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“Especially that.” She grew almost dreamy-eyed. “How did you have the guts?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it guts.”
“I would.” Just then a car stopped. Bree tucked the cigarette pack in her pocket. “Thanks for trusting me. I won’t sell you out.”
Lucy hoped she’d keep her word.
ON THE WAY HOME, LUCY realized she’d forgotten her honey, but without the prospect of warm bread to slather it on, she didn’t turn around. A pile of broken-down bunk beds, old mattresses, and the ugly vinyl curtains from the dorm sat at the end of the drive, waiting to be hauled away. The delivery truck was gone, and as she entered the house she heard something heavy being dragged across the floor overhead. Too much to hope it was Panda’s dead body.
She cut through the kitchen to go outside and noticed that the old refrigerator was gone. In its place stood a high-tech stainless steel side-by-side. Her unsatisfactory breakfast had left her hungry, so she opened the doors.
And discovered all her stuff was gone. Her peanut butter and jelly, her deli ham and perfectly aged Swiss cheese. No black cherry yogurt, salad dressing, or sweet pickles. None of the leftovers she’d counted on for lunch. Even Panda’s marmalade had disappeared.
The freezer section was equally awful. Instead of Hot Pockets and the frozen waffles that were her weekend treat, she saw rows of prepackaged diet meals. She pulled open the vegetable bins. Where were her carrots? Her blueberries? The fresh bunch of romaine lettuce she’d bought just yesterday? Frozen waffles were one thing, but they’d taken her lettuce?
She stormed upstairs.
Chapter Twelve
THE RUBBERY SMELL OF A gym hit her even before she paused in the doorway. The dorm had been transformed since last night. Shiny new exercise equipment sat on pristine black rubber mats, the bare floor had been swept clean, and sunlight spilled through the open windows. Panda was wrestling with one of the bent window screens, the twist of his body tugging up his T-shirt and exposing a rock-hard abdomen. What she could see of his shirt was mercifully free of smutty messages, and the fact that she found this vaguely disappointing she blamed on Viper.
Temple grunted away on an elliptical machine, sweat dripping from her temples, wet tendrils of dark hair sticking to her neck. Lucy took in the scene of workout horror. “My food seems to be missing from the refrigerator.”
Temple hunched her shoulder and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “Panda, take care of this.”
“Happy to.” He secured the screen and followed Lucy out of the room so quickly she knew he’d been looking for an excuse to escape. Before she could open her mouth to launch what she intended to be an un-Lucy-like tirade, he grabbed her elbow and steered her along the hall. “We have to talk downstairs. Loud voices upset Temple. Unless they’re coming from her.”
“I heard that,” Temple shouted from inside.
“I know,” Panda shouted in return.
Lucy headed for the stairs.
IT WAS PROBABLY PANDA’S IMAGINATION, but he could swear he saw dust bombs exploding from beneath the soles of Lucy’s ridiculous combat boots as she stomped down the worn beige stairway carpet. A carpet he suspected she wanted him to get rid of. Which he damned well wasn’t going to do.
She hit the bottom step. A purplish painted chest used to sit there, but it had gone missing, right along with the antler coatrack and that black shelving thing that was now on the porch holding some plants he hadn’t bought and didn’t want.
Why the hell hadn’t she taken off like she was supposed to? Because she’d latched onto this place. That was the thing about people who’d been raised with money
. Their sense of entitlement made them believe they could have whatever they wanted, even when it didn’t belong to them. Like this house. But as much as he wanted to cast Lucy as spoiled, he knew it wasn’t true. She was rock-bottom decent, even if she was screwed up right now.
As she tromped toward the kitchen, her small butt twitched in a pair of weird-looking black shorts that weren’t nearly baggy enough. He wanted her in oversize clothes like those Temple was wearing. Clothes that covered up everything he didn’t want to think about. Instead she wore those black shorts and an ugly gray top with these black leather ties on her shoulders.
As soon as she reached the kitchen, she whirled on him, making the ties twitch. “You had no right to get rid of my food!”
“You had no right to get rid of my furniture, and you shouldn’t be eating that crap.” His mood grew darker as he once again noted the clean counters, now missing, among other things, the ceramic pig dressed like a French waiter.
“Blueberries and lettuce aren’t crap,” she said.
“They weren’t organic.”
“You threw them out because they weren’t organic?”
She was really pissed. Good. As long as he kept her pissed at him, she wouldn’t try to suck him into one of those cozy little chats he used to pretend to hate. He splayed his hand on the counter. Her hair was so black it looked dead, the ratty purple dreadlocks were ridiculous, and her heavily mascaraed eyelashes looked like caterpillars had expired on them. A silver ring pierced one eyebrow; another pierced her nostril. He hoped like hell they were both fakes. And smearing that delicate mouth with ugly brown lipstick was a crime against humanity. But the tattoos bothered him most. That long, slender neck had no business being strangled by a fire-breathing dragon, and the thorns on her upper arm were an abomination, although a few of the blood drops had mercifully flaked off.
“Do you really want to pollute your body with pesticides and chemical fertilizers?” he said.
“Yes!” She jabbed a finger toward the pantry door. “And hand over that key.”
