Page 27 of Stay Baby Stay

On one hand, her account of last night’s party is solid, admissible evidence that we can use. But a possible leak in the department complicates things. Considering what happened to the girl who lived long enough to get to the hospital, I’m not convinced she’d be any safer in police custody.

I wander the supermarket aisles, trying to think of things a girl who’s been living on the edge might like to eat. I should’ve asked her before I left the apartment, but she was sleeping so peacefully.

All I saw in the motel was a minifridge and a microwave. I’m willing to bet it’s been a while since she had a nice homecooked meal. I toss a loaf of bread into my cart, plus a gallon of milk and some slices of cheese. I pick up a package of chicken thighs, and make sure to grab lots of fruit. Apples, bananas, a big bag of grapes. And plenty of veggies, too.

I’m on my way to the self-checkout when I stop short in front of a display of stuffed animals. A fluffy white kitten with big blue eyes stares up at me from a pile of fuzz.

Would Holly like this? I pick up the kitten, turning it over in my hand. A girl her age would probably be more interested in an iTunes gift card, but something in my gut tells me to put the kitten in my cart.

There’s a distinctly floral scent filling the air when I get back to my apartment. I load the perishables into the fridge, leaving the fruit on the kitchen counter, and head upstairs. I find Holly brushing on eyeshadow in the bathroom with the door wide open, her red hair still damp from the shower.

“Sorry for the mess,” she says. I note the tubes and compacts all over my bathroom counter, and the loosely fitted tank top she’s wearing like a dress that barely grazes her mid-thigh. “Doing my makeup calms me down. I promise I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

“Take your time,” I tell her.

My gaze snags on a pair of damp purple panties and a bra draped over the shower curtain rod. Blood surges to my cock at the implication that she might not be wearing underwear under her tank top.

She catches me looking at her delicates and bites her lip.

“I’ll clean those up, too,” she says.

It’s a herculean effort to reel my mind away from places it doesn’t belong—specifically, the bare slice of heaven between Holly’s thighs.

“I’m gonna start dinner,” I mumble. “Roast chicken and veggies okay?”

She smiles and nods.

I head downstairs and get to work chopping the veggies and seasoning the meat. I’m no Iron Chef, but I can handle the basics, thanks to growing up with a mom who was only around half the time, if that.

My older sister, Vicki, and I took care of our own meals. Roast chicken was one of our favorites.

I almost cut my thumb twice thinking about those panties upstairs on the shower rod, and Holly’s bare legs. I bet they’d feel like silk against my palm.

As I hear her feet pad softly down the stairs, I remind myself that she’s young enough to be my kid. She’s put on a pair of leggings under her tank top.

A damn shame, I catch myself thinking.

“What can I do to help?” she asks. I put her to work cleaning and dicing potatoes, while I get the chicken in the oven. She’s quick with ‘em. Better than me.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask.

“I learned a little from my foster mom.” She runs her knife through a pile of herbs. “But mostly cooking tutorials on YouTube. We don’t have a kitchen at the motel, so I have to improvise. I found a used crockpot that worked really well for soups and stews, but that broke a while ago.”

“Does McKenzie cook?”

She smiles to herself. “Kenzie tries her best, but it’s generally better if she leaves the cooking to me.”

An hour later, we’re sitting down to steaming-hot plates of food. Gazing at her from across the table, I realize she’s the only person I’ve had over for dinner in all the time I’ve lived here. As she bites into a piece of chicken, I catch myself holding my breath. I want her to like it, this offering of food I’ve prepared just for her.

She moans, and the sound is pornographic.

“Good?” I keep my expression neutral as I imagine her making similar sounds under very different circumstances.

“Really good.” Her smile falters as she pops a chunk of roasted cauliflower into her mouth.

I pause mid-bite, tensing. “Not a fan?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that. It just feels wrong to be eating something this delicious when Kenzie’s probably out there starving.”

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