Page 49 of Does It Hurt?

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“Those two I shot decided to stick around. Been creepin' in these halls ever since. Those damn chains dragging across the floor. Used to it by now, but I'll admit it took a few years to stop sleepin' with my shotgun in hand.”

I sigh, place a cast-iron skillet on his stove, and drop a fish into it, glowering at the pan while the oil crackles.

“So, you're telling me this place is haunted,” I deadpan.

“Sure is.”

Bullshit.

“Interesting,” is my only response.

I’ve always been a skeptic of ghosts, though I wouldn’t consider myself a disbeliever, despite being raised Catholic. But I am a disbeliever in Sylvester and everything that comes out of his mouth.

The old caretaker chuckles. “I know what yer thinking. Truth be told, I'd think the same thing if I wasn't living with these sons of bitches the last thirty years or so. That's ah’ight. I respect a skeptic. 'Fraid that's the only explanation I got fer the weird noises at night, though.”

Sawyer's still wide eyes turn to me. Clearly, she believes him.

And I'm not sure if that’s a good thing or not yet. Either she's going to sleep better at night, or worse.

“Do they, like, touch you and shit?” she asks, turning her alarmed stare back to him.

“Nah, they just get a little restless at night, that's all. No reason to worry. They’re harmless.”

I spare her a glance before concentrating on the sizzling fish.

They may be harmless, but I'm not.

And something tells me Sylvester isn't, either.

Chapter 11

Sawyer

“I don't fucking trust him,” Enzo grunts, storming down the hallway to our room.

I roll my eyes. “You realize that's the equivalent of saying that you have a stick up your ass. Or that in another life, you were a fire-breathing dragon and destroyed an entire village in a single breath?”

He stops walking and turns to look at me, an incredulous look on his face and his hazel eyes alight with distaste.

I hate how fascinating he looks, even when he’s staring at me like I’ve snorted marijuana. He’s far from pretty, yet his face is constructed of fine brush strokes, heavy shading, and sharp lines that create an exceptional masterpiece.

Too bad the inside of him is crusted with off-brand paint, frayed brushes, and muddy colors.

“What the actual fuck are you even saying?”

I sigh. “My point is—that’s not surprising. You don’t look like you’d trust a nun.”

The crease between his brows deepens.

“Nuns are, like, super trustworthy. Not priests, though. Stay away from them.”

He shakes his head and stalks into our room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and putting his chin in his hand as he contemplates the meaning of life and why the sky is blue.

It’s only just after one in the afternoon, and there's not shit to do around here. We had the fish I caught for lunch—which was admittedly really good for someone who doesn't eat fish—and Sylvester promised us steaks tonight. With nothing else to do but force a conversation while Enzo glares at him with suspicion, we decided to retire to our room for a little while.

I’m half-tempted to leave Enzo to his drama queen moment and go scrub some of these floors, but then he’s standing in front of me.

“I'm going to check out his room. See if I can find anything.”


Tags: H.D. Carlton Romance