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

Chapter 64-Callie

Temporary insanity.

One minute I'm doing my best to wash tomatoes in the sink, hoping for some kind of divine inspiration to strike and tell me how to cook spaghetti sauce from scratch with a spoon, plastic fork, and rubber tongs. The next I'm hallucinating the guys in the woods, masked up like my personal avengers.

Another reminder that the only salvation I'll find is in my mind. With that comes a renewed sense of inspiration, not for dinner, but on how to rescue myself. Give up. Give in. It's all he's wanted and I keep failing, trying too hard to play the part. So, I'll play the girl he wants to know and own. And her, she wants to dance.

"Hey babe, can you put on some music? I want to move. I remember when you'd take me dancing at Red River. I miss it," I lament. It's not a hard tone to take on. I miss the boy who took me dancing, swirling me around the floor until I was breathless with laughter and joy. What I don't miss is the firm grip and harsh whispered threats because some rando looked too long at me in the outfit he picked out.

Instead of allowing my anxiety to hit the roof thinking of all the ways this could possibly and probably go wrong, he just heads toward the living room with a mumble about something I don't catch. I hadn't even heard him behind me. Some country pop sound about drinking comes on, a mindless beat I can sway along with and not worry about the memories it might well up. Perfect.

It's just another night in the bunker, I tell myself. That's not Colt waiting for you, it's God. He seems like the type that knows how to swing a girl around the dance floor and have her falling in love.

No matter how much it hurt when he sent me away, I know why he did it. I forgive him. Well, I will if I ever see him again. Colt would've found me eventually. It was inevitable.

I drape my arms over his shoulders, imagining the whiskey eyes staring down at me instead of the fathomless, aphotic pools of blue. Dancing with an illusion, or delusion allows me a freedom to do what I need. Lowering his guard as I lower my hands, slowly, reverently. Pulling at his shirt like I can't wait to rip it off.

If I gave myself a moment to think, I'd falter so I don't. I can't. One chance. If I fudge this up, he'll follow it to its conclusion and that's an illusion I can't conjure.

His hands trail down to mine, covering them, caressing them. I need them free for this to work. Fuck. I swallow down the revulsion trying to pierce the veil of reality and press my lips to his. A heartbeat or two is all it lasts, but it feels like slow motion as he releases my hands to pull me closer with his hand on my ass.

I only just subdue the full body shudder building up in me. My face is a whole other story, but I quickly get it back in formation as well. My palms are sweating at what I'm about to do and I can't even wipe them before I try. Alright, it's showtime.

The harsh clatter of thunder drums out right before the power follows. Colt's arm bands tightly around my back before he loosens his hold. Seems he still gets nervous during thunder storms. "The generator should kick on soon, don't worry."

I rub at his waist in reassurance and he sighs. "Or I'll have to find a flashlight or something. I know I saw some candles somewhere." The click of his holster might as well be a race starter's gun with the speed I find myself reaching for it in the dark.

"Ah, ah, ah," he swats my hand away like I'm some naughty toddler reaching out for a cookie before dinner. "Such a shame you can't be trusted Calista," he sighs. His hand latches down on my wrist, grinding the bones together until I swear they're going to snap. I fall to my knees as he looms over me. "I really thought you were coming around to how good things could be again. God, you really are like some little doll, aren't you? I'll have to fill you up with my own thoughts instead of whatever kind of illusions you've been living. What was your plan Calista? Get my gun and shoot me? Did you really think I'd allow that?" He hisses.

I try to shuffle backwards, but his grip on my wrist holds me locked in place, contorting my body in some vain attempt to find relief from the pain. "Please Colt," I beg.

"Please what? I have given you so many chances Calista. Why do you insist on throwing them in my face? Do you like it when I'm forced to hurt you? Do you think I like acting like this?" I can feel him leaning closer, his bourbon breath choking me with the vehemence in his tone. I hate the small bits of remorse I can hear in his words. "YOU turned me into this Calista! This is your fault!" He roars, coating me in spittle.

Glass shatters somewhere in the cabin before Colt drops my wrist with a growl. I reach out blindly for his gun that's still unholstered as something in the darkness claws down my throat chocking me. My nose runs and my eyes water uncontrollably with a harsh sting. It all burns, reigniting the fire on my skin. My whole body feels like I've been force fed the hottest wing on hot ones and there's not an ounce of water or milk in sight.

Death is the only way out, mine or his, and I refuse to go out by his hands. My fingers wrap tightly around his gun as I pull it from the holster and I scramble back from his reach. My breath is coming out in quick pants and I'm doing my damndest to not make a sound, but my heart is playing an epic solo and I can't see shit. Still, I check the safety off and aim at where his cursing and fumbling is loudest and fire.

"FUCK!"

Movies always downplay how loud it is to fire a gun. I duck at the sound instinctively. My hesitation is all it takes for a hand to find my ankle, yanking me onto my back and sliding me closer. "LET!" Kick. "ME!" Another. "GO!" I scream with years of repressed resentment and rage. I kick and I kick with my other foot, half connecting as he ducks and dodges me until his knee pins my shin below it and I hiss at the pressure.

"I was going to love you!" He roars. Even in the pitch darkness, I can feel the hatred twisting his face into a reddened snarl. His hands climb my body, one hand reaching up to grasp mine with the weapon. I can't let him get it, but I can't move my arm with him holding it down. I start firing at a wall, could be a window for all my eyes help, desperate to empty the chamber so that he can't use it against me. I let off one, two shots before his hand locks mine down, blocking me from pulling the trigger again. I start trying to count out how many shots are left, but another movie trick that seems so easy on screen is impossible in the moment when adrenaline is in the driver's seat. I'd be hard pressed to remember who the president is right now. His weight presses me into the floor, trapping me as liquid drips onto me. I must've clipped him, but not well enough to stop him from coming at me like a grizzly on steroids.

Our hands are both on the gun. I've got a death grip on the handle, but his meaty fingers wrestle mine out of the way and he fires off another shot. Glass shifts elsewhere in the room as a muffled shout fills the air.

Sounds everywhere, more sound than there should be for just the two of us, when the weight pressing me into the floor is tackled off. The gun goes skittering off at the sudden pull. "Got the party started early Pet? I approve."

Whimpering at the relief rushing through me, I pull myself up from the floor, feeling around for some kind of weapon. Instead, I'm pulled into the arms of another figure. Reflexes have me throwing a sharp elbow back and hitting a mask that has me howling as I clutch my funny bone in pain. "Jesus Callie girl. You trying for a future in the octagon?"

I sag into his arms, chuckling as the tears continue to leak from my eyes, the knowledge that they came for me finally giving me the ability to stop fighting so hard. My guys found me. I'm safe.