Blood to Dust(17)

Taking a slow sip of my water, I stare ahead.

“Don’t worry, boy. I got your back.”

I’m not worried. Because in order to be worried, you need to care.

And I don’t.

Peaceful, yet completely apathetic.

That was my state of mind before I got here.

And that’s how I will most likely leave.




I’m running my bloody finger over the wall—for the third time since I got here—when he arrives with his Guy Fawkes mask and a brown paper bag. I sit straight and watch him intently. Nate. It’s difficult to admit that he’s my sunray in the rain, but that’s exactly what he is. Weird, freaky, elusive. . .and comforting all the same.

“Soap, shampoo, Tampax, couple of clean shirts. . .”—he starts listing what he brought for me as he takes the items out of the bag, placing them in a neat row on the small wooden table, not even sparing me a glance—“. . .two bottles of water, three bags of chips, chalk so you’ll stop smearing blood all over the walls, I’d like my deposit back, believe it or not, a stress ball, a book. . .”

“What book?” I cut into his words, lolling my bloody finger inside my mouth, sucking it clean. His head twists. He wasn’t ready for my question.

“Something I had upstairs.”

I jump on my feet and pace toward him. The eyes behind the mask remain blank. He doesn’t scan my body. He doesn’t find me attractive, or if he does, he’s extremely good at hiding it. My heart dives down with disappointment. It’s going to be difficult to seduce him into making an epic mistake that’d grant me my freedom. Taking the stress ball from his hand and squeezing it fast and hard makes me feel instantly better, like I’m pumping some of the storm out of my body. It’s been overflowing for days.

“Dreams from Bunker Hill?” I pick up the coffee-stained paperback with my free hand, brushing his tattooed knuckles, and not by accident. Each finger is inked with a cartoonish doodle. Ink was either drunk or is extremely untalented to have given him these horrible tats. My shoulder purposely bumps into his chest. He takes a step back, staring at me like I grew a pair of wings and a third green eye.

“I read it when I was fifteen.” My tone is lenient. Nostalgic.

“Sucks for you. I’m not a library.”

“You know what this is?” I brush the wrinkled spine of the book, still warm from its owner’s touch. He folds his arms over his massive chest, staring at me through the mask. “This is you telling me that’s why you called yourself Beat. Admit it. You want to talk to me, you want me to listen.” I lick my lips, clutching onto the novel like I can squeeze Beat’s heart’s desires and secrets with it.

“You seem to know a lot about a nameless man in a mask you hang out with a few minutes a day,” he grunts.

“Have dinner with me here.”

“No,” he says. “Your fifteen minutes of shitting, showering and washing your clothes have officially started. Move it.”

Reluctantly, I drag my feet upstairs with my new toiletries in tow and watch as he pads into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.

“How come Ink is never around?” I take off my clothes.

“He works nightshifts.”

That explains why we spoke freely last night.

“He’s here tonight, though,” Nate adds.

“So how come he hasn’t checked on me even once?”

I swear he blushes under that mask.

I don’t want him to think that I have a problem with the current arrangement, so I reassure him, by adding, “I’m not complaining. I like you better, for the record.”

“Duly noted, now get your ass in the shower.” He gives me a light nudge. I turn my back to him—showing him that I trust him and start humming under the stream of hot water, swaying my hips to a bad pop song. I love pop songs, because the Archers hate them.

Nate washes my dress again, even though there’s no need. Maybe it soothes him to do something while he’s here.

“Why were you upset last night?” I throw my head back and let the water wash out the shampoo he bought for me. It’s hard to believe that only a few nights ago, I was still living in Danville, with a walk-in shower and four showerheads in my own giant bathroom. My usual shampoo is made of organic coconut and my body lotion probably costs more than his shoes.

“Finish up. I’m gonna hang this in the meantime.” He ignores me and walks away, locking the door behind him. I quickly get out of the shower and resume my search for sharp objects.

Remember, Prescott, it’s a numbers game. Nate’s crack-up percentage is at about 15%, if not less. Camden will be here in twenty-seven days. . .

Time.

Godfrey was right. It slips between your fingers until you’re dead. I need to find a way out of this place, fast. I can’t rely on Nate’s good heart if I have a slight chance to make it on my own.

I place one foot against the wall, grab the towel rack and pull it out with force. I use it to pop the lock on the bathroom door with a loud bang. There’s no way either of them didn’t hear the lock breaking in two.

Time.

I know my countdown starts now.

Ten.

I storm out with nothing but a towel. Once in the narrow, dim corridor, I run straight to the small living room and launch for the main door.