Page 59 of Hunted

For instance.

You have to learn to cook.

Or…starve.

Especially once you realize you can’t trust delivery services anymore because the man stalking you has somehow gotten to them.

And while the latter – death by lack of sustenance – has had moments where it seemed like a more viable option, I didn’t take it.

Not because I’ve never considered suicide.

No.

I’ve thought about that shit at least twice a week every week until about a week ago.

I used to believe it was natural.

Wanting to end it all.

Once you take into consideration the alternative of never being able to really live a life outside of the four walls I managed to safely confine myself to, not getting up ever again seemed like a logical calculation to conclude.

Thanks to the monster creeping around every corner and peeking in every fucking window, I had started to transform into an agoraphobic, which – again – meant I had to learn to cook or let myself starve.

And suicide by starvation isn’t easy.

Or painless.

Or even guaranteed to end it all considering how long the human body can go without food.

Honestly?

I’d vow to never eat again if it meant getting to simply make a meal in peace.

To cook without worrying about how much of your movement or whereabouts are being exposed through the narrow openings around bookshelves blocking the windows during a baking or broiling or fucking boiling process.

“Damn, I wish we had more pizza,” Nolan unexpectedly huffs over Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, the movie it took half an hour to decide on.

“Same,” Kipp echoes without missing a beat.

“That might’ve been the best fuckin’ pie I’ve ever had, Rabbit,” Nolan compliments with a gentle pat to my ass that’s curled up, facing his direction. “And that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Is it really saying anything, though?” I tease in return earning a much harder pop the second time.

“Nolan is a self-proclaimed pizza connoisseur,” Kipp lightly laughs causing me to glance upward from where my head had been resting on his lap.

Additional amusement settles in my expression. “Hence why sushi pizza was the ultimate sacrifice for you?”

“Exactly,” his best friend jeers, fingers now gently grazing the area he recently spanked. “And ten points for GuffleFuff for that Lambo level of a word.”

Throwing him a playful glare masks the way his car choice makes me inwardly cringe. “Do you mean Hufflepuff?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s not what you said,” Kipp warmly jabs, chuckles growing in numbers. “And you would know that if you didn’t fall asleep every time, I put the shit on.”

“You’re a Harry Potter fan?” Amusement floods my stare as it shifts upward to him once more. “Seriously?”

“No, I’m a fan of the 1960 Ford Anglia 105E featured in the second movie.” The Kid’s grin is attached to a faint reddening of his cheeks. “You know I like cars.”

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