Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 8- Callie

Emotional hangovers are the worst. My head is ringing like an old dinner bell and I just feel heavy, all over. I expected to wake up feeling a bit discombobulated. Being a hostage and spilling your guts out to your captors tends to do that, but I wasn't expecting to wake up moving on foot. Well, not exactly foot. Arms? I'm clearly being carried, and bless them, like a sack of potatoes. A fireman carry look good in movies, but my stomach begs to differ as someone's shoulder digs into my stomach.

"This wasn't the plan, R-" The words are cut off by a menacing growl, barely sounds human. "Fine. God. She's still out. We should've dropped her off somewhere. Passed a few gas stations she would've been fine at. I get it, you're worried about her. Anyone with half a heart would be. But she's not our responsibility. Four in, four out. Nowhere in there was the number five mentioned. Think with your head about this."

Rave? Why is he arguing with God? Ugh, I just want my head to quit pounding so I can think. First things first, don't let them know I'm awake. Fighting the urge to tense up is darn near impossible. I could run while they're distracted, but where? And that's assuming I can get out of the hold on me with the element of surprise. Still blindfolded, with no clue where we are, my chances of success are close to zero. Plus, there are four of them. I'm not terribly out of shape, but I've chosen the Bachelorette over the gym more than I'd like to admit.

"Pretty Boy, back me up on this. We can't keep her with us. This is a stupid fucking idea that's gonna end up with mugshots and jail cells if we're lucky."

"I'd just as sooner keep her or drop her off on the side of the road. Makes no difference to me. Just let me know the plan so I can make adjustments for her if she stays."

"Cupid, kid. Come on. You know I'm right."

I'm slipping and it's so hard not to wiggle myself back up to relative safety. Thankfully, Cupid feels it before I slide too far down and hefts me back up. The wind is knocked out of me and I force myself not to react. It's harder than it looks on tv for sure. Cupid's shoulders aren't scrawny, but they're not cushioned by much other than lean muscles.

Counting helps to rein in my breaths even as I long to suck in air. I guess the yoga classes Nicole talked me into once or twice were good for something. My mind even conjures up the studio with its light wooden floors and aromatherapy candles, not the safest setting, but relaxing all the same.

Escaping inside my head, I had thought I would've pictured Rachel's old house where I lived growing up. That's where I always felt happiest. Surrounded by the plants she loved, even though they rarely loved her back for more than a season or so, Fairport Convention or Fleetwood Mac playing from a record player older than me. On her good days, she would dance around the kitchen, singing off key as if the house itself was her concert stage. Bad days were sat on the couch or in bed watching Doctor Who reruns. She would always laugh and say she was visiting the doctor but this one was cheaper and cuter to boot.

Cupid's words yank me from my yoga studio mind palace and comforting memories. "God said she stays," he states plainly. "I don't like the idea of sending her back to somewhere she's not safe." A pause. He's more careful with his words than I would have originally thought. "Yeah, it's probably not a good idea. It's a pretty fucking terrible idea if I'm being completely honest, but we've already taken her. The plan is fucked anyways. Our best plans always came when the first, second, and third ideas didn't work. This is now plan D. Let's make the best of it."

"Feel free to add your input anytime Bambi," Pretty Boy tells me easily. Counting flew out the window the moment he calls me by that nickname. Maybe he's bluffing, hoping I screw up and reveal that I've heard every word.

Not happening. I've seen how that goes, straight to the evening news. Tragic story about a life gone too soon. So lonely, not even a cat left behind. At this point, I'm supposed to have a cat, right? I mean after so many years of being single, it's required. Pretty sure it was in the handbook for young spinsters. Get a cat, take up handcrafts, wear sensible shoes. Well if my memory foam flats have anything to say, I'm a third of the way there. Just need to learn knitting and adopt Mr. Whiskers. Put a little bow tie on his collar. He'd be so cute.

Cupid's laugh jolts me out of my panic rant. At this point, my tangents have tangents. Caught somewhere between a snort and a chuckle is his honeyed voice. "Mr. Whiskers," he chokes out. "Never a dull moment. I'd kill to know what goes on in your head, Callie Cat. Seems like a fun place."

I don't need to see their reactions to turn bright pink. My imagination is doing the job splendidly.

I wince. "I said that part out loud again?"

"Oh yeah, bow tie and all," he laughs.

"Can't suppose y'all can just forget all of that?"

"Impossible," Pretty Boy states.

God and Rave are silent and I hate that I'm desperate to know what they're thinking. Rave reserves his words and I don't understand it. God is careful, every word carries weight and a command that I feel compelled to follow.

Cupid is free with his words and makes me feel like I may get out of this okay, or as okay as I can be. "You could just let me go. I haven't seen your faces. I don't know anything about you. You haven't hurt anyone yet. Please."

"Not possible. It's been decided. You're coming with us. Welcome to the family," he grins, arms spread out in front of him. I finally see those arms because as we speak, I've been placed onto my own two wobbly feet and my sight is restored as I rapidly blink at the blinding light. Jerk must've taken off my blindfold.

"No,no,no,no. If I see you, you'll kill me. I know how this goes," I argue, furiously closing my eyes and hunching over. Looking around would've probably helped as my flats sink into the muddy tracks beneath me and I land on my ass.

"I can promise unless your actions merit it, you will be sparred death for the foreseeable future," Pretty Boy calls back. "I'm fairly certain we've made that clear."

Cupid leans down to help me up and I grab his hand reluctantly. In the middle of the forest, my options are limited. Tall, thin trees are everywhere, I can't hear anything but the men around me and my own panicked breathing. Even the birds seem to know this is a moment that needs no additional soundtrack. And I doubt anyone would hear my screams for help.

My left shoe has been claimed by the mud and there is only one set of tire tracks behind us, their car I'm guessing. Rave and God walk ahead of us, not bothering to look back. Pretty Boy turns to look at us, probably wondering what the holdup is and I can't help but laugh at the circumstances I have found myself in.

I am well and truly forked.