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“You’re going to tell him right now?” The anxiety in her voice is sharp and obvious.
“No, Lace. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll tell him when he and I are alone, okay?”
She nods, looking relieved.
The apartment is quiet, no boys around. I find Pippa still asleep on the floor of the main bathroom—Michael handcuffed her to the waste drainpipe last night and she’s been there ever since. Her eyes flicker open while I’m standing there, as though the pressure of my gaze alone is powerful enough to make her start from sleep. I give her a dry, “Good morning.”
“Is it?” she replies. From where she’s lying, I don’t suppose the morning is looking all that great. The tiny key to the police-issue handcuffs sits on top of the window sill. I collect it and undo her restraints while she watches me with shocked eyes.
“You’re letting me go?” she asks.
“I’m un-cuffing you,” I clarify. “I wouldn’t try leaving this apartment if I were you. After the stunt you pulled yesterday, god knows what Zeth will do if you cause any more trouble.”
“You’ll see I was only trying to help,” she tells me, sitting up. She rubs at her wrists, giving me a prideful, dignified glare.
“I doubt that. You can go and get some food if you like, but I’d keep a low profile when Zeth shows up.” I turn and head for the door.
“I’m not going to eat anything,” Pippa snaps angrily. “I’m not going to leave this bathroom until you see sense.”
I don’t need this. Not right now. I roll my eyes, not even bothering to look back at her as I walk away. “Then you should make yourself comfortable, shouldn’t you?”
I shower in the ensuite of one of the other bedrooms, doing my best to keep the dressing on my arm dry. My mind flies through a million different ways to impart Lacey’s information to Zeth and doesn’t find a single satisfactory way that won’t be like a ton of bricks coming down on him. Maybe I’ll just have to assess the situation when the time comes and make a judgment from there. I’m dashing back to my room, chilled from the cold air of the apartment, when I hear Lacey’s voice. She’s no longer in my room; she’s back in one of the rooms off the main corridor—her own room, I assume.
“I know. Thank you. I’m…I’m glad, too.” I push gently against the door—is that Zeth she’s talking to?—to find her huddled into a ball on top of her messy bed, pressing that huge, chunky cell phone to her ear. She looks up and sees me, and her eyes go wide. “I have to go. Yes. Me, too. Bye.”
“Was that Michael?” I ask, even though something tells me deep down it wasn’t Michael or Zeth. For some reason, from the horrified look on her face, it feels as though she’s talking to someone she shouldn’t be. Like she’s talking to Mallory from beyond the grave and she’s feeling guilty about it. That obviously can’t be the case, but still…
Her eyes grow even wider. “No, not Michael,” she says. “Just a friend.”
“Did I hear my name?” a voice asks behind me. Michael, wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and loose cotton pants hanging off his hips. He scratches at the stubble marking his jaw, raising an eyebrow and wincing at the violent purple bruise on my upper arm that seems intent on spreading well past my fresh bandages. “Zeth’s just run out for a second. I saw you’ve un-cuffed your friend. She won’t come out of the bathroom.”
“I know.”
Michael shrugs, as though he’s used to dealing with difficult hostages. “You guys want breakfast?” he asks. “I’m making huevos rancheros?”
I give him a brief smile, pulling my towel tighter. “Friend locked in the bathroom? World crumbling around our ears? Zeth already up and out the door? Sure, huevos rancheros sound great, thanks.”
He gives me a dry look, winks, and then peers at the tiny woman bundled up on her bed in the room beyond me. “Lace? Lucky charms?”
She gives him a watery smile and nods, and I’m hit with the realization that even though he might not know why, Michael obviously knows not to offer Lacey food that might involve either eggs or grits.
Lace and Michael have both eaten and disappeared by the time Zeth returns to the apartment, looking more than a little frustrated. He sheds his leather jacket, tosses it onto the sofa, and then vanishes into the same en suite bathroom I used and doesn’t come out until Michael’s done making breakfast. There are few things in this life that render me speechless, but when Zeth Mayfair walks into the kitchen of his apartment, dripping wet from a shower with nothing but a towel around his waist, I suddenly forget I have a tongue. Or rather, I don’t exactly forget. I’m all too aware of it, and what I would like to be doing with it. He looks horrified by my tragic attempts to eat my breakfast. Yes, I may be right-handed and yes, it may be my left arm that is completely out of commission, but cutting and stabbing and scooping one-handed is still pretty difficult.
“Need some assistance?” he rumbles, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. He pops the cap and drinks from the bottle long and deep, the muscles in his throat working, all the while staring right at me. I swallow the small amount of food I’ve managed to spear onto my fork.
“I’m fine, thank you very much. Where did you go this morning?”
He lifts one eyebrow. Stops drinking. Puts the cap back on the bottle. Not looking at me, he says, “Feeding a pet project I have in the basement.”
