I won’t live like that.
Like a fucking mouse who only scrambles out of her hidey-hole to grab a bite of cheese before running back inside.
So I pull on a t-shirt and jeans, then grab my prosthetic arm off the hook on the wall and shrug on the harness. I slip my jacket on over that.
A second glance will make it glaringly obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that the hand sticking out of this sleeve isn’t real. But luckily, most people don’t look that hard.
I don’t wear the prosthesis often, but the barrage of curious glances and stares I get when I walk around without it wear on me. Not much; not badly. More like a constant background noise, something I hardly even notice consciously anymore.
But right now, I’m already pretty ragged, my emotions electric and sparking like frayed wires. Having to ignore a bunch of stares is just one more thing I don’t want to deal with right now.
When I step out onto the front stoop, I automatically glance around. I don’t catch a glimpse of any of the men, so I take the bus three stops to the little market where I usually do my shopping. The selection isn’t great, but the prices are good, and that matters to me more than how many different kinds of rice they have.
Grabbing a small cart, I head down the first aisle. It feels shockingly nice to be doing something so boring and mundane after the pure insanity of the last few days, and I take my time browsing each aisle, picking out a small array of items.
I’m slipping a jar of pasta sauce into my cart when I almost crash into someone walking the other way down the aisle.
“Oh, sor—”
I look up and stop.
It’s Ryland.
My heart thumps in my chest, but I school my features into a neutral expression and step around him, continuing to scan my gaze over the items on the shelves and pretending I have no goddamn idea who he is.
Just as I expected, my reaction doesn’t deter him one fucking bit. He just falls into step beside me, his large form seeming massive beside mine as we make our way down the cramped aisle.
“Are you here to give me shit for what I did last night?” I ask, keeping my voice as carefully bland as my expression.
“No.”
“Well then, shouldn’t you be hiding in the fucking bushes outside?”
A noise that’s almost a snort comes from beside me, but when I glance up quickly, Ryland’s face is as set and stoic as ever.
Did he just… laugh?
It’s hard to believe. Almost impossible, honestly.
He walks beside me in silence as I make my way up and down the remaining aisles, and when I head toward the cashier at the front, he plucks the items from my cart and sets them on the counter by the register, digging into the back pocket of his crisp charcoal slacks for his wallet.
As he flips it open and hands the cashier a black card, I gawk at him. This is the first time I’ve been truly surprised since he materialized in front of me in aisle seven. His appearance wasn’t all that unexpected, but this? This is.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his chin at the man as the guy hands his card back and starts bagging up my groceries.
I watch with a weird mashup of feelings churning in my gut. Gratitude mixes with annoyance and a hint of shame.
These men are all fucking loaded. I already know that from seeing Marcus’s house, and his and Theo’s cars. There’s also the thing Theo mentioned on the drive home that night—something about how his two friends both have a hand in their family’s businesses. Whatever those businesses are, they’re obviously bringing in a shitload of cash.
I’ve been trying to save for college for the past two years, scrimping and putting away whatever I can manage to during good months and living hand to mouth during bad months.
But it’s not like I can’t afford to buy my own goddamn groceries.
I’m not a charity case.
Ryland grunts something indecipherable that might be a “thanks” as he grabs the two plastic bags full of groceries from the cashier and heads toward the door. I stare at his broad, retreating back for a moment before moving after him.