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

Chapter 9 - Callie

"You lied to me," I blurt out, finger pointed at Cupid. "Pretty Boy is freaking gorgeous."

Cupid stares at me, wide eyed and slack jawed. Pretty Boy erupts into shocked laughter. "Truly never the reaction I expect. Come on Bambi."

There was no downplaying how well Pretty Boy's name fit. No wonder he had to wear a mask. It wasn't possible to forget a face like that. Hypnotic midnight blue eyes in a face sharp enough to cut, pretty wasn't near enough a good descriptor. The man was a sculpture and if the cool, detached look in his eyes was anything to go by, his body would be just as cold as the marble he looked carved from. Dirty blond hair, short on the sides and long enough to notice the hat had plastered it into abstract loops and swirls, but it was most likely straight.

Cupid is the night to Pretty Boy's overcast day. His chestnut brown eyes were warm, so different from the ice in Pretty Boy's eyes. Faint crinkles framed them, but his seemed more from laughter and joy rather than stress. In fact, his whole body radiated this manic, happy energy that was infectious. Even though his flirty words should have had me running for the hills, his eyes begged me to trust him. And I did, as much as one could trust their kidnappers in this situation.

Cupid can't be much older than me if at all. Pretty Boy's age is a bit harder to pinpoint. Body wise, he looks mid to late twenties, but his eyes are tired in that way that only came from a life full of stories. The way his steely eyes stare though me as if he had judged and found me wanting told me I wasn't getting his story anytime soon if ever.

I'm so distracted by the men in front of me that I can hardly see God and Rave as they walk through the woods, clearly not as lost as I would be. One moment they pass between two large trees, undistinguishable from all the others and the next, Rave stares at the three of us with poorly disguised loathing. What crawled into his corn flakes and died? It's not as if I asked to be here.

Except, I not too gently remind myself, I kind of did. I just assumed, I know, I know, never assume, that they would have let me go instead of take me back to their lair. Hideout? What is the proper term for the place bank robbers retreat to? It's not like they're The Joker.

Firmly decided it's a hideout, I start to look around. There's nothing besides a firm mouthed Rave with his arms crossed and waiting in the middle of the woods, rather impatiently for us to make our way over and no God to be seen.

Cupid's steps crunch the leaves behind me and I inhale as I look up into the limited light that filters through the trees above us. Who knows when I'll see the sun again, feel the fresh albeit slightly damp air around me. I'm not cold, although I know it's probably a little bit of shock. The panty hose offer me little warmth and the restrictive blazer offers more decoration than warmth. I'd kill to be home in my pajama pants and fuzzy socks.

The more we move toward Rave, the more of him I take in and lord have mercy, there is a lot. Broad shoulders, buzzed brown hair that I bet would tickle to run my hand over, electric moss green eyes that narrow the closer I get to him. He looks vaguely familiar, but it could just be his build. All of the men around here are built like they could tow the trailers attached to their trucks for fun and Rave is no exception. The close-cut beard that covers his face is too short to belong to a mountain man, but doesn't seem like the city boy type I'm used to seeing on The Bachelorette. Like Goldilocks, it's just right.

With these three men looking as hot as they do, God has to be hideous. There is just no other way. The universe is all about balance.

Rave sinks his hands into the leaves and I'm struck dumb. "There's a hole. With lights."

"Observant this one. There's a ladder too," he smirks. "Watch your head and follow me," Rave mutters. He slides down the ladder like it doesn't lead to a secret lair. It's definitely a lair now, hidden entrance upgraded it easily.

The hole is covered by a hatch that blends into the ground around us so well, I'd have no chance of finding it if I were to get out of this. I suppose that is the point. The ladder only goes down about ten feet and there is light at the bottom of it that frames Rave in a hazy glow.

I've already come this far. Besides, Claire never would've met Jamie without taking a few risks.

"We'll be right behind you Callie," Cupid says with a small smile.

Climbing down, the first thing that hits me is the cool temperature. A mixture of cement and wood, the tunnel that stretches ahead of me doesn't look nearly as sketchy as I would expect. The lighting is sparse, just enough that I can see ahead of me, but not enough that I have to squint. Maybe not my first choice of where I'd like to be, but I don't see the tunnel collapsing on my head anytime soon. It's tall enough that I don't have to bend although Rave does.

I follow along behind him as Pretty Boy and Cupid drop down and seal us in.

"Shoes off Bambi."

My shoes. If he expects me to walk barefoot down here, he's out of his mind. The ground is smooth beneath my feet, but it's still underground. I'm way past due on my tetanus shot. Probably. It's not as if it's something that I have to think about regularly.

"I don't think they're your style, but who am I to judge?"

Pretty Boy's lips quirk up in the barest semblance of a smirk. "Cute, but can't have you leaving bread crumbs. These tunnels are expansive. You aren't likely to find your way out without one of us. We'd rather it stays that way. Shoes," he says, hand outstretched as he waits for me to obey.

Rave waits ahead of us, huffing his displeasure at yet another delay. Not my fault this time. Blame Pretty Boy. I'm not completely opposed to the idea. Getting stuck in the mud earlier has left my feet squelching as I walk and in desperate need of a pedicure I have no way of affording. I need a bath and a glass of wine, possibly at the same time.

Still, my nose scrunches up as I hand over my now brown, black flats and stand awkwardly in my panty hose and dirty feet. Rave rolls his thick shoulders before ducking down again and leading us on. Th path we're on splinters off multiple times and after numerous turns, some of which I suspect are just to mess with my sense of direction, we meet with a thick metal door.

I tilt my head at it, but like the tunnels we've just traipsed through, it offers no explanation for its existence. My captors don't seem to impart one either.

Rave's arched brow and thinning patience have me turning away as he inputs a code to unlock the door. Six beeps and the door opens to-