by R. J. Lewis
He ended up sleeping on the floor with his back against the wall directly across from the bed she was in. He was fucked. The trek had killed him, and he had purposely worked Tucker to the bone so he was too shattered to foam at the girl when he returned.
By morning, Nixon was awake before the others, his mind a hurricane of volatile thoughts, his eyes darting every minute at the girl he still didn’t know the fucking name of. He put snow in a pot and boiled it over a stove. He was removing the box of tea – typical of fucking Hobbs to put tea and not coffee in the supplies – when he turned and saw her sitting up. He eyed her crazed dark hair and tired eyes – something about tired eyes on a beautiful girl was so sexy – and then Roz’s black sweater over her curvy upper body before he whipped his head away and returned to tearing the box of tea open with a little more force than necessary.
This – her, them, all of them here – was a ticking time bomb waiting to happen. And he still hadn’t figured out what he was going to do about it – or better yet, if he was even going to do something about it.
Of course you’re going to do something about it.
She sat, uncertain, watching his every move. Then she slipped out of bed – still in that fucking skirt – and went to him. He glanced at her briefly as he removed a dusty mug out of the cabinet.
“I need the toilet,” she said, face flushed.
“There’s an outhouse around the back,” he replied.
She stared at him, uneasily. “Do I just go?”
“Yeah, go.”
She pulled on her gumboots and opened the door. Crossing her arms, she stepped out into windy hell. The storm was worse than he’d expected it to be. The entire cabin had shaken furiously all night long with the force of the winds. He’d been up often feeding the fire, listening as the wind skinned the cabin alive with its bare teeth.
You did not fuck with the weather here.
“Should we be okay with her leaving like that?” Roz said suddenly from the bed, his body relaxed on that thin mattress, his undershirt tight and revealing. She’d been pressed against his chest all night, buried in that undershirt. She probably smelled like him, or maybe he smelled like her, and Nixon would find out which one of the two it was.
Nixon kept his face neutral. “Where else is she going to go?”
“Nowhere, I guess.” Roz yawned just then, stretching his limbs out. “Nice to see you got the fire going.”
No help from this fuckhead.
Nixon plopped his teabag in the mug, noting idly that Hobbs hadn’t even provided sugar or artificial sweetener or any of that bullshit that made shit tasting tea like – he peered at the name – Orange Pekoe taste better.
Roz got out of bed and meandered over to him. Fucker had a suave walk and glowing blue eyes. He wondered how much of his charm he’d used on the girl, and if she genuinely fell into it.
“We should get some food ready.”
In response to that, Nixon gestured to the mountainous food pouches sorted in the corner of the counter. He said nothing, but he watched Roz closely as he sifted through some of the meals.
“Remind me why the fuck we’re in this rundown cabin having to survive off fucking camping food?” he murmured, petulantly.
“We’re invisible up here,” Nixon replied simply. “The most barren looking hovel of a cabin, the better. No one would think we’d make it up here with all that gold.”
Roz nodded. “No, they’d think we’re checking into some posh inn. Still would have been nice. We could have taken turns guarding the door. Could have been balls deep in some beauties right now, too.”
Always, always thinking with their dicks.
It astounded Nixon the extent of it.
When he immersed himself into this world, he learned a thing or two about the type of man that got hooked.
People like Roz, they were insatiable. They needed the best of everything. The best hotel, the best food, the best hookers, the best ladies, the best drugs and alcohol and company money could buy. They indulged in the best life had to offer, and as a result, they turned into greedy fucks who couldn’t handle a week in a shitty cabin without a hole to stick their dicks into. Why? Because they felt entitled. They needed that pussy to feel like they were winning. They needed that high-end food to feel like kings. And this sort of living – this barren looking room with cabin food and squalor furniture – it wasn’t going to sit right for them; they couldn’t hack it. They deserved more.
Nixon hated working with people like that.
Other people were purely money-driven, like him. They hoarded their money, took job after job, seeking that rush that money satisfied. It was a temporary rush that had them back at it again. Nixon knew his rush wasn’t at all to do with money anymore. It was natural to progress to that realization. When money became an empty goal, life started to feel blank and meaningless. You started taking these jobs because your day to day held no purpose. Nixon was hurting, and he was burying that hurt with a splash of excitement, a rush of adrenaline – but the goal was already reached, he’d taken the gold and now the feeling was hollow.
And anyway, the job turned sour when Beckett abducted the girl.
Nixon didn’t feel victorious.
He felt out of sorts.
The girl returned minutes later, her eyes flaring up at the sight of Roz. She felt familiar with him already. One night in bed under the covers and she had let her guard down. He smiled at her and raised a random bag up for her. “You hungry, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Nixon grinded his teeth. This guy was prepared to let this girl eat a bullet just yesterday. Had even urged Nixon to throw her out the van during the gunfire.
She nodded, looking at Nixon briefly. “Yes, thank you.”
Nixon drank his Orange Pekoe shit watching Roz set a kettle to boil, talking quietly to the girl as she stood next to him, nodding to this and that. She was still terrified, gulping every time he moved too fast. And when Tucker finally woke up, she shrank back in the direction of the bed, trying not to capture his attention.
Nixon wanted to laugh.
Was she honestly afraid of Tucker?
Really?
Tucker, beta little fucker with his sick girl fetishes.
Tucker, who weighed a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet.
Tucker, who looked like he was the sad result of a goth orgy.
Nixon could kill him with one hand.
Tucker was the least of his worries.
No, it was Roz.
Roz, with his snaky eyes and sweetheart smiles.
Roz, with his sick reputation and smooth words.
Roz, with his ability to woo a woman into a false sense of comfort.
Roz troubled Nixon the most.
Victoria…
We sat at the table. I was eating teriyaki chicken and rice from the pouch with a plastic fork, even though my stomach was completely closed to food. I’d had a migraine waking up and knew I needed it. I probably needed caffeine more, though.
I was staying quiet, trying not to step on anyone’s toes. There was a strangled tension in the air between the men. They all skirted around each other, barely making conversation.
I didn’t feel like your regular hostage.
I felt more like an uncomfortable guest than anything.
So far, only Roz had been nice to me. He was sitting across from me, eating from a pouch of his own. Nixon was feeding the fire and Tucker was outside smoking a cigarette.
“You know, these bags aren’t bad,” Roz said. “We got a lot of selection, too. I saw peach and cream oatmeal in the pile if you’re still hungry.”
“I’m okay, thank you,” I responded sweetly, hardly through a quarter of the pouch.
“Next time, then. I’m sure it won’t be heart stopping but…” he shrugged with ease, watching me with his bright blue eyes. “You gotta be careful not to have expectations, especially when you’re used to the good thing back home.”
I sat up now, my
interest peaked. He was being personal. This was good. I could work with that. “Where is home?”
“San Diego,” he answered. “This is definitely not San Diego weather.”
Nixon walked back to the kitchenette, looking like he was barely paying attention as he poured boiling water into a pouch.
I couldn’t get a reading on this guy.
I couldn’t stop staring at him, either.
“No, it isn’t,” I agreed returning my attention to Roz, trying to smile even though it felt all wrong.
Roz looked at my mouth, and his eyes looked distant. “You’re really pretty, you know that?”
My chest went tight. Please, don’t say that. “Thank you.”
“Were you warm last night?”
I nodded, forcing another bite into my mouth. I couldn’t taste shit. “Yes.”
“You got real close to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no, don’t be. I liked it.”
I looked down at the food, trying to relax. His attention was making me uncomfortable. He stared at my mouth for some time before he cleared his throat and stood up. “I’m going for a smoke.”
The second he stepped out, I put the pouch down on the table and sucked in deep breaths through my nose. Tears clouded my vision. My panic attack felt like two cold hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing.
A mug slid across the table to me. I saw the large figure that put it there let go and walk away. I watched him from my peripheral as he returned to the kitchenette, taking large bites out of his pouch as he stared out the window at the two men. He looked deep in thought, the corners of his mouth pulled down.
I turned my focus to the mug and brought the steaming tip to my mouth. I took a quick sip, feeling better when the heat settled at the pit of my stomach where the nerves sat.
My brain was surprisingly mute. I should have been thinking of home, of Kim and school and finals and my absence at work, but…I needed to conserve my energy. If I thought of that, I was going to freak the fuck out and start begging to be let go.
And it was too premature to do that.
These guys were stuck up here for a week, waiting for the heat of their crime to die down and for a man to pick them up.
That meant I had a week to figure out a way to either escape or be released.
I looked back at Nixon, wondering what he was thinking. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the men. His quiet demeanour unnerved me. Roz was a smooth talker, Tucker made his intentions known every time he looked at me, but Nixon…he wasn’t revealing a thing.
He was the biggest of them all, and every time he ordered something, everyone obeyed. I wondered if he was the leader, and if he was, I’d need to work him the hardest.
Clearing my throat quietly, I traced my finger over the rim of the mug. It took a lot of courage to whisper, “Thank you for the tea.”
He glanced at me in response, saying nothing. Swallowing, I added, “And for what you did yesterday in the car.”
Now, he turned his body to me, eyeing me peculiarly. It was like he could smell my bullshit from a mile away, and I felt suddenly so stupid.
Okay, wrong move.
I shouldn’t have said a word to the guy.
Nixon may have seemed like my saviour throughout this ordeal, but he scared me the most. His eyes were loaded with darkness. His expression always tight and unreadable. And he was fucking massive. The kind of massive I could never stand to fight against. Men of his stature intimidated me. They were nice to look at from afar, but never nice enough to come close to. Chalk it up to my insecurities, but Nixon was fling-worthy. You fucked a guy like him and fondly remembered it, but nothing came of it because you did not want to spend your life feeling physically inadequate next to an Adonis.
But, then again, maybe this was years of social media and airbrushing and perfect bodies that fucked my perception up.
Or maybe my perception was severely altered when I realized bus guy whom I’d have done anything to get the attention of turned out to be a stone-cold killer.
Anyway, despite him being jacked, he managed not to look like a complete meathead. He hid his frame by wearing his thick sweater and loose pants, but you could still see the subtle outline of his body.
He was cut.
The others did not come close to his size.
And that was probably why he carried himself with that silent confidence.
He was at ease here.
He was in his element.
He did not let his emotions own him like the others had already.
Simply put, he knew how this was going to end.
He moved to me again, stopping by my chair. I went still, passive, my gaze focused on the mug. He slid something across the table to me, resting it beside the mug, his skin lightly grazing mine. A hot spark shot up my hand as my breaths slowed. “Painkillers,” he muttered, “for your face.”
Then he shuffled back to the kitchenette, staring back out the window. I looked down at the two tablets beside my mug. I had completely forgotten my face, to be honest. So overwrought with anxiety and fear, the pain around my eye had faded to the background – the least of my worries.
I brought my hand up to feel it. It was definitely sore when I pressed down on it. It felt swollen and hot and I imagined it was probably darkening.
Were they really painkillers? I wanted to ask as I stared at the tablets with suspicion. I tapped my fingers on the table beside them. I picked one up eventually and inspected it. When I glanced furtively in Nixon’s direction, I noticed a smirk on his face as he eyed me quickly.
“If I wanted to, I would,” he simply said.
I felt the blood drain from my face. He wouldn’t need to drug me, he meant. He could hold me down with two fingers if he wanted to.
I took the painkillers and washed it down with my tea, shooting Nixon another curious look as I went, wondering why he was doting on me like this.
On one hand, he treated me like I was meaningless.
On the other, he had protected me more than anyone else had.
“Why do you keep watching them?” I asked, feeling bold.
After several moments of silence, I figured he would ignore me. But then he managed out, “When you’re outnumbered, it doesn’t matter how big you are, your enemies have the advantage. You gotta be on guard, ready, prepared for anything.”
I mulled that over, biting my lip in thought.
He didn’t trust them.
He was waiting for something to happen.
That frightened me more than words could express, because it meant I was teetering on another rollercoaster of chaos.
“It would be in your best interest to keep yourself scarce,” he added, searing me with a final look. “You don’t look them in the eye, you don’t talk unless you have to. Got it?”
I nodded keenly, listening to his every word because he was my final hope in all this. “I got it.”
“And keep your body hidden.” My heart lurched at that. “Victory can make a man…greedy.”
*
Tucker was brimming with impatience. He was constantly hopping off the bed and circling the room, and when he sat down, his knee would bop up and down. The occasional glances in my direction were worrying. I wound up curling myself in a ball with the blanket, trying to cover every inch of my body as I sat on my bed, avoiding his eye.
Roz, on the other hand, never went a half hour without boiling something up and eating. He sat with ease at the table, ignoring Tucker completely. But Tucker stared at him a lot, like he wanted his attention, like he wanted to silently communicate something.
It was bizarre.
Nixon spent his time feeding the fire. The guy never went out to the outhouse once, had never stepped foot out of the cabin since last night. He stood by the woodfire stove, back against the wall, arms crossed. On occasion, when he was deep in thought, he’d brush his thumb across his bottom lip and narrow his eyes.
The room was so silent, you could
hear a pin drop.
I kept wondering, was this how it was supposed to go? They were going to be in here, a week straight, silently watching the hours slip by?
It didn’t make sense.
When darkness crept in, each of us had our own flashlight turned on.
And finally, conversation emerged.
“Wish Hobbs had put us in a better place than this,” Roz spoke, that charming smile flashing again. “I’d do anything for a shower right now.”
“There’s a portable tub around the back,” Tucker replied. “I saw it under a tarp. It was probably tossed out to make room for all of us, but…I guess nobody anticipated casualties.”
“Where am I supposed to hook up a tub in here?”
“You fill it,” Nixon said.
“Ah,” Roz replied with a nod. “Too much effort.”
“Hobbs went the full hillbilly mile with this cabin,” Tucker mumbled, glancing at me again. “This is the worst set up since the Italy heist.”
Roz laughed heartily. “I think that’s an insult to the hovel we were in.”
Even Nixon’s lips curled up. “At least we had a television.”
“At least we had women,” Tucker hissed, his aggravation bleeding into his voice.
Looks were exchanged, one in particular in Nixon’s direction, which prompted Nixon to look at me, that thumb circling his bottom lip again.
The testosterone in the room was palpable.
Tucker had to re-arrange his pants, looking unpleasant. Even Roz appeared affected. He stole glances in my direction, that charming expression now mixed with a heavy emotion.
Nixon didn’t blink in my direction once as he pushed off the wall and fed the fire again. I kept my focus on him because he didn’t make me feel like a piece of meat. The scary guy ended up being the only one that had the most self-control.
Tucker stood up and left the cabin again – I assumed for another smoke – and Roz began tapping the table.
“You, uh, you remember what you said to me before you left last night, Nixon?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at him.
“What of it?” Nixon replied evenly.