She has her eyes. Her hair. That same rasp in her tone.
I can’t be wrong. This is my menace.
My gaze trails over her face as she stares down the long tunnel, refusing to look away. Only when her brows begin to pinch, and she stares with a curious purpose, do I begin to ease up. “Is that . . .” Her words fall short, and she carelessly shoves her hands against my chest, pushing me back a step. For whatever reason, I find myself moving out of her way. “I think that’s the end.”
“What?”
My head whips around, trying to see what she’s seeing, but there’s only darkness.
“Holy shit,” she says, excitement brightening those familiar green eyes. “It is. We’re almost there.”
Aria scrambles for the first aid kit, scooping it off the dirty ground and into her arms before picking up her pace. “Come on,” she throws over her shoulder. “The sooner we get out of this godforsaken sewer line, the sooner I can get away from you.”
12
ARIA
Every inch closer to the end of this fucked-up tunnel has my legs moving faster and faster, the need to breathe clean air eating away at me like never before.
When I first climbed through the small opening in the tunnel and through to the old sewer line, I was thoroughly repulsed by the smell. Who would have known that an old sewer line could have possibly smelled that bad? Joke’s on me, right? I was the moron who suggested it. But it could be worse. At least it’s not an active sewer line.
Four, five, or six hours on, the smell is just as bad. I’ve lost track of time. Is it late afternoon, or past nightfall? I have no idea. The whole day is starting to turn into a blur. It was already a massive drive just to get to the prison, add on the time it took to get through the gates and induction, and my morning wasalready flying by. In comparison to how the rest of my day has panned out, that’s nothing.
To say today’s activities are not generally part of my usual routine is an understatement, and as I continue hustling my ass toward the exit, I mentally tick off my list, determined not to forget a damn thing about this whole ordeal. After all, when the time comes, I’m going to need to call on all the feminine rage pouring through my body, and the best way to do that is by recalling every last thing that went down today.
Hmm, where to start? Oh yeah. A thorough projectile vomit. Check.
Visited a maximum security prison. Check.
Interviewed a convicted murderer. Che—ugh. I don’t know if what I did can actually be considered an interview. It was more like a shameless attempt to get under his skin. But to be fair, he had already more than wasted my time. He didn’t deserve my help at that point.
What next? Oh, can’t forget the moment the whole world turned to shit when I became an unwilling participant in a prison riot, saw my whole crew get murdered, and then shot somebody. Triple motherfucking check.
I assisted a murderer in performing a throat expulsion operation, via shiv. I mean, what the fuck even was that? Just the thought of how Stone ripped out that guy’s throat sends shivers down my spine. I crawled around in a rat-carcass ceiling. Got attacked by no less than two potential convicted rapists. I watched a man die via accidental eyeball extraction. And then met a possible cannibal.
I feel as though that barely scratches the surface, and I haven’t even added escaped a prison via a literal shit tunnel, been part of the most fucked-up case of mistaken identity that will probably cost me my life, or walked at least twenty miles through old, dried-up sludge to my list.
Like fuck.
Is it too much just to ask for a moment to wrap my head around all of this?
If I somehow survive, I need to write a book. There’s no doubt about it. I’d make a killing on this story, no pun intended, not that anybody is going to believe me. All this shit happening to one person in the span of twelvish hours? Hell no. I’d get called a liar and then laughed away.
All of this just to say, I need a nap. A good fucking nap. Though something tells me that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Once we get out of this tunnel, we’ll be running. To where, one might ask? Who fucking knows, because every time one does ask, she gets her goddamn head bitten off.
Did I mention how fucking hungry I am? God, I get grouchy when I haven’t eaten. I’m okay skipping lunch on the odd occasion, but after a shitty breakfast, no lunch, and absolutely no snacking? Shit. I feel as though I’m about to be possessed by a demon. I don’t even care that the asshole beside me is literally the most terrifying man on the planet. All that matters is eating something. There were a few snacks jammed into my pockets when we first started this hike, but after who the hell knows how long and no less than five or six arguments between me and Stone, those snacks have more than gone missing. Were they dropped, stolen, or launched at his head? Who the hell knows. I just need to eat.
And pee. I’d love to pee as well, but I’m not about to whip my pants down and pop a squat in front of this guy. I’d rather let him kill me. Which is also a very real possibility. I should add his constant death threats to my list of what-the-fuck moments from the day. Though, I should probably let him know that after hearing something repeated a billion times over, it starts to lose its power. I mean, surely after the way I’ve baited and gotten under his skin, if he really wanted me dead, he would havedone it hours ago. But so far, nada. I’m still as alive as I was when Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos came hurling out of my guts and onto the pavement. Ha. And to think I thought that was the worst thing that was ever going to happen to me. What a joke. If only I had known, I’d never have pranced my ass through the prison gates this morning.
It’s almost another forty minutes before the light at the end of the tunnel is finally within reach, but shit, looks are deceiving. When I first saw the tiny spec of light, I thought I was seeing things, but with every step I took, that spec grew, and now, it’s barely fifty yards away.
I pick up my pace, desperate to get out of here, to feel the real world beneath my feet and figure out a game plan that’s going to see me through this shitshow. Stone’s hand reaches out and braces against the front of my chest, slowing my pace.
My head whips up, my brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Keep your voice down,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to a near whisper. “If the prison knows I’ve escaped, there could be armed SWAT officers and snipers waiting at the end of this tunnel.”
Oh shit.
