Page 27 of Penny for Your Saints

The likelihood that Dennis or the cavalry are coming for me feels more and more impossible with each passing hour.

“Good morning Loulu!” Sébastien’s voice booms from the narrow pass-through window in the galley kitchen—the smell of burnt coffee slowly being joined by the scent of cooking bacon.

I only curl tighter against myself under the spare flat sheet I was provided for sleeping after last night’s turn in the interrogation room; the loud burbling of my stomach calling more to the sizzling bacon than in response to Seb’s greeting.

“How does our guest of honor prefer her eggs, eh?” he sing-songs, twirling about the small kitchen with ease; dropping slices of bread into a beat-up toaster, turning the rashers of bacon on the stove, pouring small, mismatched glasses full of the expensive ‘not from concentrate’ orange juice.

The defiant, willful part of me that has been determined to survive this ordeal at all costs warns me not to negotiate with these terrorists—no, that’s giving them far too much credit—these hackneyed vigilante morons.

Still, the hunger pain in my stomach is undeniable—and if I want to keep my wits about me, I’m going to need to keep my strength up. You never know with these bozos, at any moment—I might be able to find an opportunity to slip free like before.

“Over medium,” I snip back tersely, sitting upright on the futon—the sheet draped around my shoulders. “And some of that cheap ass coffee while you’re at it,” I add, nearly gagging as I catch a whiff of my own intense odor.

“Cazzy!” Seb shouts to no response.

“Ay! Caz-zy!” Seb shouts again, ducking out of the kitchen to toss a balled up paper towel at Cazimer’s head—still glued to the pillow, his mouth hanging open as he snores softly.

“Ay! Glandu!” Seb bellows as he gives the edge of Caz’s bed a swift kick—shaking Caz into wakefulness—his hands rubbing the sand from his eyes as he struggles to adjust to the bright room.

“What!? Is there a raid?” He stumbles to his feet, looking frantically from Seb back to me.

“No raid, just time to wake up and stop being such a lazy layabout!” Seb snips, turning his back on us to go back to breakfast production in the kitchen.

“Just because you stayed up too late dicking around on your computer doesn’t mean you get to sleep all your responsibilities away today, eh?” he scolds, clucking his tongue as he re-emerges from his short order cookery to provide Caz and I mugs of coffee laden with sugar and powdered non-dairy coffee-whitener.

Caz groans—taking the cup from Sébastien before slumping into his desk chair.

As soon as Sébastien disappears from view—Caz’s nose wrinkles and he gives a shudder before looking at me accusingly.

Sébastien rounds back into the room—balancing three plates on his arms.

“Scrambled with cheese for Cazzy.” He passes the first of the plates to Caz—then disappears down the hall, gently pushing both Frank and Quentin’s doors open with a foot to make his breakfast deliveries before returning down the hall with two new plates on his arm and a pair of juice glasses pinched together in his other hand.

“Two over medium for the lady.” He leans down and places the plate on my lap—a plastic spork stuck into a hunk of homemade breakfast potatoes standing upright between my eggs and bacon; the glass of orange juice making a low thud as he places it on the ground at the edge of the futon.

As soon as he’s leaned in close enough to pass me my plate—Sébastien’s face contorts as though he were suddenly in pain.

“Is that—?” he mutters incredulously, leaning in closer to me before giving a tentative sniff.

“Eugh, my goodness—you haven’t had a wash since we nicked you from the Diamond Center, have you?” He gags—recoiling as if he’s touched something hot.

“I most certainly have not—as you well know, I’ve been held captive by you fucking morons for nearly a week now and you’ve barely let me wash my hands after taking a shit.” I laugh, grabbing the spork from my plate, amused by their surprise atmy ripeness when they’re the ones who’ve treated me with less care than the family pooch.

Seb and Caz exchange leery glances.

“For all I know—I’m growing moss under this shit,” I laugh dryly, pinching the oversized t-shirt I’ve been in for days—my hair falling in greasy strands around my face.

“She’s got a point,” Frank’s voice booms from the hallway. Caz, Seb, and I nearly jump out of our skin at the sound of his commanding baritone.

“You two can take care of making sure our littleLucky Pennydoesn’t slit her wrists in the bath or escape,” Quentin adds in a chipper tone, slipping a pair of expensive looking sunglasses onto his face.

“And where are you two going—Maman et Papa?” Sébastien snaps back like a petulant child—his massive arms folded in front of his chest as if he’s preparing to throw a tantrum.

“Q and I need to make some arrangements—including but not limited to getting some clothes for our dirty Penny,” Frank smirks, his eyes falling on Louise hungrily. “We’ve got places to go, people to see, Sweetheart. Can’t take you anywhere looking like pigpen in Cazzy’s old gym clothes.” He winks at me and I return the sentiment with both of my middle fingers a blown air kiss.

“Be nice or I’ll only buy you ugly shit at ValuVault,” Quentin sniffs, lifting his nose high in the air like some sort of snooty show dog.

“Now, now—let’s all behave, shall we?” Frank turns up the collar of his worn leather half-trench, sidling up to the door to the outside. “We’ll be back in an hour, two at most with some fresh clothes for our little morning star, and some supplies to make the trip to Safehouse C,” he explains carefully as Quentin impatiently fusses with the cuffs of his shirt through the bottom of his felt jacket sleeve.

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