Page 38 of Corpse Roads
I refuse to break eye contact.
“And if I don’t?”
“I’m not accustomed to that word, Harlow. You’ll learn soon enough. We take care of our own in this house.”
With a final pointed look, he leaves me in peace. My heart threatens to break through my ribcage as I stare after his retreating back. Being bossed around by Enzo feels different from the orders I was forced to abide by before.
The ingrained need to obey is there, but without the all-consuming pull of fear. I know he won’t hurt me. There’s no darkness within him, spitting and writhing in its bid to escape. I’ve gotten good at sensing it.
Now Hunter, he’s a whole other puzzle entirely. I’m fairly certain he hates my guts, even after the limited time we’ve spent together. I’m only good for one thing to him—information.
What happens when I give it to him?
When does their protection end?
These thoughts plague me as I hide in the shower, holding my plastered arm outside the door at an awkward angle to keep it dry. There are all kinds of bottles lined up, begging to be smelled.
I wash myself over and over again, testing each fragrance and savouring the scented steam. Washing shampoo from my hair is a challenge with only one hand. It brushes my lower back in snarled knots.
After spraining my arm trying to reach the ends, I give up. Washing my hair with bottled water was easier than this. Pastor Michaels would occasionally offer me the luxury of bathing, usually when he was disgusted by the scent emanating from my cage.
Avoiding the fogged-up mirror as I step out, I find a pair of dark-red sweatpants left on the bed. They’re too long, bunching around my ankles as I slip on the oversized white t-shirt next.
My feet are sore, but well into the healing process, so I don’t bother re-wrapping them. There’s no hope for my bird’s nest of hair. I try to untangle it with my fingers while trailing back downstairs.
It’s still raining outside, obscuring the winter’s day in fog and gloom through the large bay windows. After a tentative descent down the stairs, I’m hit by the sound of someone yelping.
“Shit, that’s hot.”
“You think? The toaster doesn’t make it cold, genius.”
“Fucking thanks, Hunt. Wanker.”
“You’re so welcome. Call me that again and I’ll tell your parole officer you’ve been out drinking until sunrise most nights.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m not above murdering you in your sleep.”
With his shirt-covered back to me, Hunter sits at the breakfast bar. For the first time, I notice dark swirls of ink peeking out around his neck. I didn’t realise he had tattoos.
The intricate-looking designs are obscured through the blue fabric. His chestnut hair is hanging loose today in glossy waves, complementing his slate-coloured suit.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly.
He startles as I limp in, surveying me with a lingering glance. There’s a complicated sheet of paper in his hands. It takes a moment for the word to click into place. Newspaper. I know that one.
“Jesus Christ. Cereal it is.”
Spinning on the spot, the newbie’s eyes flare with surprise. He’s dressed in tight sweatpants and a muscle t-shirt that shows off his tanned, lean body. He’s shorter than the other two, but stocky and well-built.
I take note of the thick scarring across his knuckles, contrasting the child-like grin on his lips. His hair is shaggy and very overgrown, covering his ears with slight curls in the exact same shade as Hunter’s waves.
Propping his elbow on the breakfast bar, he faces me with amusement dancing in his forest-green eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t Goldilocks. Risen from the dead!”
Hunter snorts as he returns his attention to the newspaper, dismissing us both.
“I don’t know what that means.”