Ollie’s soft words have me looking down at him and frowning. Kid’s not even ten, but he’s going on thirty with the way he thinks things through.
“Nah, kid, ain’t about to hurt you. Don’t piss me off and we’ll be just fine,” Bass says as a way of greeting as he passes us to head into the house.
I notice the garage bay door is already automatically closing, and I’m impressed by the lack of noise from it. I file that away in the “how to get the fuck out of here” part of my brain and pick up my bags to follow our “caregiver” inside the house.
Because that’s the plan: to escape. They can call this “helping” or whatever they want, but they’re keeping us from leaving. In my book, that means we’re being kidnapped. Might seem extreme, but just because they wrap up this kidnapping in a nice package under the guidance that me and Ollie will be safe staying with a club brother and I can bring Ollie over for playdates to Maddy’s house anytime I want, it still feels like a cage.
As predicted, the house is small, but surprisingly it gets bigger toward the back. Walking in, we find Bass still at the entrance, as he’s emptying his duffel bag into the washing machine. We wait half a beat for him to finish dropping all his clothes into it, not even checking pockets or sorting colors, before grabbing a bottle of detergent and pouring a generous amount on top, then shutting the lid and starting it. Without a backward glance, he walks into the room connected to it, and we follow like lost little puppies.
It’s an open floor plan with the kitchen closest to us. The island is big with chairs around it, which is good since the guy doesn’t have a dining room table—there’s a pool table where one should be. On the other side, a corner couch takes up more space than it should with a giant TV opposite it. There are two hallways off the main hall, and I chance a glance at both.
“Right hallway is yours.”
Bass’s words have me looking at him and noticing he isn’t looking at us, his head stuck in the fridge. From the angle he’s bent, it’s impossible not to check out his ass. I have half a mind to tell him those jeans need a good washing, too, but get a feeling that he’s not shy about stripping. Not thatI would mind. But Ollie being here makes it go from a possible porno to a school video on how to avoid sexual predators.
Without a word, Ollie and I go down the hall. The first door on the right is a spacious guest room, which is even clean. Ollie takes in the bed, then starts looking under it, and I’m checking the closet at the foot of the bed. Empty but some hangers. I turn to look at my kid, who shakes his head. Okay, nothing wrong with this room so far. We both search a bit more and find no cameras or listening devices. I was a fool last time for not checking the rental. Won’t make that mistake again. Might seem paranoid, but this isn’t our first rodeo. We usually check every room before we get comfy. Which I doubt I will ever be again, since not only did the club take my car, but they went through our bags and took our weapons too. All but the pocketknife that Ollie took back when we got our stuff out of the bunk room.
It seems they want us to trust them, but they don’t reciprocate that trust.
Whatever. I don’t need a weapon. Sure, it helps, but my first two kills when I started running with Ollie weren’t with a gun or a knife. I’m not saying I’m a kung fu expert or some shit, but my brothers taught me how to fight, and I’m not above fighting dirty.
Once we clear the room, we go to the bathroom across the hall and do the same. It’s a small three-piece, but it does what’s needed. Don’t need fancy to get the job done. At the end of the hall is another door, but it’s locked. I try the handle again, just ’cause I’m pissed at the whole situation, but no matter how much I rattle it, no miracle unlocks it.
Ollie looks to me with a shrug, and I just nod for him to get back in the room while I go have a chat with our prisonguard. Kid’s smart and knows to put on his headphones and start reading the newest book he downloaded on his Kindle. He might enjoy video games like everyone else, but he has a love for the classics, and he’s stuck on a Hardy Boys fix right now. I’m all for him reading, or just about anything that will keep his mind busy and not thinking about the stresses of life that I need to worry about constantly.
“Got a key?” I’m giving Bass the chance to make the right decision right now. He has about five more seconds of me being nice before I start turning his clean home into a war zone. He might live the simple life, but when I start going, I will have no problem finding things to throw around.
“Key for what?” he asks as he finishes taking a pull from his beer. I noticed he didn’t offer me one, but that’s fine. Got no problem making myself feel at home here, but after I get this figured out.
“For the second guest room.”
“Don’t have one.” He swipes the back of his hand across his lips.
“A key?”
“A second guest room.” He drops the bottle on the island and moves to the couch, sitting down and turning on the TV.
I follow him as far as the edge of the couch. “Then what the fuck is that other room?”
“None of your business,” he says without a glance in my direction as he puts on some baseball game. Only thing I notice about it is it’s not the Yankees. If they aren’t playing, no reason to watch, in my opinion.
“Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?” I’ll absolutely start ranting and raving about something that probablyannoys him. I actually find a sort of glee at getting under his skin. Maybe he’ll take us back to the clubhouse and tell them to deal with us. Which would work out perfectly, since there’s a better chance for an escape in a place with easily accessible cars compared to this lockdown of a home.
“Don’t know, don’t care. My job is to keep you here for a week. Nothing was said about giving you a place to sleep. Sleep outside for all the fucks I give.”
If I could crack walnuts, I would with how hard my teeth are grinding together. I get it. He’s not happy. Join the fucking club. But he’s also right. Neither of us is doing this because we want to. We both got the short end of the stick.
Growling to myself, I walk back to the room Ollie’s in and shut the door. Last night was the first in a long time that we slept in the same bed. You’d think we’d do it all the time with how things are for us, but no. Ollie might be small, but he kicks like a mother in his sleep. I learned early that if I want any kind of sleep to keep me going, it’s not a sleep that ends with me getting a cracked rib. And yeah, that’s happened.
Twice.
No surprise, I barely make it three hours into the night before I call it quits and make my way into the hall. I have half a mind to check the bathroom for gauze to wrap my ribs now, but I don’t want to put in the effort. I’m exhausted.
Being constantly on the run, worrying about every noise, takes a toll on a person. I’m lucky to have gone this long without screwing things up and getting both of us killed,much less finding the time to rest. I just want a single night. One night where I can rest and not stress. To sleep a solid eight hours. Hell, six hours would be miracle enough.
The light from the TV draws me toward it before I even hear it, as it’s turned down low. Bass is watching something else, not that I care. Just wish he would finish and go to bed so I can take up the couch to pass out for a few hours. I don’t know why, but my gut is telling me they won’t hurt me and Ollie. If they wanted us gone, they would have done it before everything—everything being that the club apparently stocked Bass’s home with enough food for the three of us, to include kid drinks. You don’t waste your money on something like that for someone you plan on offing. It’s a waste of effort if this was just a con. But since my gut is telling me it’s not, that for some strange reason, they want to offer us a bit of shelter for a week, I’m not going to fight too hard. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still fight. I’m from Brooklyn after all. It’s in the blood. I’ll just do it while I take my steak medium well with a loaded potato on the side.
No matter how long I stare at the man, he doesn’t magically get up and leave the room. With a huff, I sit on the opposite side, shove a throw pillow under my head, and curl into the couch. I might be starting to trust these guys a bit, but I still have the pocketknife at the ready. Ollie and I both decided that at night I get it, and during the day, he gets it.
