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“Yeah, story of my life,” he mutters, walking away as he heads to my room to shower.
I finish my coffee, marveling at the chaos one woman can cause, before I pull out the stuff to make a fresh peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s clear from the look of disgust on her face this morning when I took the old one away that she is not a fan, but she hasn’t asked me for anything else.If she wants something else bad enough, she’ll speak up. And when she does, I’ll make a bargain with her.
Not sure how she takes her coffee, or if she drinks it at all, I pour a cup for her and add some half-and-half before placing it on a tray with the sandwich. I throw on an orange and carry it back to the room.
The shower is on when I enter, so I slide the tray on top of the dresser and walk to the bathroom, pushing the door open a little. I watch her through the frosted glass door as she lathers her body up. I can’t see anything but a blurry image of her, but I don’t need to see her to remember what she looks like. Every time I close my eyes, I picture her sexy-as-fuck body slick with water from the shower.
My dick is rock hard in my boxers, but if I touch it right now, I know I won’t be able to beat back the urge to bend her over the counter and fuck her until she screams my name. I throw on a pair of Jagger’s sweatpants and snag a T-shirt with a bottle of beer on the front of it and head back out to the living room to call E.
I check my watch and see it’s still early. Not many of the guys will be up unless they have a job, but E, like me, has always been an early riser.
He answers on the first ring, his voice sounding clear and wide awake.
“You ever sleep?”
“About as much as you do. You don’t have the market cornered on demons, Slade,” E reminds me, and he’s right. Prison messed with my head, but most of the guys here have had to work through some kind of trauma at least once or twice. In E’s case, shit started when he was a kid.
“Did you find out anything else about Astrid?” I get straight to the point.
“If you’re wondering if I know for sure the reason why she made the trek out here, the answer is no. I didn’t really expect to find one. That’s not how it works, and you know it. What I do know is she gets her groceries delivered and pays her bills on time. She spends most of her money on books, and aside from that, she’s truly boring. I can’t find any signs of a job. I can’t find signs that she ever had one.”
“Her parents must fund her lifestyle,” I mumble.
“They might fund her financially, but they sure as hell don’t shower her with attention. I guess raining money down on her is a way to ease the burden of guilt for effectively abandoning her.”
“Abandoning her?”
“They haven’t been home in years, as far as I can tell. They sure as fuck don’t call her.”
“Not even a wish-you-were-here postcard?”
“I don’t get the impression they wish her anywhere near them. You know, a lot was said about me when I was growing up. Judgments made because I lived in a fucking trailer, but rich people are the fucking worst. My mom might have had next to nothing, but I never doubted her love for me. These people don’t seem like they would piss on Astrid if she were on fire.”
“If they’re never around, I doubt they’d even know she was on fire to begin with.”
Just more proof that money can’t buy love.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Astrid
I stare at the plate and resist the urge to throw it across the room. The fruit sitting on top of it makes my mouth water, but I can’t risk eating it now that it’s come into contact with the sandwich. I blow out a breath and move to the dresser, rummaging around until I find a large T-shirt, some boxers, and a pair of sweatpants.
The pants are huge, but they have a drawstring waist, so I tie them as tightly as I can and roll the waist over a few times. They are still too long, but they will have to do until I get my stuff. Next, I make my way over to the closet. I look through the clothes on the hangers and grab a light gray hoodie. It’s not that I’m cold, but I like the thought of being able to hide behind an extra layer of clothing. With a sigh, I walk back over to the bed, and as I sit on the end, my stomach growls.
I feel a wave of melancholy roll over me and tuck my hands into my sleeves. I’ve never been a particularly lucky girl. I’m pretty sure if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. It’s fine. I’ve accepted it. But sitting here with a window barricaded by shutters, I can’t help but wonder, how the hell did I let myself end up here?
I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring my stomach and the smell of the coffee over on the food tray. God, what I wouldn’t give for just a sip right now, but I can’t. Just like the orange, I can’t risk it. Fuck. I need—What I need is a plan. Running is not an option. After my first attempt, they’ll be extra watchful. That leaves me with even fewer options than before, and I didn’t have any to begin with.I don’t think my endearing them to me plan is going to work. Slade hates me and Jagger… Well, Jagger clearly wants in my pants, but I don’t think that has anything to do with me as a woman. I’m just pussy that’s handy.
I’m surprised that knowledge stings. Stockholm syndrome aside, I’m not going to deny the man is hot. They both are. I guess I should be grateful there is at least some appreciation involved. Usually, I’m reduced to my flaws. It’s easy for a person to dismiss you if all they allow themselves to see are negatives. Well, this girl is an expert on shit like that. The only way Jagger will get in my pants is if he does my laundry.
“Okay, the pity party is over.”
I stand up and head for the door. I pull it open and head in the direction of the living area. I look longingly at the door that leads outside but resist the temptation this time. When I make it to the middle of the large room, I find Slade sitting on the sofa playing Call of Duty. I watch him for a second before taking advantage of the fact that he’s wearing a headset and sneak over to the kitchen.
Spotting the fruit bowl on the counter, I snatch a banana and peel it quickly, just in case he catches me and takes it away. I eat the whole thing in four bites—not tasting a thing in my rush—before reaching for an apple. I take a big bite and moan as the sweetness of the apple explodes on my tongue.
When the game on the screen pauses, I do, too, feeling like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. When Slade turns his head, his eyes narrow on the apple in my hand before he stands. In a fit of rebellion, I eat as much of it as I can as he strolls toward me. My mouth is so full I can hardly chew, but I feel oddly proud of myself. Take that, asshole. Of course, I don’t say that out loud, not wanting to risk his wrath by spitting pieces of apple all over him.
