Page 37 of Lamb

If this was a countertop, then …

My hands slid towards and then underneath the edge, the glossy white surface giving with a little push. The door pushed back, and the cupboard swung open.

I almost cried when I saw the pots and pans staring back at me. Not only were they not white but black, but it also meant Lamb had things in his kitchen. Like a normal human did. His dedication to his disguise paid off … for me, at least.

I wasted no time pushing and popping open every cupboard I could. From cutlery to tins to spices, Lamb’s kitchen was fully stocked, even with fresh vegetables and products.

What a waste of resources; robots didn’t eat human food.

In his farce of a kitchen, I just prayed he did not forget the one important detail. The single thread of hope I was clinging to, the one thing that would stop my head from beating, my stomach from sinking, and my mind from reeling.

“Please, please …” I begged, rifling through anything and everything. “Why has he got so many cupboards!” I snapped, my irritation growing each time a cupboard turned up empty.

My hope began to dwindle, and the panic I had kept at bay was crawling back up.

I should leave. Instead of digging through his shit, I should take the chance to escape, and if I kept walking, I was sure therewould be a store around here somewhere, or an open back door, or—

Clunk.

My heart soared.

No longer caring if I threw up or not, I heaved my body up onto the counter, scrambling like a mad animal onto my knees, pulling and throwing the packets, jars, and tins onto the floor. I heard things break and smash, but I did not care. I heard it move. It was glass. It had to be.

There was no way he didn’t have a single bottle.

I was right.

Just as I was about to reach the back of the cupboard, I saw the tall, thin-necked bottle tipped onto one side where it had fallen, hidden behind a wayward packet of pasta.

I lunged.

My fingers wrapped snugly around its neck, and I pulled.

My feet hit the floor, a mess of broken food, glass, and plastic littering around me. I did not care. The clear bottle and bright red label stared back up at me, confirming exactly what I had thought it was.

With shaking hands, I gripped tight around the cap, spinning it off with a single-jerked motion, bringing it up to my trembling lips. The cold, sweet liquid hit the back of my throat, rushing into my stomach with a hot, burning heat. The vodka was sharp through my senses, and my stomach both screamed and revelled as it settled inside.

Home sweet home.

The harsh sting shooting across my skin jarred me awake.

Darkness’s sweet embrace flushed from my vision as a familiar ceiling stared down at me—a white, bleached ceiling. I squinted at it, the light bouncing off its surface harsh on my tender eyes.

My head still ached, but it had moved to the background, enough for me to ignore. Something bitter and harsh sat on my tongue, and my mouth felt dry, as if I had swallowed a hundred cotton balls the night before. But that had not been the case. My state was familiar to me, and the taste was that of an old friend, vodka. It had never been my drink of choice, but it had been a drink, nonetheless.

I moved to stretch, feeling more settled than I had in a long while. Or I tried to.

My leg was trapped in a vice, and with my movement, I was rewarded with a sharp pain rushing up the nerves in my leg.

“Fuck!” I hissed.

I looked down to investigate, and that was when I noticed it. Noticedhim. The body heat that swam through my leg, the soft, gentle material pinning my ankle still, and the broad back, a dark black cloud in the bright sea of white.

His silk ebony shirt pinched as it moved, tugging over his shoulder as he worked, hunched over my foot, eyes sharp and focused.

“What are you—fuck!” I hissed again, a singing burn following each stab of pain. “Stop!” I hissed. “Whatever you are doing, stop it.”

Another sting.

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