Girls in Hell talk.
He brings me food in a Styrofoam tray, and a Spork so I don’t stab someone.He sets it down like he’s feeding a feral animal.
“Don’t bite me,” he jokes softly the first time.
I don’t laugh.
But I do eat.
He brings water bottles, aspirin, tampons, clean washcloths.Even an Ale-8-One, my favorite, not in glass, of course.
I am a prisoner here.
All the things someone had to sit down and think about.All the things Royal never thought of or never wanted to admit I needed.Today he brings something else.
A small canvas bag.
He places it just inside the door.Doesn’t look at me long.Lex never looks too long.
“There’s a mess of stuff in there.Toothbrush,” he says.“Some soap.Two shirts.Jeans.”
He hesitates.
“Thought you might want choices.”
He doesn’t say because Royal won’t bring you anything himself.
He doesn’t have to.
I nod once.
He leaves like he’s afraid Royal will catch him doing kindness.
The hallway goes quiet again.
I dump the bag onto the cot.
Cheap cotton shirts, one gray, one black.Soft from wear, probably donated by someone’s ol’ lady.
They’ll do.
But then something dark catches my eye under the bed.I get down on my hands and knees and reach into the shadows, fingers brushing dust and splinters until they hit fabric.
I tug it free.A shirt.Royal’s.I know it before I even unfold it.Black cotton.Frayed collar.
Smelling faintly of motor oil, leather, and that spice he carries in his skin, the one that clings to the walls after he leaves.
I sit back on my heels, heart doing something stupid in my chest.
Lex brought me choices.Royal left me this without knowing he did.Or maybe he did know.Maybe he shoved it under the bed the way a man drops a confession behind a locked door.
I lift it to my face.
The scent hits me like a hand at my throat, rough, unforgiving, familiar.
My pulse trips.
“I’m not his,” I mutter to the empty room.
