Delicious - Page 18

“Oh.” I pull on my sleeves, wrinkling my nose at the state my shirt is in. “You have to let me go home soon,” I add conversationally, this time looking at my hands instead of at him. “My clothes are getting disgusting.”

“I have a laundry machine,” Jed points out smoothly, without hesitation. “Why don’t you let me wash them?”

“Because I don’t intend to walk around here naked?” Wasn’t that obvious? I don’t add the last part, but I do let my gaze flick back up to his, skeptical of his words. Surely he doesn’t think I trust him nearly enough to take off my clothes while he’s here and just be naked. Hell, he can’t even trust me not to tell the cops what he is.

“I’m not asking you to.” He gets up and stretches, not bothering to do much to fix the waistline of his pants. I watch, unable to look away, as he stretches like a cat, all smooth muscle and impossible grace.

It’s unfortunate that when my eyes find his again, he’s looking at me as if he’s waiting for something.

But if I’m supposed to know what it is, then my brain isn’t helping me out by spelling the answer out for me. “Can I come up?” he asks finally, head tilting toward the staircase that he’s near.

“Okay.” It’s not a perfect answer, but he barely hesitates before taking the stairs languidly, like he has all day to do so. He opens the door after a brief pause, and looks at me where I still stand in front of the railing, my arms crossed on it while I try to look casual or relaxed.

Or like anything other than a pinned, trapped rabbit.

His eyes are strangely thoughtful as he looks me over, eyes dropping down my body as if he’s calculating or estimating, not appreciating how awful I look in blood-stained, filthy clothes.

“I’ll wash the sheets today,” he says like an afterthought, strolling over to the big armoire and pulling open a drawer. From there he pulls out a couple of shirts, and from a drawer two down, he takes out another two pairs of what I assume are sweatpants.

“Do you want a jacket?” Jed doesn’t wait for my answer. I don’t have one anyway, since I’m so surprised at his consideration for me. He passes in front of where I stand, opening the closet door and stepping inside to pull out two hangers.

“You can pick,” he offers, tossing everything to the bed. “And I can wash your clothes for you. I’m not sure…” His gaze slants back my way, fixed on the cloth of my shirt. “If the blood is going to come out. But I’ll try.”

“Oh.” I reply, having no idea what I’m supposed to say. But the clothes on the bed look more inviting than they should, and amplify the grittiness of my own against my skin. “Umm. Thank you.” It would be beyond rude not to thank him, even though Jed is already back on the landing of the stairs.

He stops to turn, gazing at me with something like surprise on his face. His lips curl into a soft smile, but he doesn’t say anything. He just…goes away. Back down the stairs to grab a change of clothes from the pile by his sofa that he whisks into the downstairs bathroom along with him.

I don’t hesitate, even though I should. I definitely shouldn’t be so willing to put on Jed’s clothes, that’s for sure. But I grab a shirt, a pair of pants and, after a moment of hesitation, one of the hoodies before I disappear back into the bathroom.

Instead of putting them on, however, I jump back in the luxurious shower, feeling a moment of guilt for stealing some of the hot water. But I make sure to be fast, so that I hopefully don’t affect his shower downstairs, before jumping back out and toweling off so that I don’t feel grimy before putting on fresh clothes.

Thanks to my curves, the clothes aren’t as baggy as I’d like them to be. The pants are, for the most part. They’re snug against my thighs and I tie the drawstring loosely around my waist, glad that they’re warmer than I’d first thought. But the shirt fits even more snugly, though not to the point of discomfort. That is to say, it hugs my curves and shows exactly where I could stand to drop a few pounds.

Like everywhere.

But that thought only brings up the familiar feelings of self-deprecation, and the sound of my step-mother’s voice in my ear telling me all about this new diet drink she saw on a talk show that she’s bought me three cases of.

I’m already kidnapped. Do I really need the amount of depression that’ll bring on as well? It seems unfair. Still, I can’t stop my hands from trailing over my body, fingers tingling as my eyes stay stuck on the mirror. God, I should’ve done this in the bathroom mirror. The mirror in the bedroom is much larger, and much less forgiving.

Why do I do this to myself?

I can see the hurt on my face. I can feel the sinking in my chest, and the familiar feelings of insecurity that always rush to accompany this.

But Jed’s face in the mirror over my shoulder makes me pause, and he watches me, confusion on his features. “You look good in my clothes,” he murmurs into a silence so absolute that it should be illegal. If there were a clock ticking in the room, I’d hear it. Hell, I can hear my breathing, faster than his, and his longer, steadier breaths behind me.

“No, I don’t.” My mouth betrays me, but I can’t agree with his words. Not with how I am now. “You can seeeverything.” For emphasis, I run my fingers over the sides of my stomach, tracing my shape with the pads of them.

“What?” He tilts his head, confused, and his hands come forward near my sides, hovering inches over my skin. “That’s…well, yeah. That’s why you look so good.” I can see the bemused concern on his features, and it only makes me look away from him.

“I know what I look like, all right?” I huff at last, though my legs won’t move so I can casually walk away like I so desperately need to. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you”—his voice is too soft, too kind, and God, I really need to move—“I don’t intend to start now.” Very,verylightly, I feel his fingers touch the backs of my hands, matching my movements up and down the sides of my torso.

Thankfully, he has more sense than me. Jed pulls himself away and clears his throat, so I pretend not to notice the flush on his face as he ducks to the side to hide it. “I have to go outside,” he tells me, studying the floor. “I…things to do. You can come or stay or…I’ll do laundry later. Shoes by the door.” He’s losing words in his sentences, like he’s used them all up for the day.

And that’s what I’ll tell myself when I wonder why I followed him. That I’m curious why he doesn’t seem to have enough words for everything he wants to say. I follow him, dogging his steps down the stairs and pulling my shoes on while he waits at the door.

“I’m coming with you,” I announce, my chin raised like it’s a threat or an admission of boldness.