Not what I needed to hear right now.
“Hurry the fuck up!” he shouts and I slowly begin to move my feet. If I don’t go, he will force me out and then I will be injured, again. I need to stay alive and unhurt long enough to escape.
Swallowing deeply, I step out of the room and follow Dick.
“Come on,” he says gruffly as another man closes the door behind me. His sinister smile is gone, and I frown, confused by the change in demeanor. I don’t like unpredictable people, especially men andespeciallywhen I am a prisoner. I subtly watch the space we walk through, trying to commit it to memory for later.
“Where are you taking me?” I finally ask as we turn another corner. This building is bigger than I expected.
“To talk,” he says, repeating his earlier words. I feel my nostrils flare but otherwise I don’t react to his cryptic response. My brain is working overtime to think of what options I have.
So far, my best plan involves kicking him in the nuts. Appealing, but not terribly practical.
I may do it anyway.
“Ahh, here we are,” he finally says, opening a door and holding out his arm for me to enter. Eyeing him warily I make my way into the room and my brows shoot up in surprise when I see the little suite before me.
It’s like a studio sized grandma’s house, with a little stove and fridge off to one side and faded vintage wallpaper and carpets. The couch is definitely pre-Split and has seen better days. What kind of weird shitty nostalgia is this?
“Please, take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the repulsive looking couch. I think it may have once been a sort of mustard color, but now I don’t even know how to describe it. A few smudged dark patches of varying colors don’t further instill my enthusiasm.
Without hesitating, I step into the room and grab one of the stools sitting at the tiny breakfast bar. Turning to Dick, I cross my legs and wait.
He stands there for a moment taking this in before chuckling and slamming the door behind him. I jump a bit involuntarily but quickly straighten up.
“Do you know who I am?” he asks after a moment. I hesitate for a second, deciding how soon I want to piss him off.
“Dick,” I say smartly, and he does a weird sort of laugh-smile-glare thing.
“Richard Hinkley,” he replies, raising an eyebrow as if to ask “anything else?”.
He has no idea.
“Well, you look more like a Dick to me,” I say, sitting back and crossing my arms.
He takes in my stance, his face giving away nothing, though I’m sure I’ve pissed him off. After a moment though, he begins to chuckle.
“You really were perfect for him,” he mutters before turning and making his way over to the decrepit kitchen. I don’t fail to notice the past tense and my eyes narrow at him, following his every move.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but when he pulls out a clear bottle mostly full of amber liquid my brows shoot up in surprise. He grabs a few cups, tin not glass, and puts a healthy dollop in both before handing one to me.
I hesitate, but I didn’t see him put anything in there. Plus, let’s be honest, he could have poisoned my water a lot easier, but I still want to keep my wits about me. I’m about to refuse until I reconsider. I somehow doubt I will be able to get this asshole on my side, but it’s worth a shot. I mean, it’s worked for me before.
“Thanks,” I say simply, taking the cup and avoiding touching his skin at all. He’s not an unattractive man by most people’s standards, tall and built with dark wavy hair and well-trimmed facial hair. He gives me the creeps though.
He takes a seat at the fold out table across from me before crossing his legs and simply watching me. It takes everything I have not to squirm under the scrutiny. I take the tiniest sip of the liquid in my cup and feel the welcome burn of whiskey down my throat. Other than the cheap rum Ax gets inside, I haven’t had a drink in years. Taking one more taste, I set the cup down.
“Why am I here?” I ask. As much as part of me is a bit terrified to ‘get down to business’, I need to know what his angle is. Bringing me to Grandma’s trailer for a drink was one of the last things I’d expect right now, and I don’t like the unexpected.
I feel like a fly ensnared by a spider, watching as it circles and just waiting for it to pounce.
“To talk,” he says again, taking a much healthier sip than my own and sighing gratefully. “You know, few women can enjoy a good whiskey these days. Then again, I suppose there are few women, so that doesn’t help.”
I say nothing, grabbing the cup and swirling it in my hands but not sipping it. I never take my eyes off of Dick.
“Somehow I don’t think you brought me here to talk about the decline of women who like whiskey,” I reply wryly. He grins, catlike and sinister, at my response.
“I figured you were smart,” he says, the smile still plastered on his face as he puts his cup down and leans forward, pointing a finger toward me, “Smart, pretty, and ruthless. Hell of a combination.”