Page 12 of Glitter Rose
“We both know that’s not happening.” I try to get up, ignoring the white-hot flash of pain. My vision tunnels, and I breathe through it. “Got places to be.”
“Right. The zombie apocalypse social calendar. Very demanding.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s the rush? Hot date with a horde? You can barely walk.”
I fix her with a look that silenced dangerous men. “Watch me.”
“Where would you even go?” She plants herself between me and what I assume is the door. Five-foot-nothing of stubbornness in designer jeans and a yellow crop top. “Your pack’s torn, your weapons are gone, and there’s a herd outside that’s been circling the building since your grand performance last night.”
“You took my weapons?”
“I secured them.” Her chin tilts up defiantly. “Standard apocalypse protocol for unconscious strangers.”
Suppose they’re circling the building. How did she get my stuff? “Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“That’s not?—”
“Yeah, and ‘I’ve had worse’ isn’t an answer either.” Her eyebrow arches. “Tit for tat.”
I bite back a smile. Fuck, she’s got nerve. In another life, I’d?—
No. Not going there.
“Stay another day,” she says it casually, like offering a cup of coffee. “Or two. Until the swelling goes down. The couch is all yours.”
“What? No spare bedroom in this castle?”
“For what?”
“A friend who wants to stay over? Don’t these places always have spares?”
“No friends.” She fidgets with her nail polish. “Why are you still standing? You’re going to make it worse.”
My ankle throbs in agreement. “Fine.” I fall back into this cloud of a couch. Maybe Walsh will find me. The question is, how do I tell him I’m here? “Two or three days. Then I’m gone.”
The smile that breaks across her face hits me like a physical blow. Jesus, when was the last time someone looked that happy to have me stay?
“Great! I mean, whatever. Your choice.” She moves toward the kitchen, suddenly animated. “I’ll get that water. And breakfast. You must be starving.”
“Breakfast?” I call after her, unable to keep from smiling at her enthusiasm.
“Porridge.”
“I was expecting eggs Benedict.”
“Funny.”
I track her movements around the kitchen. She knows this space. Has for a long time. The way she reaches for items without looking, and the automatic paths she takes between counter and stove are indication enough.
My guess is that she was living here before the apocalypse.
No doubt.
“What do you think, Poti? Cinnamon or honey?” She leans down to the pot, head tilted slightly as if listening for an answer. “Both? You’re right. Why choose?”
Poti? Is she talking to the pot?
Slightly concerning, somehow cute, and the proof that she really has been alone.
