“Because I need to get some soup in you. And because I’m out of condoms,” he added, giving me a pained look. “What’s that look for?”
I walked past him and back into the bedroom, pretending my feet didn’t feel like walking on hot pokers and my thighs weren’t marathon sore.
I used my pinkie to pull open the nightstand, then waved inside. Where a large box of condoms sat.
“You were right. Whoever set this place up was ready for anything.”
“They did. Though the clothing sizes left something to be desired,” he said, waving toward the bed where he had a large men’s sweatshirt and what looked like a small pair of men’s pajama pants.
“I’m not seeing a problem. That looks comfy.”
“Good. ‘Cause you need to stay warm.”
With that, he helped me slip on the clothes, wrapped one of the blankets around my shoulders, then led me out of the bedroom and into the rest of the apartment.
It was a small apartment with worn wooden floors that creaked under our feet as we walked. The walls were a tan color, scratched in spots, but seemingly clean. The sofa and armchair were a matching brown suede. The end and coffee tables were cheap particleboard made to look like wood. The lamps looked secondhand.
In the little corner kitchen, the faux wood cabinets and the green laminate countertops all seemed clean.
Everything seemed clean, actually, except the big windows that looked out on the street below. Those seemed like they had a decade of grime on them. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was by design; maybe the people who were staying in a safe house wanted it to be impossible for someone to see inside. Though, from the inside, it did give it a bit more of a claustrophobic feel.
Still, I was thankful for the safety.
I glanced toward the door as Venezio pressed me down onto the couch. There were four locks there.
Venezio dropped down onto the coffee table and pulled my feet into his lap.
“They’re bad, aren’t they?”
“Well, they’re not good.” He winced as his finger pressed into the blister that spread from just under my toes to the middle of my foot. “Christ, I hope this doesn’t burst.”
“It might feel better if it does.”
“Yeah, but it might risk infection. Best to try to stay off of ‘em as much as possible.”
He inspected the other foot then pulled a pair of thick thermal socks out of his pocket and slipped them on.
“No, keep your ass on the couch with your feet up and your blanket on while I get you something to eat and drink.”
Well-mannered, he was not. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever met a man who was as caring.
I was happy to stay in my little cocoon, watching him as he moved around the small kitchen, pulling cans out of a cabinet, emptying them into bowls, then heating them up before debating some sort of packet of something.
“You a lemon-lime person or a pomegranate person?"
“Pomegranate.”
“Thank fuck,” he said, ripping open the packet and emptying it into a bottle of water before shaking it up and bringing it over to me. “Drink it all.”
“Yes, sir,” I teased.
He went back to make his own electrolyte drink, chugging half of it before whatever was in the microwave beeped.
I swear I could feel the drink mix reviving me little by little. “This doesn’t even taste salty,” I observed.
“’Cause you’re dehydrated.”
“What?”
