Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(72)
I stay in place after they’re gone, not knowing if it’s safe. A minute or so passes before footsteps quietly approach, a shadow moving in the alley, stalling in front of the dumpsters. “You gonna stay there all night?”
I peek out at Lorenzo, grimacing. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he repeats. “Well, if you want to stay there, so be it, but otherwise, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Home.”
“Home,” I mutter, stepping over the trash, gagging again. It reeks. “Don’t really have one of those I can go to.”
“I’ve got one I can share.”
He turns to walk away, but I hesitate. “What?”
“You got anywhere else to go? Family? Friends?”
“No.”
“Okay then, my house it is.”
“Seriously?”
“Look, we’re not picking out f*cking drapes together, Scarlet, but you need a place to lay your head and I’ve got one of those. You can sleep on the couch if you want—just overlook the hole in it. Had a little accident.”
I follow him out of the alley, slightly limping. My foot feels like it’s on fire, the rest of me sore. “Accident-schmaccident.”
He pauses, glancing up and down the block. “Don’t like the couch? I’ve got a bed.”
“A spare bed?”
“My bed.”
“Won’t me sleeping in your bed put a damper in your game?”
“No.”
That’s all he says. No.
“Where are you going to take your wham-bam’s?”
He looks at me then, raising his eyebrows. “You really want to talk about this right now? Here?”
“Well, I mean, I’m just trying to figure things out, because as grateful as I am for the offer, I’ve yet to meet a person who didn’t have ulterior motives. So I’m wondering what yours are, before this goes any further, because no offense, but I’m not interested in being your fluffernutter.”
He grabs me by the waist, pulling me away from the alley. “My fluffernutter?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not fluffing your nuts while you f*ck other women. That’s not in my job description.”
I’m dead serious about that, but he laughs. “That won’t be a problem. Besides, I pretty much just declared war for you, Scarlet. At least if you’re sleeping in my bed, I know I’m winning.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Hell of a prize you’ve won.”
“Come on,” he says, ignoring that. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, I need my bag,” I say as he tries to pull me past my building. “It’s upstairs.”
“Again with that goddamn bag?”
“Yes.”
He groans, and I expect him to fight me on it, because I know he’s frustrated, but instead he lets go of my wrist. “You’ve got about two minutes, woman, so make it fast.”
Chapter Nineteen
The little girl’s drawing was on the refrigerator.
She sat on a stool at the bar in the kitchen, a bowl of fresh porridge in front of her, untouched. Her gaze was fixed on the drawing. It wasn’t a frame, like he’d said, but it was still on display.
Her mother always covered their refrigerator with the little girl’s art, layer after layer, heavy magnets holding it all up. The Tin Man had used a piece of duct tape to stick it there, dead center of the freezer door, not a magnet to be found anywhere.
“Why are you not eating your kasha?” the Tin Man asked, his voice low and gritty, kind of like sandpaper to the little girl’s skin. His eyes were gray again, but they didn’t appear very kind that morning.
“I don’t like porridge,” she said, looking down at the bowl. “I like Lucky Charms better.”
“Lucky Charms? You like the marshmallows? You like all that sugar?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad,” he said. “We eat to live, kitten. We do not eat for fun. So eat your kasha. It is good for you.”
Frowning, she took a bite, forcing it down. In the month she’d been there, she hadn’t had any sweets. No cakes, no cookies, no candies, no nothing. It was all soups and stews and too much fish, which she hated, but if she didn’t eat what he made her, she just went hungry. She missed ice cream, and pepperoni pizza, and even hot dogs. She missed Kool-Aide, and root beer, and chocolate milk. Tea or water was all he ever offered, except that bitter burning vodka. Yuck.
The little girl missed so much, but most of all, she missed her mother, who used to say life was too short to eat yucky stuff.
The little girl looked over at the Tin Man as he sat across from her, reading a newspaper. “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“She woke up, didn’t she?”
He didn’t look up from the paper. “Sure, kitten. Woke up good as new. We had a laugh about it this morning before she went home.”
He was lying. Nobody laughed that morning. The little girl had sat at the top of the stairs, afraid to come down, and watched the Cowardly Lion carry the woman outside wrapped up in a black tarp.
“I meant Mommy,” she whispered, looking at her porridge, thinking she’d rather starve than force down any more of it.