What happens when a bunch of killers are forced to live together?
BATTLE OF THE KILLERS is a reality show that follows Betinia Woods, a girl kidnapped and forced to live in an underground bunker with twelve other killers. The bunker is equipped wit...
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RUCKER clapped his hands together and everyone broke apart. The boys went off to Khan's room to order stuff for the party and we went off to Yaz's room for bikini shopping.
To get to her room, we had to loop around the hallway and go down several more hallways. When we were about halfway there that familiar strawberry scent hit me, and I heard a whisper.
Betinia.
Stopping my movements with a soft squeak, I spun around in the hallway, looking behind me. Nothing but flickering scones, wood paneling and emptiness stared back at me.
Did someone say my name? Or did I imagine it?
Yaz stopped in front of me a few paces. "What's wrong?"
"Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Someone say my name?"
Yaz wrinkled her forehead. "Nooo?"
I shrugged my shoulder. "Must've imagined it."
"Probably one of those creepy-ass guards or something," Yaz said, rolling her eyes. "Or the creators fucking with you. I wouldn't put it past those sadistic fucks."
Or Layla's ghost was haunting me, angry that I didn't unmask her murderer. Or I could just be overthinking things, right?
It took us a few more minutes to get to her room. It had a thick black door like mine, but instead of a peach, a syringe symbol mounted the middle.
A syringe? What did that mean? Drugs?
"My room's kind of a mess," Yaz said, putting her key in the lock and turning. The door swung open in one swoop. Instantly, the strong scent of gritty oil and burnt metal licked my nostrils.
It didn't take me long to figure out what was making that odor. Hood up, a beat-up 1969 Dodge Charger lounged in the corner with dirty spare parts and tools surrounding it.
The only reason I recognized the car was because Tim constantly ranted about the red one he had back in the day. He kept a tattered picture of it in his wallet and always found a way to bring it up in a conversation so he could show it off. It was so embarrassing when he did it with strangers.
I used to roll my eyes and say, "Tim, no one cares." I smiled, thinking of him, wishing he could tell me one of his old car stories now. Damn, I missed him so much.
It was weird how the little things that used to annoy you about a person disappear when you don't know if you'll ever see them again. Guess that was life, right?
"Uh, why do you have a car in here?" I asked, looking it up and down. Goopy black grease marks ruined the light carpeting around the car as oil leaked from underneath.
Yaz shrugged, waltzing into her room and dropping her keys on the black nightstand near her tall king-size bed. "Working on cars helps me relax. Plus, it's my dream car."
