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Beside me, Jericho aimlessly scrolls through his phone with his free hand, leaving the one attached to mine, rubbing my fingers with his. Arrow hums to himself, munching on an apple to the seeds before flipping it to the uneaten side as he waits for Shepp to put the food in front of us.
“Where's my phone?” The last place I saw it was at Jenni's party. Somewhere. Fuck. I can't even remember where I left the damn thing. Last I knew, it was in the pocket of the dress. I didn’t come with much, just myself and my phone.
Jericho stops his scrolling to gaze at me with an unimpressed gaze.
“We have it.”
“And? Can I have it? People will be worried when I go missing, you know.” People, as in my fucking monster who no doubt is messaging me, demanding updates.
Bossy, dickface.
My vision blurs as panic roars inside of me. Deep breaths, dummy. You have to focus on staying calm and getting out of here. It’s not like they can see anything on my phone, anyway. Years ago, when I was captured and given that phone, some fancy programming was installed on it, effectively wiping out all evidence of calls, text messages, emails, and anything in between. My monster calls it AntiEyes. I call it burn after reading. Like any good spy, no one will ever know what someone sends me.
Thank God. The last thing I need is Jericho to discover the shameful secrets I’ve been hiding from the world for three years now.
“Your mother's in rehab. You have no daddy who cares. You have no job. You've graduated. Who exactly will notice that you're gone?” Jericho raises a cruel brow, eyeing my unmoving face.
The realization takes root in my gut. No one. That's the answer. No one, but my monster will know I've dropped off the face of the planet. Not even Jenni. She’s probably… No, not probably. Jenni is definitely dead with the information I handed over to my monster. Fuck. My only hope is that Elias was able to sweep her away in the middle of the night before my monster could get his hands on them.
“Exactly. Now, focus on feeding yourself so we can continue with our morning,” Jericho hums, waving Shepp on.
Don't panic. If they have it, I can find it. No matter where they hid it. I'll get out of here.
I lick my lips in anticipation when Shepp turns, serving the first round of food. Arrow grunts, grabbing each piece of food with his hands and putting it onto an empty plate. He groans, eating bite after bite, not bothering to clean his lips.
Shepp stops in front of me, bringing his fingers to his lips.
“He wants you to eat,” Jericho comments, setting his phone down. He starts plating food and puts it in front of me. “Eat,” he huffs again, getting his own food.
“So bossy,” I grumble, earning a snort from Shepp. He watches with bated breath until the first piece of homemade French toast hits my taste buds.
Fucking hell in a hand basket. I stare at the food with wide eyes. Is it possible to marry a piece of French toast?
“Where’d you learn how to cook?” I moan like a damn hussy, tucking into my pancakes next and savoring the flavor on my tongue.
They remind me of the premade pancakes I used to find in my fridge as a teenager. Sometimes it was pancakes. Sometimes it was French toast. Other times it was sub sandwiches and chips. Either way, these blow those out of the water. Wherever those came from.
I swallow my bite, snapping my eyes to Shepp and examining him closely. What people would do for a Klondike bar, I’d do for Shepp’s pancakes and French toast, which says a lot about the amazing flavor exploding on my tongue. Good God, he should be in the kitchen of a King. Not bound here to these bastards.
He raises his eyes to mine, pride shining from their depths. He licks his lips, looking at Arrow as he signs something I can’t understand. I wish I did. I wish I could speak his language so he didn’t have to rely on others and I could understand him. If he mouthed words at me, I’d probably have better luck lip reading. It’s something my monster instilled in me for missions he sent me on.
“It’s a hobby,” Arrow snorts, biting the last of his apple. His brows furrow. “Fine. Not a hobby. A lifestyle, Mom.”
Shepp grunts, rolling his eyes with frustration. His teeth sink into his bottom lip when he stands in front of me. A vulnerable look takes over his expression when points to his lips.
“I like to cook. Now eat the food,” he mouths without making a sound. Not that he could, from what I understand. But what do I really know about these three men? Practically nothing. And Shepp is the most mysterious one of them all.
“You enjoy it,” I say, reading the words straight from his lips. He grins with satisfaction, nodding. “And you’re bossy, too. Wonderful. Three bossy assholes.”
Maybe I should be thankful I can’t understand his language. He’d be another bossy douchebag, telling me what to do. I already have two dicks on my tail, barking at me to do this and that. However, learning his language on the sly might be helpful when they make plans right in front of my face without wanting me to know.
Shepp’s light eyes devour me when I eat another bite and hum in response. I’d dance in my seat with satisfaction if I could actually move without Jericho bitching. I watch in fascination as Shepp finishes cooking the rest of the pancakes and stacks them on a plate in the middle of the island. Finally, he digs into his own food, and silence descends on us again as we stuff our faces.
Part of me is wary that they’ve slipped something into my food. Sounds like something these domineering jerks would do. Drug me so I don't run away. Then, they'll handcuff me to a damn bed and keep me forever. I glare at them again, trying to pick apart their brains. Crap. I can't think like this. I need to shake it off and finish my plate. I’d never tell Shepp, but his food is the best home cooked meal I’ve had in days, filling me up, and taking me back to a simpler time. Which hasn’t happened in years.
Sable, who refuses to be called mom, has never had enough money to stock our fridge or cabinets. A shame, really. Even when we got food stamps. She’d sell the funds loaded on her card for cash in hand, getting more drugs to feed her appetite. But not mine. She never cared about my growling stomach and left me with no choice but to grab things from the food pantry. Or hell, I even had to steal a few things from the grocery store. Even when I was seven, I remember sneaking out after she had locked me in my room to find food anywhere I could. Then, food magically appeared over the years in our fridge. Sometimes loaded with my favorite meals. Lasagna. Eggs. Pancakes. Sandwiches. You name it, it was there. Somewhere out there a true angel appeared before my eyes and helped me fight off the hunger that plagued me. I always suspected it was one of my mom’s regulars coming through the door and helping me out. I never saw them with my own two eyes. But I had my suspicions.
But now, after eating these familiar-tasting pancakes, I’m not too sure about that suspicion. Shepp bustles around the kitchen, stacking pans and empty plates into the dishwasher. He puts the remnants of the leftovers into containers and places them into the fridge. Turning on his heel, he faces me with a soft smile.
