“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I hissed, still trying to be as quiet as the grave. She ignored me, crouching down before launching high into the air and landing on the pedestal sink. She sat down, eyes on the gleaming faucet, staring at her reflection curiously.
“Goof,” I muttered, lifting the toilet lid, pulling up the dress quickly, and slipping down the panties. As I sat, stomach naturally folding and chest sagging, it dawned on me that there was no uncomfortable lump under either of my breasts. Panicked, I pushed my hand down the neck of the dress and felt.
The collar was gone. I’d tried so hard to keep it but lost it in the end.
I shook off the sadness that caused and focused instead on the fact that I was in a proper bathroom. Peeing behind bushes and dumpsters was over.
When you’re homeless, you realize how much you’ve taken for granted in your life. The simple luxury of having access to a toilet and asink is priceless. I tried to pee slowly so the stream wouldn’t hit the water too loudly. It was agony not to just push it out quickly and feel relief. The toilet paper was… so soft, not scratchy at all.
As I went to flush, I hesitated. The shelter toilets were insanely loud. I closed one eye, crossed my proverbial fingers, and hit the silver button marked one on the top of the tank. It barely made any sound at all, just a quiet whoosh. I breathed a sigh of ease, before going to wash my hands. Josie, of course, wouldn’t move. I had to pick her up, toss her to the floor, pump soap quickly and scrub my hands at lightning speed. She hopped back up stubbornly just as I turned off the tap. As lingering droplets fell one-by-one to plink against the porcelain, she batted at them playfully. Seconds later, I felt horrible as she began licking the damp basin in earnest.
“God, you must be so thirsty… and hungry too.” I stroked her back, then turned the cool water handle just enough that a thin, steady stream started. The faucet didn’t have a stopper pull, which confused me for a second. I pushed down on the drain plug and it fell into place with ease. I let Josie drink to her heart’s content. When she was done, she leaped to the floor and began rubbing her damp chin against my leg. A quick push on the plug bounced it back up and I turned the water back off. Picking Josie up, I turned the knob and opened the door, slipping back into the foyer.
Hungry too.
Josie wasn’t the only one. Now that I’d satisfied my most urgent need, my stomach cramped painfully with emptiness.
I retraced my steps back to the kitchen’s entrance, this time walking through. Josie launched from my arms the second we were inside, prancing across the tile with her little nose lifted into the air. She strode with purpose, beelining for a slightly ajar door. When she pushed through it, I spotted shelves lined with food. A pantry, I guess. She couldn’t cause too much trouble in there.
The minute my eyes fell onto the island, something inexplicable washed over me. It was like grief, only that would be a stupid emotion to flare up at the sight of so much wasted food. Grief should be reserved fortrue tragedy. Loved ones dying. A terminal medical diagnosis. Your house burning down. Not spoiled burgers with wilted lettuce, limp French fries long gone cold, and yellow curry still sending its heady spices floating through the air. Still, it looked like a culinary massacre. It made me ill, because this bounty could have fed so many back in Seattle. Half of tent city, at least, if we all took tiny portions.
It was disgusting wastefulness, which couldn’t be excused by expiration dates. When I first became homeless, I’d been surprised to find unopened jars and boxes in dumpsters. Sometimes, I’d get lucky, and the date was only a day or two past conventionally ‘edible’. Finding anything untouched by someone else, something I could open and be sure wasn’t already tainted with a stranger’s saliva, was like treasure. Like that jar of pickles I’d nearly sickened myself devouring.
It struck me that I couldn’t be pissed at the guys. They’d bought all the food for me, so I’d have options. Yet, instead of eating I’d had a freaking panic attack. Suddenly, I remembered crumpling to the floor. It had been close to the very spot I stood on now. I closed my eyes, recollection flashing behind the lids. I’d felt so alone, sobbing so hard that sharp pains shot through my chest. All four Alphas surrounded me; their massive bodies formed a border wall. One of the men eventually held me. He’d been leaner, his chest rock hard but narrow at the waist. I wasn’t sure who had been the first to touch me, but soon each of them placed a hand on my body. Someone stroked my hair. Someone whispered that I wasn’t selfish. Surviving wasn’t wrong.
As if my body wanted to drive that notion home, my stomach cramped again with vicious need. It growled and gnawed with hunger. I winced at the hollow feeling, though it was all too familiar.
Moving around the island, I decided that I wouldn’t let the generosity of my Alphas—the words ’my Alphas’ bounced around my brain after I thought it, and didn’t feel quite so wrong this time—be squandered.
I found myself drawn to the Thai noodles. Their delicious soy brown surface was spotted with green onion and dark red chilies. Strips of caramelized chicken peeked out next to bean sprouts. My mouth filled with saliva, and I reached for disposable chopsticks, slipping thestamped white paper off and snapping them. I shoved the utensils into the noodles, punching through the Styrofoam in my fervor to shove the pasta in my mouth.
“Shit,” I hissed, lifting the takeout container slightly up and bending down to examine the damage. One of the chopsticks had pushed right through the flimsy box. Looking around, I found a stack of brown napkins and quickly shoved them beneath the hole I made to protect the polished marble.
Stirring all the goodness together, I pinched a hearty chunk between the chopsticks and lifted it towards my mouth. My stomach pitched and roiled, grumbling so loudly that the sound seemed to echo off the walls. I knew eating pasta that had sat out overnight, unrefrigerated, was a very risky gamble. My second month on the streets, I’d gotten horribly sick from spaghetti I’d foraged from the dumpster behind Bonetti’s on Madison Ave. I thought it was just bad luck, until I’d crashed in the park—the bushes were thick and plentiful there, and cops never looked too closely at night—and met an old Beta. He’d told me rice and pasta could do that, make a person ill. Something about bacteria. My constitution was a lot stronger now though. Enough rotten food eventually either killed you or cultivated a steel stomach.
The stir fry hit my lips. Tangy, salty, oily goodness nearly made me drool.
If it makes me sick, then I’ll get sick.
I almost laughed that my head still went to that place even though I was literally in a mansion. Guess you could take the girl out of the box, but it wasn’t so easy to take the box out of the girl.
“Stop,” a voice jolted to life across the room.
Noodles suspended in the air, so close to my mouth I could taste them, which was torture, my gaze flashed up to find Ryder. He was bent over, one hand slapped against his chest while the other hand gripped the wall for support. Seconds later, the other three guys tumbled into view. They stared at me, sardined into the arched entrance, looking like they’d just had the fright of their lives.
My eyes flicked down to the waiting pasta. I wanted to shove it into my mouth so badly. Ryder seemed to understand my desire.
“Don’t eat that, Tessa. It sat out all night.” His voice was breathy, like he’d run a mile.
“You scared the shit out of us.” Dixon’s voice thundered from behind him, intense eyes locked on me.
“Why didn’t you wake us if you needed something?” Mac’s hand lifted to the back of his neck, wincing. That was no wonder, considering how I’d found him sleeping.
“Everybody shut up,” Tray said last. “She’s here and she’s fine. Well, I guess she’s fine.” His soft, puppy brown eyes bore into me, and he frowned, completely wiping away his dimples. “Tessa, you know you don’t have to eat that, right?”
Slowly, I lowered the chopsticks. Licking my lips, I crossed my arms over my stomach and backed up until my body hit the cabinet behind me. The hunger cramps were still painful, but I knew if I ignored them long enough, they’d eventually fade. For a while, not forever.
“Shit, wait.” Tray held up his hands, pushing his way through the other guys’ hulking bodies until he was fully inside the kitchen. “You can eat. Just don’t eat that. Or,” he looked down at the gobs of spoiled food littering the countertop, “any of this.” His frown deepened. “We screwed up,” he murmured after a heartbeat.
