Page 40 of Finders Reapers

I bit back my groan.

The table was laden with breakfast foods, and breakfast was my all-time favorite meal ever. If society allowed, I would have pancakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Heaps of maple syrup or imported golden syrup from the UK. Blueberries, bananas, or chocolate chips. I didn’t care. I was an equal opportunity pancake lover.

Though the appearance of pancakes was partly responsible for my groan, the other was Rome, tall, dark, and surly, who sat at the head of the table with his head down as his thumbs zipped quickly across the screen of his iPhone.

I pulled out a chair, forcing my face into an impassive mask, even though I wanted to shrink the second the chair's wooden legs squeaked across the parquet flooring.

Being an outgoing extrovert was easy to put on for the cameras. Talking to the single red flashing light with a bright smile.

Physically being around people outwardly showing disdain for you, simply because of your existence, was entirely different.

It wasn’t my favorite.

Rome’s indifference to me came off in waves, and he hadn’t even looked at me. Damn. My stomach was flip-flopping like one of the fluffy pancakes on the platter in front of me.

Maybe I had imagined the look we had shared the night before. It was just as well. I had enough on my plate without crushing on one guy, let alone all of my new roommates.

I didn’t wait for permission before serving myself and drowning my pancakes in syrup. If he tried to bogart the pancakes, I was going to rebel.

“Good morning.” Rome drawled. He did not look up from his phone.

I didn’t realize how deeply I was into my own thoughts and inner monologue when Rome spoke, and my reply reflected that. “You can pry these pancakes out of my cold dead fingers. I don’t give a fuck.”

His brow furrowed as his dark eyes flicked up to meet mine in question.

I jammed a forkful of pancake into my mouth so that I couldn’t explain myself. It was just as well; I didn’t even understandmyselfsometimes.

Rome’s phone chirped with a text message, and he sighed before placing it on the table face down.

I finally swallowed my mouthful. “I wanted to ask, what do I do for money? Like, can I get some new clothes and stuff? I don’t have anything.”

Rome blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“I need the basics,” I continued. “Shampoo. Conditioner. Mascara. That kind of thing.”

Rome reached into my pocket and pulled out his wallet. He thumbed through the cards before pulling out a black American express and holding it up with two fingers. “Oriax should have given you a company card.”

My eyes flicked to the credit card. “That’s a black Amex.”

Rome looked at it. “Spasibo.” He said the word held the residue of a Russian accent. “You don’t say?”

I exhaled a puff of air through my nose.

“You can take the card.” Rome rubbed his fingers together, jostling the card.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And what? Have you call the bank to report it missing?” I narrowed my eyes. “Besides, it’syourcard.”

Rome closed his eyes and exhaled slowly as if he was asking God for strength. “Shall we wait until Oriax gets around to setting you up with a card and some identification?”

“Why is he called Ollie if his full name is Oriax?” I cocked my head to the side.

“Cyclian tends to use L’s and R’s interchangeably,” Rome replied, exasperated.

“I need shampoo,” I countered. “I need underwear that fits. If Fletcher or Jamal have cards, they could always take me shopping.”

His phone chirped, and he glanced down at the screen. When Rome spoke, it seemed like he was under duress. “I suppose that we could go to Target.”

I perked up. “Can we go to Starbucks too?”

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