Page 7 of Romancing the Clone (Sunrise Cantina #3)

“Right, thanks.” Glad I’m not a murderer or anything. Hefting the bags higher, I head down the hall, following the sound of coughing. It sounds raw and battered, her coughing, and I inwardly wince at how much her throat must be hurting.

I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. That’s not a surprise. She probably thinks it’s me again (and she’d be right). I test the doorknob, and it turns in my hand, the door cracking open.

Again, glad I’m not a murderer.

I’ve come with a plan, though. I know she’s got a carinoux guarding her, and so in addition to the food order I picked up, I also bought a huge haunch of fresh meat. I’m hoping that buys me enough time to befriend him, or I’m going to regret today immensely.

Letting myself in as quietly as possible, I step inside and wrinkle my nose at the stale sweat smell hanging in the air.

The window in the room is closed, the lights off, and everything in the small apartment is a mess, clothing strewn on the floor and dishes piled on the counter.

Not a surprise, given that she’s sick. There are two huge racks in the living room, one with empty pans for resting cooling pastries, and another full of pots and pans used for her business.

The carinoux pads out of the bedroom and immediately begins snarling at me. He remains in the bedroom doorway, his loyalty to his mistress obvious.

“I know,” I say in a calm voice. I’m determined not to show fear, because I’m not doing anything wrong. “I’m going to help your mistress. We’re going to make a nice soup to help her feel better and I’m going to bake for her and feed you. Would you like that, friend?”

The cat-lizard continues to snarl, but he doesn’t move any closer. Guarding his person is apparently the priority. Okay, I can work around that.

I squeeze into the crowded little kitchen and find her teapot, flicking it on to warm after adding water.

I glance over the counter at the open door to the bedroom.

Inside, I can see Simone, who’s a huddled lump under her blankets.

She hasn’t even stirred at the noise I’m making, and I feel another twinge of pity for her.

The tea—a light herbal blend—perfumes the air and I add a dollop of honey to make it soothing for her throat.

First, though, I’ve got to feed the carinoux so he doesn’t eat my throat.

“Are you hungry, friend?” I keep my voice sweet as I pull out the haunch of meat and start cutting it into cubes.

I don’t know if he eats it raw or cooked, so I decide to cook it.

I heat a pan and sear the meat, and I have to admit it smells pretty damned good.

I glance over at the carinoux, and he’s licking his chops, his gaze on me.

Poor baby is probably scared his human is sick, and he’s hungry, to boot.

I fill a bowl with the seared steak cubes and set it on the floor.

He just stares at it, not moving from his spot. He licks his chops again.

“I can bring it to you.” I pick up the bowl and take a few careful, slow steps toward the bedroom and then slide it toward him.

He immediately starts to wolf down the food, ravenous, and I feel bad for the little guy.

He’s small for a carinoux, only about the size of a small pony instead of a large one.

“Now, tea for your mom,” I say, keeping my tone sweet. I pick up the mug and move toward the bedroom, but the creature makes it obvious that I am not going to get past him. He loses interest in his bowl and begins to growl again.

New tactic, then.

I remain where I am, holding the tea. “Hey, Simone. Wake up. I made you tea.”

She comes to slowly, as I knew she would, and squints up at me from the bed. Her face looks even more hollow than yesterday, her hair a stringy mess. Her pajamas are soaked with sweat again. “What…”

Simone starts coughing again, the sound deep and painful.

“I made you tea and I fed your pet. Can you tell him I’m okay so I can give this to you before it gets cold?”

She eyes me for a moment, then pats the bed. “C’mere, Pluto.”

I cautiously move forward as the carinoux goes to her side. He watches me warily as I approach, so I offer my hand for him to sniff and wait for his reaction. When there is none, I reach out and hesitantly scratch his chin. “I’m a friend, Pluto. I just want to help your mom.”

He licks my fingers, then looks at Simone.

“Good boy,” she tells him. “I don’t know why she’s here either, but it’s okay.”

It’s a start, at least. “You can be mad at me later, but I’m here to take care of you. Come on. Sit up and drink this. It’ll make your throat feel better.”

She struggles to sit up, weak, and I put my arm around her back to help.

Pluto watches us for a moment longer, then returns to his food, as if he’s decided I’m all right now.

I bunch pillows up behind Simone and then add some folded towels when there aren’t enough pillows to sufficiently prop her up.

She holds the cup in her hands, her eyes heavy, and takes a sip. Then another.

“More,” I say. “Drink the whole thing, and then I’m going to have you sip some water. You’re dehydrated.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re really sick. I’m allowed to be bossy.”

She just grunts. “Thanks for feeding Pluto. I fed him yesterday, but I didn’t have the strength to go down to the store for more today.”

“It’s fine.” I glance over at the carinoux, who’s licking his bowl. “So, Pluto, huh? Like the cartoon dog?”

The look Simone gives me is withering. “Like the planet?”

“Are we still calling it a planet?”

“We are. We don’t judge based on size.”

“That makes one of us,” I joke, getting to my feet.

She continues slowly drinking the tea while I return to the kitchen to prep some vegetables and soup stock and toss them all into a pot.

I know plenty about baking, but cooking eludes me beyond putting things in a pan until they’re brown.

Straik has machines that do everything for us back on the ship, but I’d found a jar of homemade stock at the store and decided I’d make her soup.

I clean up the kitchen and do the dishes while it cooks, and I’m relieved to note that underneath the last few dishes (probably due to her being sick), the little kitchen is tidy and clean.

The carinoux watches me hopefully, licking his shining bowl, so I make another smaller batch of steak cubes and feed him again.

As I do, Simone watches me. “What are you doing here anyhow?”

“Well, right now I’m feeding your pet. I’m also making a soup and cleaning up your kitchen. Then I’m going to run back down to the store and pick up the rest of your groceries, and when I get back, I’m going to bake some cookies for you and sell them, because you need the money for a doctor.”

She manages a frown. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, clearly.” I stack the newly cleaned bowls and start chopping one of the green leafy vegetables I’d gotten at the store.

I have no idea what it tastes like, but after years of interstellar ship food, greens make my mouth water.

“You’re not allergic to anything, are you?

Checking before I add a bunch of fresh veggies to the soup. ”

“Not allergic,” she says, drinking more tea. Simone watches me work, and when I look up, her brow is furrowed. After a moment, she speaks. “Why are you being nice to me?”

I shouldn’t feel guilty at her question, but I do. I finish chopping the greens and dump them into the pot of boiling soup, giving it all a stir. “Because you have to make a living, and I guess I’m lucky where I landed. Lord Straik takes care of everything for his people.”

“He’s been your owner this whole time?”

I pause, pushing back a flood of bad memories. “No.”

“Then you’re about as lucky as the rest of us.”

It’s nice of her to say, even if it’s not necessarily true.

“I was rescued fairly quickly, which I’m grateful for every day.

” I don’t bring up the clone thing. Illegal clones are supposed to be euthanized, and I don’t know Simone well enough to trust her with the truth of who I am.

“Anyway, I admire your hustle, and I know I shouldn’t be a bitchy perfectionist. It’s hard for me to let go of things when they’re not done to my exact liking. ”

“Control issues and perfectionism as a trauma response. I get it.”

I jerk in surprise, looking over at her.

I’m about to protest that I don’t have trauma, but…

that’d be a lie. I don’t let mine dictate my life like Ruthie does, with her piercings and haircuts and clinginess.

Or…do I? Because I try my hardest to be the tidy one, the “together” one, the one that causes no problems and does everything by the book. The perfect one. Huh.

Maybe it is a trauma response.

Great. Now I’m going to be obsessing over my own actions. “At any rate, you looked like you needed a helping hand, and I had some time, so here I am.”

She cradles the now-empty mug in her hands and gives a snotty sniff. “I thought you hated me.”

For some reason, my face gets hot. “I never said that.”

“Oh. Okay.” She toys with her mug and falls silent.