Page 63 of Secondhand Soul

He doesn’t say anything.

SHE LIKES ME.

Likes me?

I pile her into the apartment that smells like fresh paint and sawdust. Nigel and Manny have been fixing it up, and I’ve been paying for it, even though Manny tells me not to. He pays Nigel. I chase Nigel. I hand him cash, he gives me Manny’s check, and I tear it up and bring the pieces to Rhea, who sighs and makes notes in the checkbook register.

“Looks n-nice,” Victoria shivers. “New paint?”

“All the holes and doors repaired, too. No new wallpaper. Just a fresh coat of ‘gleaming eggshell.’” I point towards the stairs.

“Much better than ‘dull eggshell.’” Victoria nods sagely, skin an unhealthy shade of gray and mottled pink.

“Hot soup and tea,” I mutter, dumping her onto the bed, sweater over her neck, blankets and sheets over her body. I hurry to the kitchen, dump soup into a pan, start boiling a pot of water, pull out a mug, pull out a bowl, and hurry back.

Victoria is moving to get dressed, but it’s like everything is in slow motion, probably from the cold.

I definitely don’t look at how her nipples are puckered up and cold. I don’t think about warming them in my mouth, or crawling in beside her.

My cock, on the other hand, is a traitor. He definitely noticed.

“Getting to be a good cook,” Victoria yawns.

“Oh, yes. Heating something out of a can and boiling water. I’ll be back. I know Rhea has tea downstairs in the little kitchenette.” I race away, then race back, Victoria’s phone like a hot ball of worry in my pocket.

What’s this going to do, sending the photo? They’ll stop hunting Victoria, which is good. But they weren’t hunting her. I guess it means they won’t start hunting her for not hunting me.

Which is good.

But they’ll send other assassins to Pine Ridge, right?

Which is bad.

So maybe I shouldn’t send the photos yet.

Because Victoria already bought us more time, but I don’t trust Pazcuso not to get impatient. Hell, I still don’t even trust Victoria.

But she sure trusted me tonight.

Which is good.

“Fuck!” I hiss at the box of Earl Grey, and zip back up the stairs.

Sometimes I think that this brain wasn’t built for thinking, and yes, I am acutely aware that thinking about not being able to think is an oxymoron.

“Why doesn’t Rhea keep any alcohol in this damn place?” I mumble.

Victoria has struggled fully into her sweater and is burrowing under the covers. Belatedly, I realize she’s going to have dirt on her clothes and the nice, clean bedding Rhea must’ve put on this week. The fact that she doesn’t care or notice worries me.

“Hey. Hey, you warming up?” I ask, sitting down next to the lump under the blankets.

Shivering motions. I take it as a yes.

I go back to the kitchen. “When you’re warm enough, you should shower.”

“I will.”

“After you eat.”