Only, a second later, the asshole rips all the blankets off, leaving me curled up naked and shivering on the mattress.
“Electricity still works here. There’s hot water. Go shower.”
Hot water?
Magic words. I drag my ass out of bed, limbs heavy and slow as I head down the hall.
In the bathroom, I crank the water as hot as it’ll go. Steam soon fogs the small window as I step under the stream and hot water cascades over my bare skin.
Fuck me. It feels incredible.
There’s even a bottle of soap, so I scrub my hair and body clean, washing away weeks of grime. Then I just stand under the hot spray, relaxing in its warmth.
Even before the sickness killed off most of the world, I’d been taking cold showers. Kinda happens when your family’s poor. Same thing with electricity. Some months it worked, others it didn’t.
Guess my childhood prepared me for this. Used to having clothes bought from the Salvation Army. Or being a bit dirty, and hungry. Though, the latter wasn’t always from not havin’ money.
My father used starvation as a way to punish me sometimes.
Rex pounds on the door. “Devon, finish up.”
I snort. No way am I rushing to go back out into winter weather. I’m going to milk this until the water starts to run cold.
A few minutes later, he’s pounding on the door again. “Boy, you got five minutes or I’m gonna kick this damn door down. You won’t like what happens after.”
I roll my eyes and shut off the water, then towel dry my hair, leaving it a wild mess. After putting on my clothes, I head to the kitchen, lured by the scent of cooking.
Stopping at the entryway, I spot Rex at the stove, his back to me.
Perfect.
If there’s one thing I can do better than him, it’s keeping quiet to sneak up on people. And I love doing it to him. Makes him angry.
Well, not really angry.
More like annoyed.
With a smirk, I pad gently across the ceramic tile, keeping out of his line of sight. He’s too focused on stirring whatever’s in the pot. When I’m close enough, I swiftly lean in next to his ear. “What’s that?”
“Fuck!” He spins around fast, elbow jutting backward into my side. When he faces me, his eyes shift from hard to soft, and he releases a huff. “Christ. One day you’re gonna catch a fist if you keep that up.”
Little does he know I’ve caught a few fists from the time I was seven.
My chin juts up as I smile. “Hearing going, old man?”
His lips quirk as he turns back to the stove, posture straight but relaxed. “You should do that more often.”
I drop into a chair at the table. “Do what?”
“Smile.”
My breath stops and my heart freezes. As I bite my lip and look away, a vicious heat pools in my cheeks.
Shit.
I’m not some simpering fool, an idiot who gets all doe-eyed over words, but no one’s ever mentioned wanting me to smile, let alone do it more.
When the heat fades and I turn back to him, his sharp eyes take me in a second before he nods to himself, then brings over two steaming bowls of whatever the hell he was cooking. He sets one in front of me with no more talk of smiling.
