Severed [GB + SB]

Seventeen: Don't Ruin the Surprise

SATURDAY. Morning.

Someone was taunting me.

Really, that's the only explanation for the scent of coffee that was wafting over me as I slept, and not just coffee, but the special blend from the café on Gadsden that is kind of like crack. I was coming to consciousness rapidly — too rapidly, like a diver surfacing too quickly, and my sleep bends were characterized by severe crankiness instead of crippling muscle cramps. That's really my only excuse for practically shoving Nate out of bed. He rolled over with a snarl and buried his head back in the pillow as I gave up and just climbed over him, not even trying to be gentle with placement of hands or feet, or weight distribution. He muttered something angrily into the pillow, and it briefly crossed my mind that sharing his bed wasn't an unusual situation if he was responding like this instinctively and not even waking up. That just fueled my crankiness, along with the feeling that I really didn't have any right to be jealous, but it was too dang early for me to be the bigger person. I growled at him to shut his gob and then hit the floor with both feet and nothing else, which is kind of a miracle considering how groggy I was.

I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth and then went on the hunt— with only a brief side-eye glance at Nate and Kota, worn out and unconscious and sprawled across my bed, which was a good look for both of them — because I needed a cup of coffee now. I wandered out the door and down the hall towards the kitchen, bleary-eyed and scratching my scalp, and made a beeline towards the glass dispenser thing — pot, it's called a coffee pot — and debated whether I should take the time to find a mug or just drink straight from it. My brain vaguely registered that there were others present in the room. I had just decided on straight from the pot when Victor's rich baritone informed me that mugs were in the cabinet above. I grunted out a thanks and dug through the cabinet, knocking puny mugs out of the way until I found one that could hold an acceptable amount.

"That's a cereal bowl," I heard vaguely from behind me.

"It has a handle," I scowled at the ceramic receptacle in my hand rather than take the time to show my disapproval to the source. "That makes it fair game for coffee." I didn't bother with any other arguments, my point was solid. My dark goddess splashed into the white mug-bowl, releasing another cloud of heavenly scent, and I moaned in pleasure as I lifted it towards my mouth, anticipating the hot deliciousness awaiting me.

"Holy fuck..." I heard, and it sounded an awful lot like Brandon. I took in a mouthful of life-giving liquid — because priorities — before spinning in place and eyeing my audience.

Apparently the Toma team had come for breakfast.

I gave them all a once-over as I leaned back against the counter and lifted my right-size vessel to my lips — having to use both hands to hold it — and took another sip. I nodded my approval. Marc and Brandon were looking fine as hell for this time of the morning, standing over by the stove — apparently I do have a thing for guys in aprons — while Raven, Corey, and Victor were all sitting around the dining room table I think I walked right past to reach the coffee maker, and Axel was in mid-stride, carrying food over from the refrigerator to the table. Victor appeared to be showered and fully dressed in his normal clothes, but the others were wearing what I can only describe as work clothes. Worn-out jeans or raggedy cargo pants — some even had paint splattered on them — and faded, frayed t-shirts that might be considered "too tight" if one were a blind, emotionless robot unable to appreciate fine art. I studied the way the fabric adhered to their upper arms and how tight it pulled across their respective chests, and continued to sip my coffee in blissful silence.

"Uhm... do you want some breakfast?" Marc asked tentatively, and I focused my gaze on him. His multicolored eyes really popped in the early morning light pouring into the room, and his dark brown hair was tousled like he'd run his fingers through it a few times. His t-shirt was on inside-out, the apron obscuring whatever design was bleeding through it, and a black cord with a silver-plated sand dollar attached hung around his neck, something I think he wore all the time but my brain wasn't exactly going full-bore yet. He had a spatula in one hand, and an oven mitt on the other for steadying the big cast-iron skillet on the stove top. I let my eyes trail down his broad shoulders and chest, lingering on specific highlights that caught my eye: the jut of his collarbones, the narrowness of his hips under the apron and the ties that looped around his midsection twice before knotting in the back, the musculature of his denim-encased legs.