"Robert Fitzgerald, huh?" I ask. "I've read a couple of his books."
"Good for you," he says, looking at it for a moment before tearing the first page out. He folds it up and drops it into his pocket among the other things he has shoved in there. As he replaces the book on the shelf, he turns around to look at me. The veins in his eyes are red and sweat is beading up on his forehead. "We need weapons."I thought there were no weapons in this godforsaken place."Let's go." He walks out into the hallway, quickly moving ahead of me. "Hurry up."
By the time we reach the living room, soft groans warn me that Snatcher is starting to come to. And from the looks of it, Sin is well aware of this as he grabs the fire poker. For a moment, it looks like Sin might go back after Snatcher with it, but instead, he takes a deep breath and moves into the kitchen.
I stick close to Sin, watching as he grabs the knives from the butcher block, then tears open all of the drawers until he retrieves two guns and a flashlight. "Back downstairs. Go. Now," he says.
I don't question him, as I never wanted to come up here in the first place, and I nearly trip running down the stairs into an area I feel only slightly safer in. I get the whole "Snatcher doesn't come down here" thing, but really, it doesn't seem like much would stop that man from doing whatever the hell he wants to do. He's obviously deranged…like the rest of the people in this town.
The door slams upstairs and Sin's heavy feet trudge down the stairs. He throws a backpack at me and slips another one over his shoulders. "Grab some clothes from the closet and take your damn doll."
"Quit being an asshole," I snap. I've held my anger at bay for the past twenty minutes, but it's foaming in my mouth at this point.
"Gotta live up to my name," he says, throwing the doll at me.
"If you didn't kill her, why the hell were you locked up? I'd have to expect there's a bigger reason than you just being rude to everyone."
"Do you hate me yet?" he asks, in response. What kind of question is that?
"I certainly don't like you right now," I say, pulling the bag over my shoulders. He tosses a gun to me and I struggle to catch it, but manage to grasp it by the bottom of the barrel.
"Used one before?"
"Yeah, in my short fifteen years, when I was free and living in the middle of the country where people left their front doors unlocked at night, my mother made sure to teach me how to murder someone," I grit with scorn.
"Jesus, you're hopeless."
I walk over to Sin and stare up at him and the scowl stretched across his face. I slap my hand against his cheek as hard as I can, instantly feeling an itchy burn across my hand. "Asshole."
He grabs his jaw and grins, cocking his head from side to side. "Well, there she is." His hand loops around my back and he pulls me in closer.
"I have a gun in my right hand," I remind him.
"Oh. I thought you were just happy to see me." With that, he leans down and crushes his lips into mine.No. This has to stop.Although, as much as I fight against it, I can't ignore the fact that he takes my breath away. He makes my knees weak, and he makes me want more of his crude-laced tongue.Damn him.
When he pulls away, he traces his thumb down the side of my cheek. "I like you, Reese." He follows his unusually kind words with another quick kiss. "And that wasn't my gun you felt. I am happy to see you."
I wish I didn't have electrifying zaps shooting through my core right now. I hate what he does to me. I hate that I have no control over my feelings. I hate that I can't be angry at him when all I want to do is slap him again. Yet, now I know what inflicting harm will evidently lead to. "I still don't like you," I lie.
"Good. Let's go."
"It's the middle of the night," I remember, as we walk up the steps toward the basement's hatch door. "Do you have a plan?"
"My first plan is to teach you how to shoot that weapon you're holding."
"At night?"
"By the time we get to where we're going, it'll be sunrise." The thought of walking more than we've already walked today sort of sickens me. My legs are aching and my feet have blisters from these boots. "Oh, before we leave, do you still have that key I gave you?"
The key. The one he gave me as a birthday gift on the first day I met him. "I do."
"Where is it?" he asks.
"I thought it was mine." It's the only thing anyone has given me in three years besides stale or moldy food.
"It is, but it may be of use to us in getting out of here. It's important that you hold onto it."
"Is there a door that's going to lead us out of hell?" I have a feeling that's not the case; that there is no true way out of here. If there were, people would have found it by now…or at least, I have to think that.
