Gluttony, page 8
“I’ll get the crutch,” Neveah says as she scurries to the other side of the room.
Zemira looks up at me, the anger always morphing her features gone. Anxiety flickers in her brown eyes. I want to tell her everything’s going to be okay, but I bite my tongue. She’s not staring at me like she wants to kill me, so I’ll be damned if I ruin that with my words that usually infuriate her.
“Okay, honey,” Neveah says. “I’ll hold the crutch until you’re standing, then you can take it. God will hold your other arm. We can do this together.”
As Zemira slides out of the bed, she whines. Just like usual. The physical therapists usually come to help her exercise and move around, but this is her first attempt at leaving the room. I slip my arm around her tiny waist to keep her upright and use my other hand to grip her bicep that’s as thin as a twig. Neveah helps get the crutch under her arm, and we take a few tentative steps forward. As soon as Zemira realizes she won’t fall, she takes surer steps toward the door.
“Do you want me to let go?” I whisper against her short, dark, curly hair that’s been cut crudely.
“No,” she breathes. “I’ll fall.”
We continue down the hall. Zemira grunts, but manages a smile or two when some nurses clap at how well she’s doing. Pride surges in my chest. She’s little and fragile, but she’s tough. Thank fuck.
“I want to go outside,” Zemira says, breathing heavily. “Please.”
“It’s raining,” Neveah groans. “Not today, sweetie.”
Zemira deflates, and I tense.
“Get a damn umbrella,” I bark at Neveah. “Find something to cover her cast. She’s been stuck in her room for over two months. If she wants to go outside, we’ll get her outside.”
Zemira flashes me a thankful smile that does wonders to my ego. I’m God, and if Neveah has something to utter against me, I’ll make sure she regrets it as she sits sadly at the unemployment agency.
“Fine,” Neveah concedes. “There’s a covered area on the third floor. We can take her there. I’ll need to grab a blanket first.” She turns to Zemira. “Will you be okay for a few minutes?”
She nods, and Neveah rushes off like her pants are on fire. Heaven forbid I spend two minutes alone with Zemira.
“Thank you,” she mutters as soon as Neveah is out of sight. “She’s a little overbearing. I know she means well.”
“It’s no problem—”
I get cut off when she lets out a choked sound. The headaches consume her sometimes to the point she blacks out. I panic, fearing she’s about to faint, and pull her slight body against me. The crutch clatters to the floor. Her fingers grip my T-shirt tightly, and she rests her cheek against my chest.
“I don’t feel well,” she murmurs, her entire body shaking.
“Want me to take you back?”
“I want to go outside.” Her voice trembles.
“Then we’ll go outside. Can I carry you?”
She nods, and I easily scoop her up. The cast makes her leg heavier, but nothing I can’t handle. I glance down at her. Her eyes are closed, and her brows are furled in pain. It kills me that she hurts so much.
I carry her down the hallway to the elevator. We make it to the third floor, and I follow the signs that lead to the outdoor sitting area. It’s drizzling, but not cold, despite the season. I walk over to a bench and sit with her in my lap.
“Great view,” she deadpans.
I laugh. Our view is of another building. “Spectacular.”
A small giggle escapes her—the first I’ve ever heard from her. My blood slows in my veins. I want to hear that sound over and over again.
“I hate you for doing this to me,” she whispers.
Guilt smashes into me with the force of an F-5 tornado. “If it’s any consolation, I hate me for doing this to you too.”
The door opens, and Neveah appears wearing a frown.
“You just couldn’t wait?” she chides as she sets to covering Zemira with a warm, freshly heated blanket.
“And miss another second of this view?” Zemira asks. “Never.”
We all chuckle.
“When you start walking more on your own, they’ll let you leave,” Neveah reminds Zemira. “You’ll be free to go.”
Zemira stiffens. “I’m trying.” She lets out a sigh. “Feel free to go check on your other patients.”
Neveah shoots me a warning look that says she doesn’t give a goddamn about my money and she’ll cut my nuts straight from my body if I hurt one hair on her head. I simply nod. She leaves, and Zemira relaxes in my arms.
We’re quiet as we listen to the rain pick up. I inhale her hair that smells like almonds and honey. The staples in her head only stayed in for about ten days. Since then, I made sure they washed her in the most expensive shit I could find rather than the cheap hospital-grade shampoo they tried to use.
“I’m afraid,” Zemira says softly.
“Of me?”
She scoffs. “No. Definitely not you. You’re just an asshole who runs red lights for fun and mows down beautiful black girls with amazing hair.”
“I’m the dick around here who stole your gorgeous hair. Got it.”
She lets out a sigh. “It was gorgeous. You should have seen it.”
“I did,” I murmur.
When she was screeching at me to get the snake out of her hair. I also saw her fucking brain. Not a night goes by where I don’t think about exactly how it looks. It fucking haunts me.
“I’m scared about what happens next,” she says softly. “I was spinning all these plates at once. So carefully. My job. My rent. School. I couldn’t afford to stumble, much less get hit by a car and spend two months in a coma. I don’t even know if I have a home anymore.”
I’m not sure you could call it a home to begin with, but this I can assure her of.
“It’s been taken care of.”
She sits up and stares at me, her dark brows furrowed together. I’m happy as fuck her face has healed from the cuts and bruises.
“What has?” she asks.
“Your apartment. It’s still there. Your things are safe.” It’s a shithole, but I bite my tongue.
“I never paid the rent.”
“No, but some asshole who runs red lights for fun and mows down beautiful black girls with amazing hair did.”
She smirks, and I’m thankful my morbid joke didn’t get me a slap to the face. “I’m not saying thank you,” she tells me, her brow arching in challenge. “But I’m happy I still have a home to go back to. It’s looking like it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
As she settles back on my chest, I can’t help but wrap an arm around her, pulling her closer. She doesn’t fight me. My heart hammers. I’ve been with a fuck lot of girls, but not a single one has made me want to hang on her every word. Not a single one has ever had me so invested in their happiness.
I want, so fucking badly, for Zemira Coleman to be happy.
“Go away,” Zemira grumbles from the bed. “We’re done here. I’m leaving. I’m no longer your problem.”
Ignoring her, I gather her purse from the table. After the accident, they brought the things she had with her up to the hospital. Her purse is ratty and old. I make a note to have Thurston order more for her.
“Do we need to call you a cab?” Neveah asks.
“Yes,” Zemira says at the same time I say, “Nope.”
Zemira glowers at me. “I hate you.”
Shrugging, I motion for her to follow me. “You still need a ride, and I’d feel better if I made sure you got home safely.”
“You just want to see where I live,” she grumbles.
“Been there, done that, have the dirty shirt to prove it,” I bite back. Her complex is old and shitty. People loiter around everywhere like they don’t have better fucking things to do. The hallways smell like piss and cigarette smoke. Stains all over the hall carpets. Holes in the walls. I felt like I contracted nine diseases simply walking to her apartment. I was shocked to discover her apartment was nicer inside than getting into it. Clean and decorated with cute little elephant figurines.
She snarls at me. “Asshole.”
Neveah fusses over her as I lead the way out of the hospital where my car waits, parked in the fire lane. Security is writing a ticket, but before they can finish, I slap a handful of hundreds in the guard’s hand.
“I don’t have time for this today, good sir,” I say in a clipped tone.
He nods and crumples up the ticket. “Don’t do it again.”
“Never,” I grumble as I hit the unlock button on my key fob.
Sergio lights up, and when I hit the other button, my scissor doors glide up. I glance over at Neveah who gapes at my car, clearly impressed. About damn time. When I look at Zemira, she’s frowning.
“I’m not riding in that thing,” she hisses.
“You don’t want to ride in Sergio?” I ask in astonishment. Everyone wants to ride in my Ferrari—fucking everyone—even her frigid-as-fuck nurse. “Nonsense.”
She shakes her head, real fear glimmering in her brown eyes. “It’ll go too fast. I don’t want to.”
Fuck.
I dial Thurston. “Bring me my Escalade.” After I hang up, I toss her purse in Sergio and close the doors. Once it’s locked up, I motion for her to walk with me. “Thurston is bringing one of my other cars. It’s safe.”
“Maybe you should stay and wait here,” Neveah urges Zemira.
“I’m just taking her to the coffee shop right there,” I grumble to her stalker nurse. “Go help people or something.”
The good nurse flips me off.
Zemira
My head is killing me, and I’m freaking out. I’m no longer under the care of the hospital. And much to my non-surprise, my bills have been paid. I knew it was God. I feel like everything he messed up for me when I got hit is his problem. He’s lucky I don’t sue him.
I suppress a groan.
You don’t sue a man like God. Powerful people like him own this city and everyone in it. It would be stupid. I just want to put this entire incident behind me.
I’m lost in thought when he comes back with a tray full of things. Iced coffees, lattes, cinnamon rolls, and a plate of donuts.
“I just had breakfast,” I complain.
He shrugs. “You could eat again.”
I wait for him to help, but he makes no move to eat, sipping on one of the iced coffees instead. Frowning at him, I realize I’ve never really seen him eat. Maybe he’s not God, but some demon sent from Hell. Like one of those succubus demons, hell-bent on sucking the life out of me. Demons don’t need to eat or sleep. I’ve seen him do neither.
“Don’t you have a job or like school or something?” I grumble as I pick up a latte.
He laughs. “Or something.”
Cryptic obnoxious douchebag.
“Whatever.”
His smile falls, and his brows furrow together. Why does he have to be so hot? It makes me hate him more. This would all be so much easier if he was a toad. But no. He has to be a walking male model, tempting me from sanity with his wicked smile and bedroom eyes.
“I go to St. Augustine.” He sighs. “And I say that loosely. I’m enrolled, but I have yet to go to one class.”
“Oh?”
“And I don’t have a job. Yet.”
“A lot of yets,” I observe. “So you spend all your free time, which is a lot, stalking the person you nearly killed?”
He winces, and guilt rises up inside me, which is stupid. This guy is the one who should feel guilty, not me.
“I have an obsessive personality,” he mutters, his gaze darting outside.
I take the moment to stare at him. His dark hair is tousled, but in a way that seems as though he did it on purpose. I don’t like the way my stomach clenches as I study the sharp angles of his jaw, or the way his Adam’s apple protrudes from his neck. I certainly don’t like the way my gaze gets snared by the way he licks his lips absently.
Disgusting.
Staring at him like he’s someone I could be with—someone I could kiss and make love to is a testament to the fact I have a head injury. This spoiled boy ran me over because he didn’t think red lights or speed limits were meant for him.
He turns his head and catches me looking at him. Instead of giving me his usual maddening smirk, his eyes are soft. “Z…”
I suck in a breath, waiting for him to continue. If he tells me sorry one more time, I’m going to throw a donut at him.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks, finishing his thought.
I blink at him in confusion. “Why do you care?”
We both scowl at one another. Apparently that’s the million-dollar question.
As soon as we enter the corridor of my building, the smell makes my stomach roil. I’m a little surprised to see they’ve removed the old, crappy carpet and repainted. But even with the sudden update, I can still smell the building’s age and mildew lurking in the air.
“I paid them to clean this place up,” God grumbles to himself. “How the fuck it still smells like piss is beyond me.”
I don’t have time to get irritated over the fact that this stalker paid to redo my apartment hallways because a wave of dizziness washes over me, causing me to falter on my feet. If it weren’t for the crutch under one arm and God’s solid presence on my other side, I’d have fallen to the floor. I hate that he’s my literal rock to lean on. He did this to me, and I have become dependent on him.
Until I walk through that door and lock him out of my life for good.
The thought feels powerful for all of three seconds. Then, it fizzles out. I’ll truly be all alone again. No one will care about my wellbeing. If I fall, no one picks me up.
When we reach my door, God pushes my key into the lock and guides me inside. My apartment smells like cinnamon and oranges. I could cry at how happy the familiar scent makes me. God sits my purse down on my coffee table and releases me.
“Do you need anything?” he asks.
My head throbs. “My medicine. I feel another headache coming on.”
“Sit down,” he orders in a bossy tone that grates on my nerves.
I start to argue, but a sharp pain lances through my head. Darkness floods my vision, and I feel like I’m spinning. I’m going to fall.
Strong arms wrap around me, catching me before that happens. I let out a pained moan. He picks me up, and I clench my eyes shut. This thundering in my skull won’t let up. It’s making me crazy.
I burst into tears. God rushes us through the apartment, then gently lays me down on my bed. The mattress is lumpy and hard. I already miss the soft hospital one. Curling into myself, I attempt to hide from the pain. God returns quickly with a pill and a glass of water. I choke down the medicine without opening my eyes. The crying won’t stop. It’s like two months’ worth of frustration and pain are exploding from me. My shoes are gently pulled from me, then he tugs a blanket over me.
This is it.
He’ll leave me to my own devices.
Good riddance.
I cry harder, hating the idea of being all alone. The bed sinks beside me, and the tall, muscled, reckless, spoiled boy climbs into bed with me. He curls his large, warm frame around me and threads his fingers with mine.
He doesn’t say a word. Simply holds me.
I relax into his embrace, letting out a heavy, tearful sigh. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with letting this unhealthy attachment to God go. For now, I cling to him, because he’s the only person in my life at the moment who cares enough to be here in this bed, feeding me medicine, chasing away my sadness.
I wake to the smell of bacon. My stomach grumbles, and I look around the space. It’s my bedroom. For so long, in the orphanage, I dreamed of a place like this—a place that was all mine. But as I stare at the peeling paint and inhale the lingering scent of mildew my cinnamon and oranges flameless candles can’t cover up, I realize this apartment is no more my home than my shared room at the orphanage. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when you realize you don’t belong in this world. That there’s no small piece—even as insignificant as an apartment—that truly belongs to you.
Climbing out of my bed, I’m grateful to find my crutch propped against the bedside table. I hobble over to my bathroom and use the restroom for the first time without help. My heart clenches. I miss Neveah’s overbearing, hovering mother bear persona. As I wash my hands, I allow myself to look at my reflection for the first time since the accident. The entire hospital stay, I refused. Now, as I stare at myself, I realize it was a bad idea.
My hair.
Tears prickle at my eyes. My once bouncy, curly natural hair is gone. The people at the hospital didn’t even cut it straight. It’s patchy in places, longer in other areas. It looks awful. A hot tear streaks down my cheek as I run my fingertip along the gnarly flesh that was stapled together. It’s still swollen and puffy, but I’ve been sewn back together like some Frankenstein girl. My knees buckle, and my hands shake. Before I can collapse, God appears behind me.
Tall. Strong. Handsome.
I hate him.
His brown eyes sear into mine in the mirror. He’s unsmiling and his jaw clenches. I don’t recoil when his arm wraps around my middle to keep me from falling. Despite hating him, I lean against his solid chest.
“I’m ugly now,” I whisper, horrified at my reflection.
He tenses. “You could never be ugly. You’re beautiful.”
I hiss at him like a feral cat. “You made me this way. Leave me alone, liar.”
Roughly, he yanks the crutch away and tosses it into my bedroom. Then, he grips my hips, twisting me around, and picks me up. He sits me on the edge of the sink and steps between my parted legs. Heat burns through me at the intense way he regards me. As though I’m a little chicken bone with some meat left on it and the last morsel of food on this earth. Like he wants to suck me dry and then gnaw on me.
“I’m not a liar, Z,” he rumbles, his voice deep and gravelly. His hand reaches up, and he clutches the side of my neck as his thumb slides along my jaw. “You’re beautiful.”
