Ghost Writer

Chapter 1

[This is my entry for Weekly Wattpad Contest #36]

Paisley, a well-fed brown tabby cat, padded her way through the patio of potted pet cacti, jade plants, assorted vines, and other plants of deep green foliage. The sun was warm on the stones and orange against the clay and cobblestone of the house. Rounding large jar shaped pots and the corners leading inside to the kitchen, Paisley trotted along. She passed through the kitchen and weaved in and out of doors until she found Jane's room.

Jane was asleep in a ray of sunshine. A cold cup of half-drunk tea was at her head and a slew of scribbled and stained papers was her bed. Paisley approached Jane and her sleeping laptop. Letting out a soft mew, she stood over Jane. When Jane didn't budge, Paisley rubbed along her head and back. Jane began to rouse.

Scratching down Paisley's back and giving an extra scritch or two at the base of her tail, Jane yawned and opened her eyes. The sun was a tad blinding. Her foggy eyes made out the shape of the flowers in her window and the roof beyond them outside. Warm and orange and clean. She sat up, looking down at her teacup and the papers she had been working on the night before. Giving Paisley another pat on the head, she looked at the flowers again.

Baxter would be around soon. As he was everyday. And had been almost every day since they were 10. Jane got up, grabbed the cup, and headed to the kitchen with Paisley at her heels. Dumping the wasted tea into the sink, she gave a quick morning greeting to her mother and raced off to the bathroom. She took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, and scooped the cat up before going back to her bedroom.

Placing Paisley on her bed, she mentally picked out what she would wear. The white sundress with sandals and she'd bring a light denim - just in case. After dressing, she took a quick look in the mirror, hardly paying attention to the reflection, grabbed her bag and headed to the patio. Baxter would never use the front door. He had to come through the patio, as if he was still a smudged little boy.

Not that it mattered. For the most part, he still was a little boy. Just without the smudged part. He'd learned how to keep himself tidy. After years of practice. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to teach him how to stay out of things that weren't his. Or at least her things that weren't his.

"I'm just curious," he would say, smirking and holding whatever it was out of her reach.

That was the only advantage he had over her - literally being over her in stature.