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96

The kitchen reminded me of the West Wing’s, only smaller. The fridge was stocked for a year-long lockdown, like the cupboards.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmured when I found several bags of seafood in the freezer.

Since I’d missed my dinner order, I grabbed one of the seafood bags and put it in the microwaves before going back to the fridge. The autopilot didn’t consult me to take out my phone and type a text.

“No six-packs. Lousy host.”

I only reacted after sending it. Shit! I didn’t want to contact him! There was no way the control freak didn’t know I was there, but I didn’t want to make any fuss about it either.

He didn’t reply right away. Good. He was busy, surely enjoying Friday night with Mr. All Fours, so he wouldn’t see my text till morning. I didn’t intend to stay there more than one night, so I’d be gone by the time he read my stupid joke.

Cooking always distracted me, and to make things even better, the flat TV past the table showed me the Lakers game had just started. I was lay
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