Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
W atching Fox tend his wounds is a little surreal.
Turns out, he does not have any bullet holes in his body.
I know because I didn't even attempt not to gawk when he stripped down to his skivvies. I’m not sure he noticed that I was watching, because even though he has zero bullet holes in him, apparently he got into a fight with a carving knife recently.
Well, it was probably a sword, but still, those cuts are deep and the scars will be vicious.
Not that adding a few more scars is going to take away from his beauty.
The man is—let me just get a napkin for my drool— lithe .
Lots of yummy muscles, but nothing over the top.
He’s not showing his bulk off; he’s using his body to be fast and precise.
He’s got plenty of scarring already and a few scary tattoos.
Scary like they look like he got them because he was in the mafia or is in the mafia or something.
Though I suspect if he’s got mobs of criminals trying to kill him, he’s probably on the outs with his organization.
Also, the love of my life doesn’t only carry weapons and ammo on him; he also pulled out a surgical needle and thread from his pocket and a human staple gun.
He’s used both on himself without anesthesia since sitting down at the kitchen table.
I don’t think he feels pain the way I do because I sure as hell could not stick a needle into my skin without at least flinching, and I flinched for him every time the stapler made its ktchk noise.
Since he’s done now with tending his wounds, and because it’s about food time anyway, I pull out the small pack of ground beef he bought and start prepping the vegetables for spaghetti with meat and vegetable sauce.
It’s a cheap way to get all the food pyramid into my belly if I count tomato and eggplant as vegetables (I do).
I guess since I spent the last couple of hours gawking at him, it’s his turn, and he definitely takes it, watching me like a hawk as I dice up the onion, eggplant, and chop up the mushrooms. The meat browns while the water boils, and I dump the whole wheat pasta I bought into the water.
I’m not really health conscious, but I do have to be conscious of my nutrient intake since I don’t always get nutritious food.
So even though I don’t really like whole wheat pasta, I eat it because it’s got more of the stuff my body needs to be healthy than plain ol’ pasta has.
When the food is done, I divide it into four portions and serve two of them on plates.
The other two go into the freezer in freezer bags for the next time I need to avoid scurvy.
Yes, that’s a thing. Yes, I have in fact gotten it once.
No, I’m not going to explain how, because it’s too embarrassing to contemplate.
Ok, fine, I went through a period of time when I refused to eat anything but bacon.
It was not a good choice, but since my foster parents didn’t want to be accused of starving me, I ate nothing but bacon for just long enough to get scurvy.
After that, I had to go to some nutrition classes and therapy.
I’m happy to report I will never not get enough vitamin C again.
Sitting across from Fox, I watch him and he watches me, and then I realize that with all the people out to kill him he’s probably wondering if I’ve poisoned his food, so I take a bite of mine and then take a bite of his and give him another bright smile because he should have more smiles in his life, especially if they’re mine since we’re going to get married someday.
Fox gives me a small smile back and digs into his food, eating efficiently.
There is no indication that he likes the food; he’s just putting energy into his body.
Good thing I tend to cook the more nutritious choices rather than the more delicious choices, because from the way he eats, Fox does not care at all about the taste.
Le sigh. I could have used a compliment or two, but I’m just going to appreciate the smile and assume that good-enough-to-eat is praise.
After we finish, I wash the dishes while Fox continues to stare at me.
Little butterflies of excitement wriggle through me at being under his microscope.
The dryer buzzes while I’m contemplating how long before I can get my first kiss from him, so I finish my task and pull our laundry out of the machine.
Mine will never be wearable again, but since his is black, the stains don’t really show through.
Damn. I guess he’s going to cover all his deliciousness again.
I fold up his clothes and mine, grab the stack, and nod my head toward the hallway. If he’s going to be putting on clean clothes, he should probably shower off all the leftover blood.
Hmmm, I wonder if he needs help washing his back…
Fox follows me to the bathroom where I put his clothes on the counter and hand him one of my host’s nice, fluffy towels. I give him a very seductive once over and sigh when he doesn’t invite me to shower with him or at least watch.
Fox’s expression doesn’t give much away; he’s a stoic type of man, so I release a longing sigh and leave him in the bathroom alone. The shower starts running as I put my clean clothes in the basket I’ve commandeered for my stuff.
Grabbing the book I’ve been reading, I make a cup of fancy tea from my host’s stash and settle in on the sofa to wait for Fox to re-emerge. Communication barriers are a bitch, but my text-to-speech device was stolen three months ago, and those things aren’t cheap. Hence why it was stolen.
I guess I could practice my letters instead of reading about gay pirates pillaging the tightest holes on the high seas…but gay pirates are way more interesting than wobbly script written by a guy who can’t tell if he’s right or left-handed.
No really. I use both hands equally, but holding a pencil never felt right in either hand. You’d think that using eating utensils would clear things up for me, but I use a fork in my right and a spoon with my left and switching them up isn’t comfortable. I’m a two-handed eater.
Fox startles me out of my thoughts when he lifts my feet off the sofa and sits, setting them in his lap. I smile happily at the intimacy of the position. Fox’s mouth makes an effort to leak his happiness too, but the man squashes the smile almost as soon as it appears.
“What’s your name?” he asks, moving his hands in a recognizable pattern.
Yeah, I probably should have learned sign language ages ago, but I’ve had a text-to-speech device since the government took over raising me, so I never did learn.
Instead of trying to explain the futility of signing to me, I stand up, grab my wallet from the counter, and show him my government issued ID.
“Romily Butcher. You’ll be twenty-two on Christmas Day.” He hands me back my ID and looks me over. “You’re not deaf?”
I shake my head and lift my chin, showing him the surgical scar. It’s barely there, hardly noticeable since I was a baby at the time of the incision. Most people don’t realize what the small scar means, but my future husband’s face darkens when he sees it.
“How old were you when you lost your voice?”
I shrug, hold up two fingers and then mime rocking a baby.
“Two years old?”
I shake my head.
“Two months old?”
I nod and shrug. It’s not like I remember what life was like when I could vocalize, but the look of sheer indignation on his face makes me squirm happily.
I’ve gotten that look before, of course—most decent people agree that taking a baby’s voice is inhumane—but coming from him, it just feels like it means something more than it ever has before.
A knock on the door interrupts my happiness, replacing it with confusion. I put my finger to my mouth and turn just to look at the door. After another moment, the person knocks on the other side. “Open up, Elijah! I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”
I widen my eyes at Fox, continuing to hold my finger to my mouth. Elijah is the guy that holds the lease on the apartment. The guy talking through the door worries me, since everyone who knows Elijah knows he’s in Italy for the summer.
“Come on, Elijah. We both know you came back early because of me. Let’s just talk.”
Oh no, this is starting to sound like a lover’s quarrel. Fuckityfuck. Standing, I walk quietly to the door to check the locks. “Come on, baby. Just open the door.”
Shaking my head, I silently attach the chain since I forgot to slide it into place when Fox and I got here. Being the expert that I am in silence, I don’t make a sound.
“I saw you, Elijah. You brought a guy home, but I forgive you. He can just leave, and there won’t be any hard feelings. You know you’d rather have me. Just let me in. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, baby.”
Ugh, this guy. I’ve never had a relationship, but even I can see the red flags. I turn to Fox and roll my eyes, shaking my head.
Bam!
The bang on the door startles me, but obviously I don’t make a sound.
“Let me in! I’m not going to let you sleep around like this. You’re mine!”
The guy on the other side starts wiggling the door handle, and if I was Elijah I’d be calling the cops, but since I’m not exactly legally living here, I just scoot away from the door and unabashedly hide behind Fox.
The banging continues along with several verbal threats before abruptly ending after about ten minutes.
Dude really wanted to get his hands on Elijah, and I’m thinking that my host should probably know his ex is a stalker and he needs a restraining order against him.
I’ll print off a note for the guy before I vacate. That just seems polite.
When it sounds like the dude is gone, I stand up from where I crouched behind Fox and wipe my hands on my leggings.
Yes, I did in fact choose the leggings so that if I got an erection Fox wouldn’t miss it and would know I’m so very onboard with some horizontal tango.
What? Some people have to use alternate forms of communication because we can’t give verbal consent.
Since I should probably explain that we’re currently squatting, I fast walk to the kitchen where Elijah Penn keeps his lease in a drawer. I pull it out, showing Fox the lease and pointing to the name. I point to myself and execute a beautiful squat before standing up with a not-so-innocent grin.
Fox stares at me with a blank look then the realization hits him, and he dips his chin with just the smallest impression of an amused smile on his lips. “You’re squatting here.”
I nod, brightening my smile and returning the contract to its place.
When I return to the couch, instead of sitting where I was, I sit in Fox’s lap, wrapping one arm around his neck and pointing to my mouth with the other, puckering my lips.
I don’t know a better way of communicating my need for kisses, and I’m pretty sure it would have worked, too, except that the sound of someone messing with the front door handle draws our attention away from our first kiss.
Before I can react, the knob turns and the door bangs open, stopped only by the chain.
“Open the door before I break it down!” the dude from earlier shouts through the crack.
Fox deposits me on the couch, picks up a gun from the coffee table in front of us, and walks to the door, breaking the chain by yanking the door open. He points the gun at a jock-dude’s face. “Come on in,” Fox orders as the jock-dude’s fear makes an appearance.
With his hands in the air, jock-dude stammers an apology as he comes into the apartment. “I-I-I’m Elijah’s boyfriend. Elijah, tell this guy I’m—” His eyes fall on me where I'm standing as far from him as possible. “You’re not Elijah.”
“House-sitter,” Fox deadpans.
The jock-dude swallows hard, eyeing the guns on the coffee table and then the one pointed at him. “I sh-should g-go,” he decides.
Fox nods. “Yeah. Do not come back.”
Jock-dude nods vigorously and scrambles for the door, making a quick exit.
Fox shuts the door behind him and pulls out his phone. Whatever he sees there makes one of his eyes twitch, then he looks up at me, face clear of emotions. “Want a job?” he asks, like maybe he’s not sure if this is a good idea or not.
I huff and roll my eyes, putting my fist on my hip. Obviously I need a job. I lost the last one because of him. Not that I blame him. I roll my hand, indicating for him to go on.
Fox almost smiles again. “Don’t sass me,” he teases, but immediately drops that tone in favor of what I decide is his professional one. “The job is called Harbinger. You announce my arrival. I send you ahead of me as a warning that I’m coming.”
I drop my jaw and give him my most incredulous look—I’m really accomplished with nonverbal communication in case that wasn’t clear.
“Trust me. You get paid per job. Two grand each time. I’m fairly busy.” He looks up at the ceiling for a moment. “My last day off was three weeks ago.”
I clear the incredulity off my face and give him a skeptical eyebrow, standing with both fists on my hips.
He cracks a smile and smothers it. “Let’s go get you outfitted.”
I huff and shake my head giving him an amused smile and letting my laughter shine in my eyes. I guess I’m going to be Fox’s Harbinger, whatever that means.