“Okay. We should go to the store.”
“Why don’t I take you out?”
“No. This is my treat.” I have a little money saved up from my tips at the bar and a little extra Hot Mama snuck into my bag when I wasn't looking. The club paid my rent up for six months, and I’ll start working next week at a flower shop. “It’s my first night in my new place. I’ve never had my own kitchen before. And Gwynee lent me her cookware.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” Gwynee left me a list of all the nearby businesses and where to shop.
I grab my wallet and my keys.
Lunatic and I stroll to a nearby market. He pushes the cart while I work my way down a mental checklist of ingredients for spaghetti. It’s cheap and easy not to screw up. I grab fresh green peppers, onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms to chop up for my sauce while he picks out the beer. We meet back up in the pasta aisle where we argue about whether angel hair or thick noodles are better. In the end, we agree on ziti and baking it in the oven.
Being out with Lunatic like this almost feels like we’re a couple, even though we’ve technically never had a date. He carries the bags back to my place, and he keeps the conversation light and moving forward, telling me about his latest builds he’s been overseeing as I prepare our meal. For the first time in my life, I have true peace as I look at this gorgeous hunk of a man sitting on my couch drinking beer and looking like he belongs. I don’t have a TV, but I don’t mind. I’m used to not having one, anyway.
I have my first cell phone, that’s mine. I bought it with my own money. Well, Hot Mama ordered it for me, but I’ve not used it since I set it up two weeks ago. It’s not like I’m chronically online or anything, but I scroll through my home screen now and then. I stare at the smiling stock photo, pretending it’s a future version of myself. Some girl with flawless teeth and hair that’s never met a split end. Maybe I’ll get there someday. For now, it’s enough just not to want to die.
It’s enough to be alive.
I sauté all my chopped vegetables and let the scent of garlic fill the kitchen. “What can I do to help?” Lunatic asks, hands like bear paws bracing either side of the counter. He crowds my space even when he tries not to, big and solid and unknowingly tender.
I hand him the frozen loaf of garlic bread. “Split this open on the cooking sheet.” I excuse myself to the bathroom to catch my breath.
When I come back, he gives me a knowing smile like he knows I went in there to avoid him until the noodles were done boiling.
Dinner is nearly ready and I’m nervous. Which is embarrassingly stupid considering I’ve seen Lunatic naked, and he’s seen me at my absolute worst. Crying and puking. Coming down off drugs. Track marks bruising my body.
I know how his dick tastes. How big it is. How thick. My cheeks warm at the memory.
I glance over at him. He’s so damn fine and sexy it should be a crime to look that good.
He’s wearing jeans and a dark tee that hugs every inch of him. He keeps hovering, pulling beers from the fridge or wiping the counter when my back’s turned, like he can’t figure out what to do with his hands. Like maybe he wants to put them all over me and part of me wishes he would.
But he’s sweet. Respectful.
I love how safe he makes me feel. Like if anyone bad tried to come for me, they’d have to go through him. I can’t help but wonder if that applies to Tyrant, too. Thankfully, I’ve not had any run-ins with him.
“You want Parmesan?” I ask, holding up the green canister.
“Make it snow,” he says. His eyes keep tracking me, like he’s waiting for me to run or disappear altogether. I get it, though. In the back of my mind, I know at some point the Juarez brothers are going to contact me, and when they do, I’ll be ready. I’m not the same girl who feared her own shadow three months ago.
I shovel salad and pasta onto our plates, and we sit at the counter on the barstools, courtesy of Gwynee. After he takes a few bites, I ask, “How did I do?”
“Good.” He swallows a bite of bread down with his beer.
“I forgot to get dessert.”
“That can be on me. I happen to know a place with killer strawberry milkshakes.”
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything, Babygirl.”
“Why do you call me that?”
He frowns. “You don’t like it.”
“No, I do.”
