Page 41 of Dizzy

I shiver. Yeah. I should’ve panicked last night. I can’t afford to be so tired that I let my guard down. It’s broad daylight now. I need to get moving and quit lyin’ in bed getting accustomed to the warmth. This isn’t home. I’m not safe here.

This is a rock and a hard place situation. With no cash, I don’t have the slightest chance of outrunning the club. But if I’m here when they decide I’m a threat? Well, then I’m making it real easy for them, aren’t I?

I’m not stupid. There’s something else going on here besides me trespassing and taking some food. Someone steals from me, and I beat their ass, take my shit back, and send them on their way. I don’t keep them close so I can keep tabs on them.

Maybe they think I saw something. Or maybe this is how they turn women out. I didn’t think the club ran whores, but I don’t know their whole business.

Yeah, I can’t get comfortable. When this turns south, I’m gonna need to be prepared.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and kick off the saggy pants. The sweater comes to my knees. It’ll work as a dress.

I venture out. Dizzy’s door is open. The bed’s made. He’s not in there. I head toward the kitchen. Coffee would be amazing. Someone’s playing a video game downstairs. Guess the boys are down there. Why aren’t they in school?

There’s a coffee maker on the counter, sludge warming in a stained carafe. Three bowls of pinkish-colored cereal milk are lined up on the breakfast bar. Oooh, they’ve got the sugary stuff. Score.

I make a fresh pot of coffee, and as it’s brewing, I riffle through the drawers. Junk, junk, and more junk. No cash. I consider the cereal, but there’s bread and a full carton of eggs in the fridge. Oh yeah, baby. I’m makin’ French toast. After I squirrel away a few cans of ravioli.

I dash to the bathroom, do my business, and retrieve the tuna I hid in the linen closet. I drop by Parker’s room and add my canned goods to the stash I’ve started under the bed. Then I skip back, my steps light. I whisk the eggs, add milk, and, while I fry up my breakfast, cram three snack cakes down my gullet. Butterscotch crumpets. Delicious.

This is a freakin’ great day.

I end up making twelve slices of French toast. Turns out my eyes were bigger than my stomach. French toast gets soggy if you save it for later.

I don’t want the kids thinking I’m the maid. I mean, maybe I am supposed to be the maid, but I didn’t trade out being Cinderella in Kentucky to be Mary Poppins in western Pennsylvania.

It’s a shame to let good food go to waste, though. I lean over the rail to the foyer and holler down to the lower level, “French toast!”

There’s a scuffle, and Carson emerges, bounding up the stairs. “French toast?”

I nod at the table.

“Sweet!” He wastes no time, digs right in.

“Your brother gonna want some?”

Carson slides the plate closer and bends his arm around it, guarding it like my nieces and nephews do. “He’s out in the garage, workin’ with Dad.”

“Workin’ on what?”

“Bikes.”

Guess I could’ve figured.

I sit down across from the kid. “How come you aren’t in school?”

“Teacher work day,” he says with a full mouth. “Didn’t you hear us leave? We got there, and it was closed.”

“Nope. I didn’t hear.”

“You sleep deep, eh?”

“Sometimes.”

He grins at me as he shoves a huge bite dripping with syrup into his mouth.

“Hey. You know the combination to your Dad’s safe?” It’s worth a try, right?

He blinks at me, chewing. He’s got bright blue eyes, sandy blond hair, fair skin, and freckles. He must favor his mother. He’s cute. Looks like a chipmunk.

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