Page 63 of Dead Serious with Benefits
“He might think you were trying to include him.”
“Which is...hilarious.”
“He’s a former troubled kid turned MMA fighter.”
“Ah, well, the hospital bill might be worth the laugh.”
“I doubt that,” he said with a shake of his head. “He wouldn’t hit you anyway. He’s too well trained.”
“Good to know.”
“Washcloths are in the cabinet next to the tub.”
Winking at him, I left his room and went through the first door on the right, hitting the switch as I closed it. I winced when the bright lights over the mirror came on, and I had to let my eyes adjust. When they did, I looked around the room in faint amusement at the soft pink tile on the floors and walls.
Some tiles had little cracks, but everything, down to the grout, was clean. There was a rack with two hand towels, one of which had a faded image of a duck wearing a bonnet on it, and the other was a teal color that had probably been bought recently, since it didn’t look worn. The cabinet was across from the toilet, and I opened it to find washcloths and towels, along with a few bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the bottom shelf.
Grabbing a washcloth, I scrubbed myself. The warm water got the majority off, other parts I had to scratch, but at least the soap had a soft, almost rain-like smell that I appreciated. I checked myself out in the mirror, splashing my face with warm water, and for a moment, I was tempted to open the cabinet behind the mirror, but Arlo didn’t deserve to have me rooting through his things. Plus, he was far more interesting as a mystery that slowly unraveled rather than one I had to solve.
“You’re turn,” I told him when I returned to the room to find him still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space.
He shook himself and flashed me a smile. “Okay. If you’re hungry, I can whip something up quickly. I’m not much of a cook, and neither is Dom, so we mostly rely on things out of boxes or deliveries.”
“Would it be weird if I said I was craving something to dip?”
“Hmm, I have some bell peppers and chicken salad Matilda made yesterday.”
“Matilda?”
“Oh...my mom.”
Right, his adopted mom. Curious, because I knew he hadn’t gone into the system until he was eight, and it made me wonder what the story behind his biological mother was. Considering how candid he was on most subjects, the fact that he’d left that story out was telling. If he’d left that noticeable gap, there was a reason. One day, he might find it in himself to tell me, or perhaps I would find the courage to ask.
“That sounds great,” I told him. “Just...no raisins.”
“No raisins,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll be back.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed where he had been, I looked around the room for the first time. The floor was wood and reminded me of the bathroom floor in that I could see scuffs and worn-out areas, but it was clean, as was the wallpaper, though it was torn a little near the bottom. The chair I had thrown our clothes on was a small armchair, in the corner next to a bookcase. A glance at the books showed...well, quite a lot actually. A romance novel series I’d read and found entertaining if tacky, a few horror books, some biographies, history texts that covered the Civil War, the Silk Road, and, weirdly enough, a book on pottery across countries and time periods.
I barely managed to stifle a yelp when something brushed my leg, and I twisted to find big eyes staring up at me with disdain and curiosity. The tawny fluffball gave a soft chirrup, and I sighed, bending down to present him a bent finger. “You must be the brother of Rags. You were supposed to be found earlier, but clearly you are a far better hider than your brother.”
The cat sniffed my finger, looking up and giving another sniff. I raised a brow, waited until he finally decided I was worthy of attention, and promptly headbutted my fingers. “I appreciate your approval.”
Only to learn that approval didnotmean I was allowed to pick him up when I tried to scoop him up by his stomach,sending him backing up against the bedside table. “Ah, my apologies. I’ll sit here and bend over to pet you. I forgot myself.”
Miffed, the cat rubbed against my legs, allowing me to pet his head and occasionally stroke his back. He was like the house, a little worn from the looks of the nick in his ear and a toe with a missing patch of fur, but was otherwise lovingly cared for.
The whole place spoke of love and care, even his brother, as outraged as he’d been, hadn’t struck me as angry or bitter. Just a brother, horrified to see his brother getting groped by a stranger, which wasn’t a wrong reaction. Dom had quickly made himself scarce and promised to put on headphones in the hopes that Arlo would get laid. That was the act of a loving, concerned brother.
And what had Arlo said about him? A troubled kid? Well, he didn’t look so troubled now, though I was sure there were marks on his personality and even his body that probably showed...wear and tear. But like everything surrounding Arlo, Dom was loved and cared for and not afraid to love.
It took me a moment to realize that realization, while sweet, was bitter for me. It was easy to take the opposite and describe my home and my life. Everything fresh and new, expensive and up to date, but not a trace of love and care. I had money, power if I wanted, and a family name that could carry me, and yet my life didn’t have the same love and care that Arlo’s bedroom did, let alone the rest of his life.
“Is this the vaunted post nut clarity everyone likes to talk about?” I asked the cat who stared at me. “Oh, what do you know? You’re a cat. You live to be served.”
The door opened, and Arlo shuffled in, sighing. “There you are, Muffin. I wondered why your poor brother was on his own out there. Go on now, I’m closing the door.”
“You don’t let them sleep with you?”
