Page 99 of Last Man Standing

32

SCARLETT

PURGATORY

Ilie in the middle of Sebastion’s bed, the same as I do every other day, with my ankles crossed and my messy ponytail hanging over the back of my pillow. My stomach rumbles, because it’s a little past lunchtime and Sebastion is… elsewhere.

I don’t even know where.

He’s not on the grassy area outside my window with the other exercising soldiers. He’s not in the hall, guarding my door. Someone else is out there. I don’t dare poke my head out to figure out who they are, but the gentle waft of their aftershave makes its way into my lungs, and though it’s not an unpleasant smell, it’s not Sebastion.

I know I could wander into the family’s private kitchen and find something for lunch. Sebastion insists I can, and I glimpsed Arabella’s long, dark hair in the yard a while ago, which means I’m not likely to run into her. Nevertheless, I remain where I am, ignore my grumbling stomach, and focus on my texts instead.

If I can’t be at home, I’ll speak with my home.

Lincoln:

I swear to God, if I find out you’ve spent your ENTIRE birthday holed up in that room you call a prison, I’m gonna whoop your ass.

I bought you a gift today. Nova and I were in town for breakfast, since, ya know, we gotta eat and all that shit. I walked past a place and saw something in the window.

Snatched it up real quick and dropped my credit card in exchange.

I know it doesn’t feel like a birthdayish kinda birthday, since you’re there and I’m here, but I promise, I’ve got your gift and I’ll give it to you the minute I see you again.

After I give you my other gift. The real gift. The most important gift of them all.

Me:

Is it you, Linc? Are you the gift?

Lincoln:

IT’S ME! I’M THE GIFT!

Me:

So the same gift you give me every other year. *Yawn* Unless the thing in the window cost five figures, I don’t want it.

I hit send and smile as my message works its way through the inter-webs. Or however text messages pass through the universe. Then, as the little speech bubbles bounce, I watch in anticipation for his reply.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And then laughing.

Lincoln:

Princess, indeed. Jesus. No wonder Tank wants to deck you half the time.

Me:

Charming, Castro. Blame the victim, why dontcha?

Lincoln:

Victim, my ass. You’re the second coolest chick I know, usurped only by the love of my fuckin life.

You’ve never been afraid to put in the work. You don’t need fancy. But the instant you and dipshit over there are in the same space, you show him this high-maintenance broad whose chin sits just high enough to tempt him to tap it.

Me: