Page 15 of Wild Like Us
Five minutes?
Doing what?
“Is he taking a shit or something?” I ask.
Banks almost laughs. The sound catches in his chest. “Or something.” He shuts another eye again. Is he in pain?
I frown, my concern building like a snow-packed avalanche. “Don’t let me hold you up. Go do your thing.”
Banks glances down either side of the hall.I’m famous. It’s easy to forget when it’s almost 4 a.m. and I’m standing in a ghost town of a hallway.
Totally safe.
But I can understand how he’d feel responsible if someone snuck up on me while he’s gone.
“Come with me?” Banks asks. “I don’t wanna leave you out here alone.”
I nod. “Scared a big bad wolf will devour me?”
He turns the doorknob and shakes his head. “You were raised by wolves. If anything, you’re going to devour some poor bastard one day.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. What I’d give to know how Banks actually sees me. The saddest thought: I’ll probablyneverfucking find out.
Opening the door, he tells me, “I just know you hate being alone. I don’t like the idea of you standing out here waiting for him by yourself.”
That literally causes words to evaporate in my head. Leaving pure emotion. Something swells inside my throat, my chest, and I walk dazedly behind Banks while my heartbeat sputters.
Thanks for not leaving me alone, I want to say.
Words are trapped, and instead, I focus on where he’s going. I follow his footsteps into the darkly lit living room (brown leather furniture galore), then over to the nearby tiny kitchen.
The microwave and oven light cast a soft glow over the counters. Banks opens several drawers. Quietly shutting them.
“What are you looking for?” I try to whisper.
“This.” He snatches a bottle of Tylenol, then tries to twist the childproof cap. “It’s just a small headache.”
Doesn’t seem that fucking small. His jaw muscle tics like he’s gritting his teeth. He grunts out a frustrated breath, struggling to open the bottle. His headache must be like a rock concert in his temple.
I come closer and take the Tylenol from his hand. He lets me, and I easily unscrew the cap. “How many?”
“Three.”
I dole three pills into his palm.
He tosses them back, and I hand him my water bottle.
Banks takes a swig with a short nod and thanks, then washes down the pain meds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want something to eat?” He rests against the counter. “I was making rigott’ and toast earlier—before Akara asked me to get the door.”
I notice the bread bag near the toaster. “Rigott’?” I ask, picking up the canister of what looks like sour cream.
“Ricotta,” he enunciates.
“You’re eating ricotta cheese on toast?”
He tries his hardest to look at me, but his headache lowers his tightened gaze. “My brother is the good cook. This is the best I got.”
“Seems like a weird combo for breakfast.”
