Page 73 of Last Man Standing

You don’t need me, big boy. Serena already dealt with your balls.

My bad temper pulses through my veins, loud enough to tempt me to march into the bathroom and toss the phone at his head, but doing so would mean losing my only method of contacting the outside world, so I push off the side of the bed instead, and jam the device into my pocket. Charging toward the window frame and grabbing a dark purple gel ink pen, I shove that in beside the phone, then snatching up a notebook, I flip, flip, flip through the colored pages and frown when I get to the end and find it full.

Frustrated, I trade it for the next book, flip, flip, flip, and ignore the wings of panic swirling in my blood when all but a page or two are full.

I need more books!

Tearing out a single, clear page, I fold it up and slip it into my pocket, then spinning on my heels, I stride back to the bed and snatch up my plate. I fist my fork and forgo my water, since I can use literally any mug in the kitchen, except that one, and fill it with water from the tap.

“Scarlett!” Sebastion’s voice turns dangerous in an instant. “Don’t make me come out there to make sure you’re still alive.”

“I’m still alive!” But I zoom across the room and yank the door open. Peeking into the hall, glancing left, then right to make sure the coast is clear, I cross the threshold in silence and prick my ears. Just in case. I follow the same path I walked this morning and hold my breath so I can hear past it to the kitchen, and though my heart stumbles at the clang of heavy metal pans a little farther along, I slow at the kitchen door and hesitantly peer inside.

Please be empty. Please be empty. Please, if you’re not empty, don’t let it be Arabella I run into.

“Oh, thank God.” I exhale a relieved breath and wander toward the deserted table. The room is spotless, dishes dry beside the sink, and the table I sat at this morning while Paul interrogated me now glistens with a fresh wipe down.

I set my plate down, pinch a thick carrot chunk between my fingers and toss it onto my tongue, then I move to the sink and snatch a water glass.

Filling it from the tap, I spy a bowl of fresh fruit in the corner, so I steal an apple, then I make my way back to the table and take out my pen and single sheet of paper.

If this were another time, another existence, I could go online and order a dozen fresh new notebooks. But the time I’m in now makes a simple task anything but. What am I supposed to type into the address section? Deliver to Arabella Aster’s house. If you don’t know where that is, sorry, I can’t tell you. If you do know, good luck to you. I hope you’ve updated your will recently.

Pulling out my chair and setting my water and apple down, I smooth the folded sheet of paper against the table, pick up my pen in one hand, and my fork in the other.

Ten minutes. That’s all I need. Ten minutes of alone time, which is ironic, considering I was alone all day and not-so-secretly hoping Sebastion would come sit with me.

Rolling my eyes, I put pen to paper and sketch the warrior I haven’t escaped since I saw him more than thirteen hours ago. I’m no artist, and drawing as much as I do doesn’t mean I’ve developed an artistic gift others would be envious of. But I can’t stop thinking about the soldier overlooking a battlefield. My memory holds on to every detail as I draw the intricate patterns from his helmet, which are the same patterns adorning his shield. I wish for lead pencils instead of a glittering purple pen, all so I can play around with shading and that three-dimensional flair I enjoy so much, but beggars and choosers and all that, so I scoop a forkful of potato into my mouth and hunch over my drawing so this warrior gets to go to war with a certain glamor adorning his armor.

Also, whoever cooks here is damn good at their job.

Running feet bolt along the hall, not the thunderous sprint of a grown man charging toward battle, but the clap-clap-clap of a child heading toward adventure.

I stop drawing and bring my eyes to the doorway, simultaneously hoping that whoever they are, they keep on running. But at the same time, will I get to see? How many children live here? Why hadn’t I considered the possibility?

My pulse thrums headier as the running footsteps come closer, and just when I think the runner might pass me by, a little boy with dark, almost black hair and a long foam sword clasped tight in his hands skids to a panicked stop. He slips on the tile and clutches onto the doorway, and pulling himself back, he hovers on the threshold and stares at me just as I stare at him.

Nerves make my blood run thick. Curiosity makes my hands shake. But dread becomes my most potent companion, because where a child goes, an adult typically follows.

“Hello.” He stares hard enough to remind me of someone else. His lips quirk, exactly like someone else I know.

Oh God.

He makes a big deal out of sheathing his sword and wandering into the room, then he comes to the opposite side of the table and climbs onto a chair so we’re eye to eye. A mere two feet apart. “My name is Koda Jameson and I’m five.”

“Uh…” I want to puke. And maybe scream. Curl into a ball and weep if I have a little time left over. “Hello.”

“You’re s’posed to tell me your name now.” He does this thing with his face, a slight wrinkle along the bridge of his nose as he speaks an order. Not a request. “Don’tcha know that already?”

“M-my name is Scarlett. And I’m twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five is pretty old, huh?” He reaches across the table with lightning-fast reflexes and snatches my warrior sketch.

Give it back!

“Not as old as my dad, though.” He flattens the paper on the table and stares down at it so his hair dangles forward and obscures much of his face. “My dad is super duper old. But he says it’s cheeky to say so.”

“Y-your dad?” Sebastion is your dad, isn’t he? “Your last name is Jameson?”