Samson and Delilah

Chapter Eighteen. Samson

A/N: Guys, I made a mistake. Delilah IS sixteen. She's making seventeen. Sorry for the confusion.

Delilah thinks I'm stupid--or maybe she doesn't feel when something's wrong with me like I do with her. But just as surely as my name is Samson, I know she's upset. I can tell. Sadness, unknown, creeps up into me, and I don't have any idea where it came from. Plus, she goes from rambuctious laughter and playful teasing, to being quiet. And I don't like this quiet part of Delilah at all.

"Who's ready to eat?" I ask, spooning a big pile of grits onto my plate. I sprinkle cheedar cheese on top, scoop eggs on the side, add about eight pieces of bacon, and grab the hot sauce, setting the plate on the table. I turn around to see the girls looking at me like I've completely lost it. 

"Are you really gonna eat all that?" Carmelita asks, eyes wide with shock.

"Yeah. And I'm probably gonna go for seconds, too," I admit, going back to the stove. I give Carmelita a plate, and start fixing Delilah's food. The gesture comes naturally, although I've never even though about anybody but myself when eating. "How do you like your grits?"

"Con queso," she says, giving me a dubious look. "With cheese."

I nod, fixing her a generous amount. She has to be stressed, what with her sister--I don't want to tell her that the cop couldn't even find Jazzy--and with her friends being in the fight. And if she's in shock, she definitely needs to eat. And a lot of it. She's too bony already. I throw five pieces of bacon on the plate, and three spoonfuls of eggs.  "Here ya go. Watch out--it's hot."

She takes the plate gingerly, staring at it. "Samson, I can't eat all of this."

"Nonsense." I nudge her towards the table, leaving Carmelita to fend for herself. She can fix her food. "Eat up."

She dips her head down for a second and mumbles something before crossing herself. She ends with a near-silent, "Amen."

I stare at her, somewhat surprised. "You believe in God?" She really doesn't seem like the type. Not the Christian, good person type. 

The look she shoots me sends me back into that 'Old Delilah' times. Back when she hated me. And I hated her. But now, and I'm pretty damn sure of it, I think I love at her. It's crazy. And dangerous. But  it's true. The words felt right leaving my mouth while she was sleeping. I wish they had slipped into her ears and made her whisper she loved me back. But, whatever. That only happens in books.

And since when did I become a romantic sap?

"Claro que si! Of course I believe in God, neandrathal," she snaps. "Whether He believes in me is the question." 

I don't prod or pry. She'll talk when she wants to. "Well, eat up."

Carmelita sits down in front of her, digging into her food immediately. She eats quickly and like prisoners--like somebody might take it from her at any time. Maybe it comes from being in a large family. Or maybe not. Delilah eats just as quickly, but more like she's agitated or being forced to eat.  Like a child eating vegtables. 

The silence is comfortable and filled only with the sounds of chewing. My fork makes a clinging noise on the glass plate as I finish my food. As usual, I'm still starving, so I get up and fix me another plate. Delilah hasn't even eating a third of hers.

"Do you have worms?" she asks, forehead wrinkled. She looks very, very concerned--and  very, very sexy. My labido springs into full action as I resist the urge to kiss those upraised lips, and straighten out the furrow in her forehead.