Page 52
“Uh, yeah, we’ve established that. Multiple times. Keep up, Bunny.” He grins.
Having no words for him—because how do you respond to someone like him—I shake my head and continue to pull him inside. “Where is your first aid kit?”
“I have one upstairs in my bedroom.” I pause again, shooting him a glare over my shoulder. “I swear this isn’t me trying to get you in my room,” he chuckles. “I just happen to get banged up a lot, so I keep one in there.”
“Fine,” I huff, tugging him in the direction of the set of stairs that leads to the guys bedrooms.
“You seem to know where you’re going,” he accuses but in an amused way. “Did you do some snooping while we were gone?”
“Yes,” I answer, not bothering to lie because I know they had to be watching me on the cameras.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“Messy,” I tell him.
“Maria hasn’t been by to clean it?”
“Not her job,” I state. “You’re a big boy. Clean up after yourself.”
“Okay, Mom,” he mutters, and damn it, my lip twitches. “Why do I have a feeling you’d make me eat all my veggies too.”
“Because I would. Why not? I love asparagus.”
“Brussel sprouts too,” he adds.
I’m about to ask how he knows that, then remember the stalking.
“You know, it’s really fucking weird that you know things about me.”
“We know lots of things.”
“I know.” I shoot him a glare. “That's the problem. Invasion of privacy much? Just how much about me do you know? Cameras, okay that makes sense. My damn fucking dream journal, which I want that back by the way,” I hiss. “I get that too, but are there any other ways of stalking me that I should know?”
He bites his lips together, signaling to me that there damn well is. “Do I even want to know?”
“Maaaaaaybeeeee?” he says slowly.
“You know what, save it. Today has already been enough. I’ll ask later.”
He says nothing as I drag him into his room and then to his bathroom. “Sit,” I instruct him, pointing to the toilet.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, giving me a two finger salute as he takes a seat.
Huffing, I go over to the sink and crouch down, opening the cabinet doors. The first aid kit sits there in a big red bag.
I grab it and place it on the counter, searching through it for some disinfectant and bandages.
“Why are you doing this?” Shepherd's question has me pausing.
Turning to look at him, I blink. “Because you're hurt.”
“But why do you care?” he asks, his face void of its usual playfulness.
I divert my gaze back down to the supplies. I’m asking myself the same question.
But I know why. It’s because of that fucking photo. I wish I didn’t see it, because now I can’t just see them as the assholes who upended my life.
It would make everything a whole hell of a lot easier if I did.
