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“Sleep well.”
I won’t let myself feel guilty about finding comfort in human touch. I think I’ve been through enough to allow myself that. Just for tonight.
And tomorrow, I’m getting that confession.
The keys are there when I wake up. Three identical keys on a little silver ring sitting on the floor a few inches from the door. I guess I will just have to trust that these are the only copies.
I doubt it though.
If my stomach weren’t growling, I would be tempted to stay in my room all day, just to see if Cash is really capable of respecting my boundaries. Too bad when I step into the hallway my stomach absolutely rumbles at the mouthwatering smell of bacon. There’s music coming from the kitchen too, soft R&B.1
The sight I’m greeted with is so unexpected, I actually pinch myself, expecting to wake up in bed.
The big kitchen island is covered with plates and bowls. There’s cut fruit, berries, scrambled and sunny-side-up eggs, cinnamon rolls, bacon, a French press of coffee, and what looks like grits with cheese. The kitchen itself is sleek and handsome, there’s exposed brick like most of the apartment, and the cabinetry is painted a slate gray with modern finishes and expensive-looking appliances. The island counter is white stone, and the other counters lining the wall with the stove and oven are the same stainless steel as the restaurant.
Then, in stark contrast, is Cash. He’s humming along to the music while chopping something with his back to me. A giant skull stares back at me with hollow eyes. The tattoo covers his entire back, the only thing interrupting the grayscale art is a raised scar, like a stripe, between his shoulder blades.
My gaze roves the rest of him, a tingle of heat prickling my lower stomach as I take in his chiseled physique. I gulp when I remember his words from last night.
You should probably go to bed before I fuck you until sunrise on every inch of this counter.
And there’s certainly a lot of countertop to cover. Involuntarily, I imagine his hard, tattooed body over me, pinning me as he takes what he wants. The ripples of his inked muscles. The dark fire in his eyes. The rough, hungry way I’m sure he kisses—
“If you’re gonna eye-fuck me all morning, you should at least buy me dinner first.”
Red. Burning red.My cheeks are flaming, having been caught staring—gawking. I worry my bottom lip through my teeth, my eyes glued to my feet. “I wasn’t—”
“You can deny it if it makes you feel better.” He turns with a smirk and adds a cutting board of sliced orange to the feast on the island.
“I feel overdressed.” I’m still in the same satin, burgundy skirt I wore to work yesterday and a black, sleeveless top. Cash is in nothing but—fuck me—gray sweatpants.
“You’re perfect.” He tips his head to the stools, telling me to sit. “And hungry, I hope.”
“You did all this?” I pull out a hairpin stool, and he pours a cup of coffee.
“Milk or sugar?” He ignores my question.
“Why? And just milk is fine.”
“I didn’t know what you liked.” He hands me the mug after splashing in a dash of milk. And what’s weird is his face is almost bashful. Not his usual cocky grin. Like maybe he really did all this just so I can have a breakfast I like and not as one of his power-driven mind games.
“I usually just have cereal.”
“Oh.” His face falls, and for the first time, I notice a light smattering of freckles across his nose. It crosses my mind that this may just be another manipulation. Manipulation or not, I am hungry as hell.
“Hey, this sure beats Cheerios.”
I spend most of the day in my room, not knowing how to cohabitate with a serial killer like any of this is fucking normal. Cash brought me a few sets of pajamas, tags still on, so at least I am comfortable. I tried reading some books I found, but couldn’t focus on the words. I spent most of the time on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Thinking. Planning.
If Cash is going to keep me here, quasi-captive under some disillusioned notion that he cares for me, then I should at least be able to use it to my advantage.
During breakfast, I noticed two cameras trained on the living space and kitchen. I’m sure there are more. Disturbed, I realize there is probably at least one in this room too, though I haven’t found any visible ones. I wonder if they’re recording audio too. If so, that would make my job a lot easier.
I consider putting on one of the more revealing pajama sets Cash bought me, but don’t want to lay it on too heavy. Instead, I go with a powder-pink set of matching silk shorts and a short-sleeve, button-up top. Before stepping out of the room, I undo the top button.
Cash is on a laptop in a vintage chair by the window. He’s wearing black slacks and a white undershirt, a gold belt buckle immediately drawing my eyes to his crotch. Which he, of course, notices. “See something you like?”
“God, you really are desperate, aren’t you?” I try to come off slightly coy, slightly annoyed as I stroll into the kitchen.
