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

Chapter 19- Callie

Isolation is something I never thought I'd miss. There isn't a single space here I can retreat to without a shadow of a man to peak in on me. Cupid's shadow comes from a place of caring, but Rave is filled with distrust. It's plain to see in his furrowed brow and thinly disguised sneer. I hate him. His only redeeming feature is his face and even that is ruined by the words that escape it. Although when he returns to his room and plays his guitar, I can't lie, I love the sound. The music reminds me of home, not with my mother; God rest her soul. No. It reminds me of home with Rachel, filled with laughter and dancing and just freedom.

Being free has been a memory for so long, I scarcely remember the feeling. Freedom is an illusion when you're constantly looking over your shoulder. Chords of Bad Moon Rising drift throughout the bunker and I hear my aunt's words reverberate in my mind telling me the we should never resist the call of our bodies to dance. I roll my eyes and attempt to hold back a smile, lips tucked in as I picture her now. If our roles were reversed, she'd be handling this situation much better than I. She would love Cupid and wouldn't handle any of Rave's attitude, dishing it back at a speed that would leave him with whiplash. I'd like to think standing up to him yesterday would make her proud. She always believed in me so much more than I ever could.

Dancing like no one's watching comes easy when you're alone. D went back to his room to work on some super-secret squirrel project that God assigned him. Pretty Boy slinked off to his coffin somewhere, Cupid's words not mine. God retired to his room after a coughing fit that had all the men looking on in concern. Although curious, I know I can't ask. The mangled scar that covers his throat says enough; whatever happened was traumatic.

Maybe later I'll see if they have the ingredients for one of Rachel's home remedies. They look like whisky drinkers and according to her, that's the start of anything that needs fixing.

In fact, there's no better time than the present. He's done nothing to deserve my ire, despite being behind my current predicament. One could even argue I asked for it, jumping at the chance to save Nicole and serving myself up like a holiday ham.

The kitchen is small, closer to a large kitchenette than a true kitchen, but it seems to work for them if the food I've been served is any indication. A mug is easily found in the cupboard above the coffee maker, all in basic white with the most random decorations. They look raided from the nearest Goodwill. I grab God a 'Best Daddy Ever' mug and pray its not because they have kids. I am not ready for that. Not that it matters to me; it's none of my business. Their family situations are inconsequential. As soon as I can get out of here I will. Even to my own head, it sounds like a lie.

After a bit more digging around, I find what I'm looking for. Throwing together the whisky, honey, splash of lemon juice, hot water, and Rachel's secret ingredient cayenne pepper, I inhale the scent of home. It's not the best tasting thing in the world, but it has managed to soothe every sore, aching throat in our place growing up. Despite his intimidating presence, God has been nothing but kind to me. In his own unique way, he feels safe.

I pad down the hall, avoiding Rave's door and the music that drifts from it even as my hips sway along. The bathroom and D's room I know, but it's a flip of a coin which one belongs to God. With that illuminating thought, I choose the one on the left and knock quietly.

Silence greets me. I find myself questioning the proper amount of time to wait before knocking again. Five seconds or ten? No one ever teaches this stuff and no one ever asks. My search history is already mocking enough, no need to add to it. The door slowly opens a sliver in the middle of my internal monologue, during which I have lost count twice.

Pretty Boy watches with a vaguely amused smirk. "Are you trying to butter up the boss man?"

I guess it could look that way to someone else, but the old-fashioned southern manners instilled in me the same way as walking and talking demand that if I'm in a position to help someone I should. "No. I'm not." It's hard to hide the hurt and defensiveness in my voice, but I have to remind myself that most people in my position would only be nice to endear themselves to their captors. I'm the odd one here.

"You grabbed his favorite mug," he huffs out a blink and you miss it laugh. "He's across the hall. Good luck, Bambi," he winks before closing the door.

Much as I try to fight it, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and a little further south. That man is dangerous for my health and he knows it. The tiniest pause turns Bambi into two long syllables dripping with tension that I refuse to acknowledge. I'm smart enough to know when I'm out of my depth with a man and Pretty Boy is the Mariana Trench, not made for human exploration.

The confidence I had was wasted on Pretty Boy and each step across the floor feels as though I'm marching through a quicksand. Although the doors look the same, my anxiety has ratcheted up to a solid eight and a half. Got to reserve a ten for when I eventually meet Henry Cavill. It's fine, I tell myself. Just get it over with.

There is no question of whether to wait five or ten seconds after knocking on God's door. He opens it within a breath of my knocking, hair in disarray, eyes sharp and focused, and his hands balled into very lethal looking fists. Reflexes jerk me back and I spill a bit of the still steaming Hot Toddy down my shirt. I try to hold back the hiss of pain, but it burns and I'm out of practice.

"Shit," he mutters. The door swings open and he reaches for my hand to drag me in before he rethinks it and backs up while ushering me inside.

I follow along and stand awkwardly in his space. The guys were right yesterday. Minimalist isn't the word, its Spartan in here. A bed, a light, and a dresser. The walls are bare, not even white paint. Just concrete. The expertly made bed clad in cream and navy blue is the only hint of personality and I get the sneaking suspicion someone else chose it for him.

"Sit down, Calista," he says, turning around and watching to see if I'll comply. I do, taking the opportunity to observe him as he searches his dresser. Never before have I really thought much on the attractiveness of back muscles, but I get the appeal now. His shirt strains over his shoulders and arms, but there's a dip in between his shoulder blades that I want to drag my fingers down.

I need to touch grass.