Without opening his eyes, Brenna's big black cat turned his head in her direction and murmured, "Mrrrrr?"
The young woman ran a loving hand down Salem's back and smiled as he began to purr sleepily. "Go back to sleep, son," she whispered as she crossed the room to her closet in search of something to wear. The sensuality of her nude form, all soft curves and unconscious grace, was lost on both Brenna and the cat. As the dark-haired girl perfunctorily pulled on the first pair of jeans she saw, feeling less than enthused by the prospect of cleaning her room, the feline promptly put a paw over his eyes, sighed, and resumed napping.
Bare-breasted and bare-footed, hands planted on the notch of deliciously round hips, Brenna glanced around her room and found it neat enough, by her standards. Unfortunately, Brenna's standards didn't do her a damned bit of good; it was her mother's that counted. If she didn't pick up her computer desk, vacuum the floor, and dust her knick-knacks, her mother had assured her that there would be "consequences."
It never ceased to amaze Brenna that turning eighteen had earned her not one iota more respect, privacy, or freedom over her personal space. The room was decorated according to her mother's
Better Homes and Gardens
taste: country kitsch and floral frippery. At Chez Nacey, posters of wrestlers and movie stars had long been outlawed, the lived-in look was a sign of slothfulness, and playing anything but Country music was the eighth deadly sin. The decor held only a few hints of Brenna's vastly contrasting personality: the fantasy and horror novels lining her bookcase; the computer desk dominating an entire corner of her room; the small pewter and crystal dragons arranged in a small glass case on one wall; the forest green carpet Brenna had insisted upon when her parents had remodeled the house two years ago. These things provided a scant barrier against the picture-perfect imitation wholesomeness her mother had created.
In a fit of frustration some weeks previously, Brenna had thumb-tacked a sign on the back of her door that read, "This isn't my real room, I just sleep here!" So far, her mother had yet to discover this minute rebellion. Brenna had no choice but to grit her teeth and abide by the "while you're under my roof" policy. With any luck, Brenna would be out from under her mother's roof and rooming with her best friend, Aileen, by the end of summer.
Sucking a breath through her teeth, her restlessness now bordering on claustrophobia, Brenna muttered "Fuck it, let Mom bitch. What else is new?" and ducked back into her closet for a belly-baring top and a pair of flip-flops.
She was heading to the mall.
