Page 92 of Feed Your Fiends

“You can never be too careful,” I say, reaching for a bottle on the third row and extracting a pill before handing it to her. She takes it blindly, just like she lets me rub skin and hair products on her blindly because she trusts me more than she realises.

I watch her drink, watch the bob of her throat as she swallows a shot of vitamin D that I know she’s deficient in. But she doesn’t know that, and the fact that she’s willing to take something she doesn’t need to keep her cover speaks volumes.

“Are you thirsty?” She offers me the bottle after chugging half of it, although she’s clearly disgusted by the taste.

“Drink a bit more first. Our shower was steamy, I don’t want you dehydrated.”

She smiles tensely before drinking a quarter more and shaking it at me. I take it, not because I’m the secret lemonade legend guzzling cans by the case, but because I want an excuse to put my tongue exactly where hers had been a second ago. I only take a sip, though, because I have somewhere to be.

I can’t fall asleep with my baby, whose eyes droop as I catch her in my arms and carry her to our bed where I know she’ll stay safe and sound for at least…I check the time. Seven hours.

Elle

A noise wakes me up from a dead sleep.

My eyes crack open, but they quickly flutter halfway shut again until I realise no one’s spooning me. A hard dick isn’t stabbing my entrance, and long arms don’t have me damn near in a headlock so that we can breathe the same recycled air.

I twist my head and find the space behind me empty, and immediately my heart quickens, the sleepiness falling to the wayside. I squint at the clock on the bedside table and have to mentally count the thin, elegant sticks to figure out what time it is. Midnight. When did I fall asleep?

Bang!

“Gant?” I croak after a few beats of silence.

It came from the bathroom. He must’ve got up to pee. But then why is the door shut? I hadn’t smelt his shit but he must’ve shit at some point and yet, even while he was ass out on the toilet, he’d never shut the door. He’d never taken me out of his line of vision, and I know why.

He tells me that I’m scared, but he’s terrified, too. Ever since he caught me in the hospital looking at my IV line, there’s a worry in his eyes that won’t go away. It makes shame coil in my belly until he smiles and kisses me. Until he tells me how good I’m being when I finish my food and drinks, swallow my medication and hop on his back for piggyback rides to reduce the time on my feet.

He watches me like a hawk, and the fact that he isn’t watching me now sends a paranoid chill racing down my spine.

My heart drums faster at the closed door, at the shadow moving beneath it.

“Gant?” I whisper again, this time far softer, as I pull the blankets off my legs. I’m not sure if it’s because I want to get up or because I don’t want any entanglements.

Call it intuition or paranoia, but I’ve never woken up without him beside me.Ever.

I squeeze doll Gant’s block head for strength on my pillow before slipping toward the dark walk-in closet that’s more like a cave and grab one of the cricket bats amongst the lacrosse sticks behind the door. The moment I make contact with the handle, I rip my arm out, lest a sleep demon is waiting to drag me inside.

What am I doing?Despite the question, my feet are carrying me closer to the bathroom door.We’re on the top floor. There are receptionists, patrolling security, and key cards and codes on every door in this building. All you’re going to do is give a pissing Gant a damn heart attack.

Slowly, I turn the handle, push the door open, lift my bat higher and—

Someone screams.

Me.

A woman’s dark brown eyes peer at me through the mirror, entirely unsurprised. She’s older, no younger than fifty-five, with wispy, artificially dyed cherry-brown hair and some wicked winged eyeliner that crinkles at the corners as she takes me in.

And I take in her too, noting her sensible shoes, dark scrubs, and the powder blue gloves on her hands that match her killer eyeshadow.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I try to calm my racing heart by tapping my chest and crumbling against the wall. Before I can even attempt to answer, she turns to me fully, a teeny tiny thong stretched across her gloved thumbs. A used thong from the way it’s rolled.

“Please, Miss Elle, can you put your underwearinsidethe basket?” She motions at a hamper in the corner.

She knows my name?Gant must’ve told her, lest she find a strange redhead mulling around. But why didn’t he tell me about her?! And why is she creeping around the penthouse cleaning at midnight? But surprisingly, her schedule is the least of my worries.

My thong? My thong?!

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