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My stalker shifts in his seat beside me, drawing even closer to me, and his scent tickles my nose. I don't want to like it, but maybe the low blood sugar caused brain damage because I swear if cigarettes and bonfires had a baby, they would smell like this guy. He tips forward a little and sniffs me, and I lean away from him, but I'm still woozy. I almost slide off my seat as he reaches onto my plate, grabs a green bean, and shoves it into my mouth, fingers and all.
"I can smell it on her too," he says with a grin to his blond friend as I start to chew. "And I fucking love it."
Then he moans loudly, so loud that it makes the people at the nearby tables turn and look at us, and I feel a burning blush scald my cheeks.
I chew the green bean and swallow, feeling a little better. Every bite is a challenge. It always is, but especially so when my father uproots my life and moves me across the country again. Considering I'm pretty sure the guy next to me will light me on fire if I don't eat, though, I continue to force my food down, one bite after another and then another.
When the green beans are gone, I move on to the next lowest caloric option, the applesauce, and begin to slowly spoon it into my mouth.
I feel like I've been deposited into an upside-down world as my dictator shoulder-bumps me.
"Eat every bite, Firefly," he murmurs, "or you won't be excused from the table."
I look down at the tray. I expected it, a requirement to eat something. I did not expect, however, for him to demand that I eat the entire thing.
"I'm going to throw up if I have to eat all of this," I tell him.
I mean it too, and I'm not only talking about the quality of food either. I also mean the amount because the tray holds a lot of food, and what's left on my plate is about as healthy as a damn mud pie.
A smirk plays at the corners of the freak's full lips as he tips his chin at me. He doesn't even whisper his next words. He just lets them slither between his straight, pretty teeth. They strike when they land.
"We're going to get to know each other really well, Firefly. Now eat up, or you're going to smell like a barbeque before this day is over and that'll ruin all of my fun."
Okay, well, that freakish comment confirms it.
There is definitely something that can drown out even my mother's shrill, berating voice, and it's the creep who just uttered the creepiest of all things. I'm actually afraid of what this weirdo will do to me if I don't eat at this point, and by the looks of it, he wants me to defy him, if only a little, so he can unleash the lighter in his pocket and go full-fledged fire fetish.
I dig a hole and bury the shudder working its way up my spine. I scoop a spoonful of applesauce with my silicone fork and shovel it down my throat.
My body reacts involuntarily with a shudder that I can't hide this time, but I continue to eat as fast as I can before my brain can process what's happening and give the calorie counts of every teaspoonful. My stomach rolls, and I think I might be sick, but I tell myself it doesn't matter anyway, that I'll just throw it up later when this guy isn't there to stop me or stop her voice from coming to visit.
Fat, disgusting pig!I hear my mother shout.
Oink, oink, lard ass.
I choke on a swallow.
Don't think about her. Don't go there, Avery. Just fucking eat!
"Don't get in a hurry, Firefly," he tells me, looking up at the ancient clock hanging on the wall. "We'll be here for a while, or at least a couple of hours after they stop serving food. If you still somehow manage to purge after that, I will find you, and I will make you drink it out of the fucking toilet."
He's smarter than he looks, dammit.
"Nasty," the blond one remarks, and oh, look at that, we finally fucking agree on something.
"Stop calling me Firefly," I tell my stalker. "My name is Avery."
His hand tightens on my knee, and I take another spoonful off my plate, opting for applesauce again. The untoasted bread looks like it crunches when you bite it, and the steak resembles and probably tastes like a shoe.
I finish the applesauce and then start on the Jell-O, but I have to slow down. I feel nauseous as the calorie counts come back.
Seven calories per spoonful, ten if it's a big one.
I eat, taking one bite after another as they talk at the table. I'm barely listening to their conversations, though. I'm not dizzy anymore, but my stomach hurts, and there's a good chance I'm going to throw up.
"I'm going to be sick," I tell the despot at my side, Gabe, as the emo-one and his Disney princess, Saint and Willow I've learned, leave the table.
"As much as I'd like to stick around and watch you break this one," the blond one—Kill, I think—says with a scoff, "watching thisthingattempt to eat is boring and sad."
