with alcohol anymore.”
She turns around and lowers the towel just enough for me to get a good look at the ink. Now that she told me what it is, the big pinkish-purple head and the small creature next to it make perfect sense.
Then I realize something else, and a nervous chuckle accidentally escapes me.
The towel goes back up, and Ada gives me a stern look. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” I say, but a new bout of laughter is on the tip of my tongue, itching to escape. “Don’t you see what this makes you?” I gesture at her short haircut, which isn’t sticking up as usual since it’s wet. Then I mime typing on a keyboard.
“No.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What does it make me?”
“The girl with a dragon tattoo,” I say, grinning.
“You’re clearly tired,” Ada says, but her sneaky Mona Lisa smile touches the corners of her eyes again. “Shower so we can go to sleep.”
She closes the door behind her, and I hear her chuckling down the hall.
Taking off my clothes is painful, but I manage it. Maybe I should’ve said yes to her offer.
The shower only hurts where my shoulder is stitched up, but the pain’s tolerable. It might not have hurt at all if Ada had helped me get soaped up—assuming that was even on the table. I decide that the coconut shampoo is Ada’s trademark scent, so I opt to wash my hair with baby soap instead.
After I finish and towel off, I put on the boxers. They’re snug, and I wonder if that means Ada and I have approximately the same butt size. Given our height and weight differences, I figure my heinie is proportionally small, which is manly, while hers is rather curvy, which is awesome. I wisely decide not to discuss this with Ada, especially since I’m in her apartment and she could unleash her rats on me, like that Willard guy from the old horror movie.
Ada meets me outside her room, wearing comfy-looking PJs. Part of me hoped she’d decide to sleep in a pair of boxers, but I can respect her more conservative choice. Besides, it might help me be a gentleman as promised.
Her bedroom is dark, but I can still make out the stripper pole by the closet. I fight the urge to rub my eyes as they widen at the mental images of Ada using that thing.
The queen-sized bed is mixed news. At home, I sleep on a California king, and I’ve been contemplating getting an even bigger bed. Then again, a smaller bed means we’ll be huddled closer together, and that has a certain appeal.
Ada gets under the blankets, and I get in from the other side of the bed.
“Good night?” I say, unsure what the gentlemanly protocol would say about me trying to kiss her.
“Will you hold me?” she whispers and wriggles under the blanket, nestling backward into me.
“Sure.” My throat is suddenly too dry to talk.
In the next moment, we’re in the classic spooning position.
My mind is whirling. She smells like summer and feels just as warm in my embrace. An almost healing energy spreads from her body into every injury I suffered today. Placebo or not, all the pain disappears as though I took a Percocet.
“Do you mind if we fall asleep like this?” Ada murmurs. “Does it hurt lying on your side?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not at all.”
After a few minutes of blissful peace, my eyes adjust to the dark, and I notice Mr. Spock and his kin lying in strategic positions around the bed.
As sleep steals over me, I have the eerie sensation that if I hadn’t been a perfect gentleman, a pack of rats would’ve attacked me. Maybe it isn’t called a pack, though, but a swarm or maybe a colony? Or perhaps a pride, or possibly even a plague? Knowing the question might keep me up for needless minutes, I use my newfound power to Google stuff in my mind and learn the proper term is actually a “mischief of rats.” As odd as it sounds, it’s kind of fitting.
I don’t think I even turn off AROS before I drift to sleep.