5. Henry #2
Turning to look toward Parker and Danny’s house, I silently beg for them to open the door, to come outside and see me and ask what I’m doing here. But their door remains closed, and I can’t find my voice to shout out for help.
As if he can hear my inner thoughts, Anders quickly steers me toward the front door, opening it and guiding me inside as quickly as he can without picking me up and carrying me.
Once we’re inside, he flips a switch and turns on the light, bathing the room in a warm white glow.
I’ve been in a lot of homes. I’ve stayed with dirt-poor families who took in foster kids purely for the paycheck.
I’ve stayed with crazy families, rich families, evil families.
I’ve stayed in group homes, hostels, homeless shelters, and my shitty apartment.
But never. Not once have I ever walked into a room and felt like I’ve come home.
But that’s exactly what it feels like as my eyes take in the warm, welcoming space.
“This is the living room, kitchen is over there, then upstairs there are three bedrooms. The master has its own bathroom, but there’s a family bathroom up there too. Go pick a bedroom.”
“I’m not going to sleep, so I’ll stay on the couch,” I admit, then immediately wish I could swallow the words back down.
“Why wouldn’t you sleep?” he asks, his brow furrowed in concern.
“I don’t know you, and I never sleep anywhere on the first night in a strange place,” I admit, once again willing myself to shut the hell up.
“Have you stayed in a lot of strange places?” he asks, his voice softening, his tone lowering to a soothing purr as he takes a step closer to me.
“Yes,” I say, pointedly stepping back.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
“I think I’d be crazy not to be. But then this is my first kidnapping.” I tried to sound calm, but I can hear the tremor in my own voice.
“You still have your cell. I won’t stop you from calling the cops if you genuinely think you’re in danger. While you call, I’ll make dinner. Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then get hungry,” he says, all traces of softness dissolving as he straightened to his full, intimidating height.
Stepping past me, he flips another switch, and the dark kitchen suddenly fills with light.
The cabinets are a rich, deep blue color, the same tone as the rug on the floor and the fabric of the couch.
Plants fill the corners of the room, spilling from the window ledges and hanging from shelves, giving his home a feeling of freshness.
Even the air in here feels cleaner and refreshing, like every inhale fills my lungs with more oxygen than I’m used to.
Without looking at me, Anders moves around the small kitchen, pulling things from the refrigerator, chopping and slicing, filling the otherwise silent house with the sounds of the cooking shows I sometimes watch.
The extent of my cooking abilities is ramen and sandwiches.
I guess I could make eggs and toast, but eggs are expensive, and I don’t have a toaster or grill.
Of all the chores my foster families insisted I do, cooking was never one of them.
So, although I’m vaguely familiar with what Anders is doing, I don’t have any idea what he’s making.
Soon the smell of something good starts to emanate from the pans he’s using, and my stomach growls loudly.
“Good boy,” Anders praises, his eyes flashing with happiness as he swings his pale eyes to where I’m still standing uselessly in the middle of the room.
“What?”
“I told you to get hungry, and you obeyed,” he tells me with a soft smile, like I deliberately did something to please him.
“I didn’t obey. I’m not a dog,” I say, trying to sound assertive and failing…miserably.
“No, you’re not a dog. You’re my Kitten.”
Stunned into silence, my lips part on a retort, but I have no idea what to say. So instead, I just stand frozen and quiet.
“Here,” he says, jolting me from my stupor. “Can you set the table?”
Blinking, I glance from his face to his hands, where he’s holding out placemats and silverware. Taking them, I set the small dining table on autopilot, putting the placemats at opposite ends and as far away from each other as possible.
The sound of his chuckle draws my attention, and I turn to look at him.
“Cute,” he says, stepping out from behind the counter with two plates, one in each hand.
Closing the distance between us, he places one plate at the setting closest to me, then drags the other setting into the spot beside it, placing the plate down onto it.
“Sit,” he orders, arching his brow at me, like he’s waiting for me to argue.
Instead, I lower myself into the seat and drop my gaze to the plate.
It’s barely been twenty minutes since we got here, but the plate has a huge chicken breast wrapped in some kind of ham and coated in a creamy sauce.
Beside it on the plate is broccoli, green beans, and glossy potatoes that look like they’ve been rolled in butter.
As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly again, filling the silence with the sound of my hunger.
“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you, Kitten?”
His words of praise should feel condescending, but instead my body heats and my stomach clenches with excitement, like his approval has a direct link to my arousal.
“Start eating, I’ll grab drinks. Do you want water or soda?” he asks.
“Water, please,” I whisper, embarrassed that he can read my thoughts and see how clearly him calling me both a good boy and Kitten has affected me.
Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on my plate, I spear a floret of broccoli on my fork and take a bite, moaning faintly at the taste of the vegetable.
I know that most kids hate vegetables, but when you rarely, if ever, have them, they oddly become somewhat of a luxury.
I honestly don’t remember the last time I had enough money to buy any kind of vegetable that didn’t come in a can, and even then, I felt indulgent and frivolous at buying anything beyond absolute basic essentials.
Spearing a green bean next, I sigh happily, savoring the freshness and creamy butter that has spread from the potatoes.
Most people assume that junk food is expensive, but they’d be wrong.
If you’re grocery shopping on a budget, the best way to get the most amount of food for the least amount of money is to buy things that have more E numbers and MSG than nutrients.
I grew up on hot dogs, ramen, Hamburger Helper, and cheap pizza. Now I scour the grocery store each week for anything fresh in the reduced section, only willing to buy it when it’s so cheap it’s practically free. I think I’m the only person who is pumped to find bruised fruit or wilting vegetables.
Placing a bottle of water in front of me, he retakes his seat and starts to eat.
While Anders devours his chicken, I savor my veggies, enjoying every nutritious mouthful.
Not wanting to look like a pig, I slowly work my way through my plate, fighting the moans of pleasure that keep trying to slip free from my lips.
Eating slowly, I keep my attention solely on the food, not wanting to risk losing my appetite if I look at my dinner companion. Although even without lifting my gaze, I can feel him watching me.
“Good?” he asks, finally breaking the silence once I’ve finished my last bite and laid my silverware down on the plate.
“It was great, thank you. I appreciate you cooking for me.”
“You’re welcome, Kitten. What do you normally do after you finish work?”
“It’s usually pretty late by the time I get home. After I’ve eaten, I take a shower, then watch a show or something before I go to bed.”
“What shows do you watch? Let’s watch them together,” he suggests.
“Reruns mainly,” I say, vaguely, not willing to admit that I don’t have a TV or cable.
“Go and sit while I clean up. You can find us something to watch.” His tone is so…normal, like me being at his house is just an everyday occurrence and not something that has never happened before and shouldn’t be happening now.
I know I should protest, that I should have been arguing and fighting his high-handed orders since he told me to get in his car.
But I had the protest beaten out of me years ago, and now, unless I’m in genuine danger, the path of least resistance is usually the most pain-free for me to travel.
“I can wash the dishes if you want,” I say, not wanting to seem rude for not offering to help.
“I’ve got it. Find us a show to watch,” he says. “The remote should be on the coffee table. We get all the cable channels up here, despite it being the side of the mountain.”
Pushing out of my chair, I slowly cross the room and sink down into the very corner of the plush couch. The cushions suck me in, and I swallow back a groan that fights to escape from my lips.
I don’t think I’ve ever sat on such a comfortable couch. It’s soft and squishy, and despite me saying I won’t sleep, I’m confident if I close my eyes on this couch, I’ll be asleep in moments.
After taking a minute to appreciate how comfortable I am, I spot the remote on the low coffee table in front of me and lean forward to grab it. Pressing the power button, the huge TV on the wall lights up, and I stare at it for a minute, unsure how to even access the channel menu.
“It’s the big button in the middle,” Anders calls from behind me, like he can once again hear my thoughts.
Pressing the button, I scroll the guide and settle on a rerun of a generic sitcom. It’s not something I regularly watch, but it’s not offensive and doesn’t require a huge amount of concentration.
Honestly, if I had a TV or access to my own internet, I’d probably watch a lot of stuff, but because I don’t, I don’t really know what shows are currently popular.
I don’t want to look like a fool for having never seen something the rest of society is watching, so a rerun feels like the least potentially humiliating choice.