He heaved a huge sigh and sat up on my right, his movements fluid. He was definitely loaded. He reached for a bottle of water on the table and then examined it for a long moment before finally taking a drink. 

"So," he began. "So indeed, just what it says. What more do you want to know, chérie?"

I eyed him skeptically. "You can do better than that."

"I'd rather not," he allowed, looking at the water with distaste. "I hate water. I know, I shouldn't, but I do."

"Reed."

He sighed again dramatically but I was used to his theatrics. "So that day I came to get you. It wasn't because of the perverted kid, or the psycho mom, though of course they were concerning factors."

I barely remembered that day.

"It was, they had . . . " he faltered, and I saw how difficult this was for him to tell me. It didn't stop me from making him do it, but still. "I knew a guy, I thought he was a friend of mine. He had some pictures one night, he was showing around, and one was of you." He leaned over with his elbows on his knees, bringing both hands down his face and then clasping them, not looking at me. His jaw was clenched. 

"What do you mean?" Acid burned my throat.

"He was advertising you, and these other girls." He was angry now, but keeping calm. "Like, for this . . . he was involved in this whole sex trafficking thing. Spicer was part of it. They just targeted girls in the system and called them runaways. Especially, especially . . . " he gestured, unable to finish.

"Especially someone like me, because of my face," I finished for him. "No one cares about us even if we aren't disfigured, right?"

"You're not disfigured, Addy," he said firmly, looking at me now. I was glad he was sitting on my good side.

"I was then," I said, somewhat truthfully, thinking of how I'd looked before the reconstructive surgeries. My mind was trying to process all of this. "So, wow. This is crazy." I thought of the way the father was always watching me, licking his lips. Sick fuck.

He took my hand. "When you opened the door that day . . . " he shivered. "Your eyes were dead, Addy. I was afraid we were too late."

"Yeah, well, the situation was dire," I said, not without bitterness.

He let go and lay back down, worn out by the telling. "They were going to take you that night." He swallowed and closed his eyes, his jaw set again. "Over my dead body."

I had a lump in my throat, and ran my hand over his hair again automatically. "Damn," I said. "That's, I mean, what if you hadn't found out?"

He laughed without humor. "You cannot think that way. You can however think that they did not and will not get away with what they've done." His accent got more pronounced when he was emotional and it was pretty endearing.

"You sound so French right now," I teased him gently. I wasn't taking the situation lightly, which he knew.

"It was very upsetting," he said. "Oui, it's a wonder I didn't kill that kid on the spot when he showed me your picture. You have no idea the restraint I was forced to show in order to get more information, and not blow my chance to move you." He smiled up at me, and it was crooked and sad. 

"I'm okay," I reminded him. My free hand rested on his shoulder and I squeezed. 

"Yes. You're safe today, and for tomorrow. And for all the tomorrows, chérie." His voice was fading. "I don't even want to talk about it anymore. Which is tres bien, considering I'm not supposed to."

"I was probably on sale," I mused, and he shook his head a little at me. I wasn't down on myself. I was just being sarcastic.

"Stop," he said, yawning hugely and covering my hand on his shoulder with his own, which was rough and familiar.

"'Kay," I said amiably. "So did you kill that kid that liked to jack off in front of me or how did that work out?"

Even half asleep, he took my question in stride, though he let go my hand. "I didn't, no."

My eyebrows went up, not that he was looking. "But someone did?"

He shrugged a teensy bit. "I've only heard rumors, couldn't really say."

I considered that. "Fact or fiction?"

"Mmm," he said as a non answer, letting sleep claim him a bit faster than I believed.

"Faker," I said, but softly in case he really was asleep. "My hero." I read the rest of the article, though it had little further information.

I texted Bella back. 

I looked down at him and smirked to myself.

I shook my head. She would never learn that a lot was two words. 

I tried to imagine what that kind of life would have been like but my mind shied away from it. Probably a good thing.

I looked online for some more info about what had happened to Spicer. His wife was mentioned in a different article, saying she was being held as well.

If I wasn't in our own form of witness protection, I would tell the cops or homeland security or whomever about her and the son, but as it was I was a shadow so my testimony would have to go ungiven. From the sound of it, though, they had all they needed.

Reed woke up later when I was changing his bandage, definitely in need of more pain medication. "This sucks," he said, sweating. He still tried to grin. "I need to go climbing."

I looked at him like he was crazy, which he was. "Sure," I said. "That's an intelligent desire."

"Not all my desires make sense, chérie," he admitted. "However I do desire food. I'm starving. Is that logical enough for you?" He winked as I gave him more pills.

"That's definitely logical."

We both loved food, probably because we'd both known real hunger and been unable to do anything about it. It's not like food had been abundant when I was growing up, but we'd always had enough to eat for the most part, even if it was rice and pasta and dollar store hot dogs. 

After my mom died, there were days I'd gone eating just the free meal I got at school, so we could afford formula for Essie. I was hungry then, and it was hard.

One foster family had enjoyed taking away food for imagined infractions. The father's favorite was wanting me to "get that look off my face". I was fourteen then, and the look on my face was despair, and the scarring didn't help the expression. 

I ate little those six months, and by little I mean sometimes a piece of bread a day, if that. The parents and their three birth kids were big by nature and ate around the clock. The kids themselves, though close to my age, were not exactly cruel but rather indifferent; they also had no empathy, which was a dangerous combination if you were at their mercy. Taking away food was the biggest punishment they could think of, and it was certainly effective.

They would sit and eat huge meals, several courses; salads with everything, stews and soups, giant loaves of sourdough bread, which I loved more than anything. Every meat dish imaginable, floating in gravy or thick sauce. Chocolate cake and pies and cookies always on the counter, within reach but I wasn't allowed to touch them.

I learned that very quickly and the lesson stuck no matter how hungry I grew to be.

Pasta salads and macaroni salads abounded, and they loved Italian, so add in everything from homemade pizza to lasagna, then sit me in a chair in the corner being made to watch, and you have a pretty picture of my life. "When you want to look pleasant and join the rest of the family for dinner, you may, Heidi."

I went from that place to a handful of others, a few of them decent, but gained little weight back. I hoarded and hid food but was often too scared to eat it for fear of being found out, even if there would have been no consequence, so I would usually just put it back before dawn. Even in places I was allowed to eat what I wanted, I often didn't out of anxiety. I mean, I didn't know that was what it was called, but I would get sick when I tried to eat, so I mostly stopped. In effect I was still hungry all the time.

One good place actually gave me a mini fridge in my room when they saw how much of an issue food was for me. It was a temporary placement though so I only got to stay there for two weeks.

When I landed at the Spicer manor, near starvation, the crazy mother kept trying to make me eat while she also freely beat me without restraint or remorse, which was confusing because clearly she didn't care about me. Now I could see she was trying to fatten me up like a lamb for slaughter. A fifteen year old that weighed eighty five pounds wasn't exactly sexy. Although that body type probably excited some of the sick fuckers.

Reed, of course, had been in foster care from the day he turned eight and his mother had the good grace to finally OD. He had been in America for two years at that point, living in a slum in Los Angeles. Her dying was the best thing she'd ever done for him, freeing him from further abuse from her and those she allowed to harm him. 

Unfortunately most of the places he got sent only furthered his abuse. He was resilient, however, and hadn't stayed in the system for long.

He, too, had definitely spent much of his life thinking about food.

Which was where we were now. "Pizza?" I asked. We made our own; I wasn't near a pizza place. I wasn't near anything. "And salad and bread and cake?"

"Mmm. Yes, please. I'll help in a moment." But his eyes were not open anymore.

"Sure," I said, going into the kitchen.

Someone knocked on the door, three hard raps.