Categories > Original > Romance > A Kitten In a Dog-Eat-Dog World
Chapter 4
I stare at him for a moment, taking this opportunity to drink in his features. He has delicate features, but still manly. His raven hair is shaggy, covering half of one of his eyes, and remarkably clean. And those eyes… so clear and crisp, with intelligence well beyond his years. He’s not overly buff, but just right. His body shape is more one of a soccer guy than a football guy. His clothes aren’t the cutting edge, more for comfort than style, but they aren’t torn or dirty like most people’s living on the streets.
“Well?” he asks. I realize I’m supposed to answer, and yet instead I’m ogling my potential ally. This can’t be good.
“Er…” I gulped. “Sure. One day, and then we’ll see.”
He smiles. “Great!” he says enthusiastically. I frown at him. He’s homeless. Why is he smiling? Okay, so I know my train of thought makes no sense, but right now I’m in a bad mood.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Now what about those resources? All I’ve had today is some baby’s cereal snack.” I don’t mean to be so grumpy. I really do appreciate the woman’s donation, but right about now, some turkey covered in rich gravy, steaming from just being cooked, would be just right. Stop that, I scold myself. My mouth is watering, but my body is shaking from lack of food.
He’s watching me amusedly. “Let me guess. It’s something rich and hot, right?”
I nod sheepishly. He smiles. “Well, to celebrate, we’re going out!” he grins.
I freeze before I realize he’s talking about eating out, not dating. “Can you really afford it?” I ask dubiously. “Aren’t you homeless?”
“I choose to be homeless,” he says vaguely. “There’s this really great place on First, that has comfort food. We have to go in the side door though, because there are cameras positioned towards the front door.” He examines me then, tilting my chin up with his finger and looking directly at me with his piercing eyes. “Are you still wearing the clothes you left in?”
“W-what?” I stammer. How does he know I ran away?
“You know what I said,” he sighs. “I mean, come on. It’s sort of obvious. You’re barely old enough to have curves,” he adds wryly.
“Excuse me?” I ask, stepping away. He had said it in the nicest way possible, but it was still offensive. Of course I had curves! I wasn’t a baby any more! How old did he think I was?
He could tell I was upset. “But you’re beautiful…” he stammered, trying to patch it up. “And you definitely do have curves. In fact-“
“Just stop,” I sigh. “There happens to be a very big hole that you are currently digging yourself into.” That shuts him up.
“I was just trying to help,” he mutters.
“I know,” I sigh.
“Anyway, answer my question,” he says shortly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve only been out here for a day, roughly, not counting today.”
‘You need new clothes,” he says simply.
“I need food,” I reply irritably.
“Not before we go shopping,” he says, sounding incredibly gay. I smirk.
“Food.”
“Shopping.”
“Food.”
“Let’s just put it this way, little miss stubborn, if you go eat food without going shopping before hand, that may be the last meal you eat that isn’t cooked by a foster parent. I’ve also heard that they never go out. Not even to McDonalds,” he adds nonchalantly.
I try to gauge how truthful he is being. He smiles, his green eyes unreadable. “Fine,” I mutter as my stomach growls quite embarrassingly. He chuckles.
“We won’t take long,” he promises.
He is wrong. He drags me into a store on the good side of New York. The lady starts blabbering on and on about how so many clothes they had would work for my body shape and color and so on. She drags me into the dressing room (do I have no privacy?) and gives me a pile of clothes.
“Now, Dearie, I want to see every last outfit on you,” she says with a finality that makes me know I couldn’t get out of here. The glint in her eye tells me I’m dealing with someone even more stubborn than me and my ally put together.
That’s when I realize. I don’t know his name. “What’s your name?” I ask curiously as I pull a shirt on. He answers from outside the door.
“Adam,” he says. “You?” But he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic when he asks me.
“Wren,” I reply, cringing and waiting for the reply (a bird?) everyone always had.
“I like that name,” he says, and I can tell he’s smiling to himself.
“Why?” I ask incredulously.
He chuckles. “Does there have to be a reason?”
Yes. “No.” I pull on the jeggings and examine myself critically in the mirror. I’ve always hated tight fitting outfits, and this definitely fits the category. “This isn’t even practical!”
“Let me see,” he commands and I open the door with a pout. He laughs again at my expression. “It’s fine. We’re getting it.”
“But what about the other gazillion outfits?” I ask skeptically.
“Have some faith!” he protests. “She won’t be bothering us. I couldn’t let you faint from lack of food, could I?”
“I won’t faint,” I say crisply. I have hypoglycemia, which makes me shaky and grumpy, and sometimes I do faint. But I won’t. I’m getting used to the shakiness, and have tried to ignore it. I’ve succeeded…until now.
“You’re shaking,” he frowns. “Are you cold?”
“Food,” is all I say.
“Exactly.”
I’ve lost the argument…for now.
I stare at him for a moment, taking this opportunity to drink in his features. He has delicate features, but still manly. His raven hair is shaggy, covering half of one of his eyes, and remarkably clean. And those eyes… so clear and crisp, with intelligence well beyond his years. He’s not overly buff, but just right. His body shape is more one of a soccer guy than a football guy. His clothes aren’t the cutting edge, more for comfort than style, but they aren’t torn or dirty like most people’s living on the streets.
“Well?” he asks. I realize I’m supposed to answer, and yet instead I’m ogling my potential ally. This can’t be good.
“Er…” I gulped. “Sure. One day, and then we’ll see.”
He smiles. “Great!” he says enthusiastically. I frown at him. He’s homeless. Why is he smiling? Okay, so I know my train of thought makes no sense, but right now I’m in a bad mood.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Now what about those resources? All I’ve had today is some baby’s cereal snack.” I don’t mean to be so grumpy. I really do appreciate the woman’s donation, but right about now, some turkey covered in rich gravy, steaming from just being cooked, would be just right. Stop that, I scold myself. My mouth is watering, but my body is shaking from lack of food.
He’s watching me amusedly. “Let me guess. It’s something rich and hot, right?”
I nod sheepishly. He smiles. “Well, to celebrate, we’re going out!” he grins.
I freeze before I realize he’s talking about eating out, not dating. “Can you really afford it?” I ask dubiously. “Aren’t you homeless?”
“I choose to be homeless,” he says vaguely. “There’s this really great place on First, that has comfort food. We have to go in the side door though, because there are cameras positioned towards the front door.” He examines me then, tilting my chin up with his finger and looking directly at me with his piercing eyes. “Are you still wearing the clothes you left in?”
“W-what?” I stammer. How does he know I ran away?
“You know what I said,” he sighs. “I mean, come on. It’s sort of obvious. You’re barely old enough to have curves,” he adds wryly.
“Excuse me?” I ask, stepping away. He had said it in the nicest way possible, but it was still offensive. Of course I had curves! I wasn’t a baby any more! How old did he think I was?
He could tell I was upset. “But you’re beautiful…” he stammered, trying to patch it up. “And you definitely do have curves. In fact-“
“Just stop,” I sigh. “There happens to be a very big hole that you are currently digging yourself into.” That shuts him up.
“I was just trying to help,” he mutters.
“I know,” I sigh.
“Anyway, answer my question,” he says shortly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve only been out here for a day, roughly, not counting today.”
‘You need new clothes,” he says simply.
“I need food,” I reply irritably.
“Not before we go shopping,” he says, sounding incredibly gay. I smirk.
“Food.”
“Shopping.”
“Food.”
“Let’s just put it this way, little miss stubborn, if you go eat food without going shopping before hand, that may be the last meal you eat that isn’t cooked by a foster parent. I’ve also heard that they never go out. Not even to McDonalds,” he adds nonchalantly.
I try to gauge how truthful he is being. He smiles, his green eyes unreadable. “Fine,” I mutter as my stomach growls quite embarrassingly. He chuckles.
“We won’t take long,” he promises.
He is wrong. He drags me into a store on the good side of New York. The lady starts blabbering on and on about how so many clothes they had would work for my body shape and color and so on. She drags me into the dressing room (do I have no privacy?) and gives me a pile of clothes.
“Now, Dearie, I want to see every last outfit on you,” she says with a finality that makes me know I couldn’t get out of here. The glint in her eye tells me I’m dealing with someone even more stubborn than me and my ally put together.
That’s when I realize. I don’t know his name. “What’s your name?” I ask curiously as I pull a shirt on. He answers from outside the door.
“Adam,” he says. “You?” But he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic when he asks me.
“Wren,” I reply, cringing and waiting for the reply (a bird?) everyone always had.
“I like that name,” he says, and I can tell he’s smiling to himself.
“Why?” I ask incredulously.
He chuckles. “Does there have to be a reason?”
Yes. “No.” I pull on the jeggings and examine myself critically in the mirror. I’ve always hated tight fitting outfits, and this definitely fits the category. “This isn’t even practical!”
“Let me see,” he commands and I open the door with a pout. He laughs again at my expression. “It’s fine. We’re getting it.”
“But what about the other gazillion outfits?” I ask skeptically.
“Have some faith!” he protests. “She won’t be bothering us. I couldn’t let you faint from lack of food, could I?”
“I won’t faint,” I say crisply. I have hypoglycemia, which makes me shaky and grumpy, and sometimes I do faint. But I won’t. I’m getting used to the shakiness, and have tried to ignore it. I’ve succeeded…until now.
“You’re shaking,” he frowns. “Are you cold?”
“Food,” is all I say.
“Exactly.”
I’ve lost the argument…for now.
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