Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Maybe if we stay here all the way until Christmas, I could make some decorations. Unless of course Cesar was against it. It is his place, and he does seem to prefer decor that screams I’m-a-bachelor-I-don’t-need-trinkets’.
I’m about to explore farther down a corridor, when the door opens, and Cesar steps back in with the bags of our shopping in both hands. I rush over to him so fast I almost stumble because of my stupid ankle, but I’m desperate to take some of the load off him. He lifts the shopping as if I were a kid trying to wrestle a knife out of his hands.
“Your leg! Careful, we can’t go to the ER right now,” he scolds me before resting all the bags on the table close to the kitchenette.
Damn, we’ve been on the move for so long, but he still smells so good. How am I to deal with this? I look up, but the air I’ve inhaled gets stuck in my throat when I notice the black eyepatch covering his injured eye. It’s simple in design, sleek yet utilitarian, like the rest of his clothes, and something about it is turning me on, because that strip of leather makes him resemble a Bond villain.
“Sorry. I’m hungry again. Can I grab this? Or do we have to ration?” I pluck a pack of five croissants out of the bag. The pounding against the roof intensifies, making me glad Cesar’s not out there anymore. This sounds like hail, and the poor guy’s already dusted with a dense layer of snow. I raise my hand, about to brush it off his head but stop myself at the last moment.
I need to get a grip.
The pastry bag rips open in my hands, and I stuff my face. Cesar’s watching me, still as a statue. Did he notice what I was about to do and is now assessing whether he doesn’t want to let me sleep outside after all?
An arm slides around my waist, and he leads me back to the couch, no longer frozen. “Sit down and make us sandwiches. I need to set everything up,” he tells me, back to his patient self.
I want to protest, but he’s soon back and places all of the food on the coffee table. “There’s a store not that far away, so no, we do not have to ration.” With that, he’s out of the room.
I take a deep breath and make myself useful. At least he gave me a job so I don’t feel like a waste of space. As I spread ketchup on a very pale slice of cheese, I’m hit by the memory of blood splattering all over Sullivan’s white shirt.
I’ve barely had time to process what I’ve done. I killed a man. Or did I slay a monster? I glance at the butter knife in my hand, also covered with red sauce. Am I just a man who was pushed to his limits, or have I always had this anger inside me? If push came to shove would I stab someone to protect myself? Would I kill someone who tried to call the police on me? Or a cop?
The turmoil inside me makes me a very slow sandwich artisan, but Cesar is gone for several minutes, so I think he doesn’t mind. Unless he’s rethinking his life choices and considering suffocating me in a pile of snow. I wouldn’t blame him. His footsteps echo behind the door close by, and I drop the piece of bread I’m preparing into my lap. Of course it has to land with the buttered side on my pants, but it’s not as if I can turn back time and make myself not-an-embarrassment.
Cesar enters carrying a pile of wood. His facial expression is stern, impossible to read, so I hope for the best and assume he has resting serious face. Which, incidentally, I find stupidly hot.
“I started a fire in the bedroom already. It’s small, so by the time we lie down, it should be nice and cozy there,” my host says, kneeling in front of the wood burner close to the couch.
At this point, I don’t need the fireplace, because hot flames fueled by inappropriate thoughts lick my neck, my jaw, and then my cheeks. He didn’t say ‘bedrooms’. And I highly doubt there are two singles in there. Or maybe there are, but I’m too awkward to ask about it.
“It’s been a while since I slept in a real bed. Thank you. Again. Is there a shower here? I don’t feel so fresh after… everything.”
“There is, but you need to wait for the water to heat a bit.” He nods, leaning forward and blowing on the flames. His back is so nice—sturdy, wide—I wouldn’t mind using it as my anchor.
I haven’t had sex for even longer than I was homeless.