Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(103)

That’s what I wake up to, the sensation so strong it forces me conscious. My heart races, my fingertips tingling from the rush of adrenaline, as my mind starts screaming ‘attack, motherfucker, attack.’

My eyes snap open.

The second they do, I see someone else’s eyes.

Curious little brown eyes.

Right fucking there.

I shove up, startled, sitting up so damn fast I get dizzy. Everything goes black for a second before coming back. Blinking, I look at her, the little Scarlet Letter just standing there a foot in front of the couch.

Sasha.

“Jesus,” I grumble, scrubbing my hands over my face, trying to wake the hell up. She’s standing there, staring at me, like it’s the goddamn Children of the Corn up in here. “What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry.”

She says that shit so matter of fact, like that’s a perfect reason to be staring at me at whatever o’clock. The room is dim, like the sun isn’t even fully shining yet. “What time is it?”

She shrugs.

Doesn’t even look for a clock.

Hell, can she read a clock?

Sighing, I search through my pockets, not finding much, suddenly aware I’ve got drug paraphernalia sitting just to the left of the kid, splayed out on the table. I snatch it up, shoving it away.

We’re off to a great start.

“Where’s your mother?” I ask, looking around.

“Sleeping.”

“Sleeping,” I say. “And you’re just, what... roaming around my house? Why?”

“I’m hungry,” she says again.

“So you stare at me instead of eating something? What kind of sense does that shit make?”

She shrugs. Again.

I blink at her, thinking maybe if I wait she’ll figure out what she’s doing, but we’re talking about Scarlet’s kid. Should’ve known better. She’d probably stand here all goddamn day waiting for me to get my shit together and make sense of things for her.

“I, uh... okay. You want some food?”

“Yes, please.”

Please.

She whipped out the manners on me.

Who can say no to that?

Well, hell, I easily could, but I’m not going to.

I shove to my feet, stretching before strolling out of the living room, heading down the hallway to the kitchen. The kid follows me, right on my heels, marching along like we’re part of a goddamn parade or something.

It’s way too early for this shit.

5:27 a.m.

That’s what the clock in the kitchen tells me when I glance at it.

“What are you hungry for? What do you want?”

I don’t have to look at her to know she’s shrugging. Her silence gives that away. I glance around the pantry, scowling. Seeing as my brother is moving out in a matter of days, he hasn’t bothered going to the store, which means we’re running short on shit that’s convenient, unless the kid likes raisins.

“You like raisins?” I ask, glancing behind me as I hold up a bag of trail mix, most of the mix part gone, leaving half a bag of pretty much just raisins at this point. Sasha slides up onto a chair at the kitchen table, so damn short her legs dangle, and makes a face at my question, clearly not a fan. “Yeah... me, neither.”

I look at the bag again before tossing it in the trashcan.

“You don’t have any allergies, do you?” I ask, realizing I should’ve probably asked that first.

“What’s that?”

“Allergies, you know... some people are allergic to peanuts, which means peanuts can kill them, so they can’t eat them. You got anything like that? Anything that can kill you?”

“Lots.”

Shit. “Really? Like what?”

“Guns.”

I look at her, brow furrowing. “Guns?”

“Guns can kill people.”

The little walking, talking PSA stares at me, not being a smart ass about that at all, simply answering my question. I almost forgot what it was like dealing with a kid. Almost.

“Allergic to guns... got it,” I mutter, moving on to the fridge. “No foods that can kill you?”

She hesitates before saying, “Porridge.”

“Porridge?” What the hell? “What kind of porridge?”

Again, she hesitates, before saying, “All the kinds.”

I glance at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me porridge will kill you if you eat it?”

She nods adamantly.

I’m pretty sure she’s bullshitting, but I can’t call her bluff. She’s only five, for fuck’s sake. If I try to make her eat some, to prove she’s lying, I might accidentally kill her, and we can’t be having that.

Besides, it’s not like I have the shit around here to make porridge. What do I look like, Oliver Twist?

“No porridge, then. I won’t ever feed you it.”

She grins, a smug little smile. Manipulative little shit.

“Okay, look, kid... I’ll be straight with you. We’ve got bologna, we’ve got fish sticks, and we’ve got a bunch of shit to maybe make a salad in here.”

She makes another face.

Doesn’t sound good to me, either.

“You don’t have breakfast?” she asks. “Lucky Charms?”