Rules of Survival(34)

“I guess we didn’t hit the border of Gerald’s property after all. This must be his panic room,” I said, scanning the small space.

Several shelves full of canned food sat along the far wall, while large bags of what looked like clothing were lined in a row beneath them. To our right, a small stack of papers sat under a small metal box. I got closer in order to get a better look. Several passports, licenses, and four checkbooks—all with different names and from different banks. Picking up a passport, I flipped through it. Mark Landry of Ohio. They were quality fakes. I couldn’t help wondering where Gerald had gotten them done. Our guy was good, but these were nearly flawless.

I set them down and tilted my head up. A crude wooden ceiling, about six feet high, fanned out overhead. Directly above me was the faint outline of a trap door. There were two hinges on the right side, and what looked like a rope that could be used to pull it open from the inside. Unfortunately, the rope had long since decayed, leaving only a few inches well out of reach. The door must have closed automatically once we’d fallen through. “Look around. There has to be a way out.”

Shaun glanced to our left, then right. “There’s nothing here. No doors.”

“No,” I insisted. “It has to be here.”

“Kayla,” Shaun said. “I think we’re trapped.”

“Look around. This is his haven—like my mom’s tunnel. There’s a way out. I know there is.”

I hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt. We’d been over the small space and there were no doors—trap or otherwise. I scanned the area again, refusing to admit defeat, when something in the corner by the shelves caught my attention. The floor was dirt and you could see two distinct lines from where someone had moved the shelves at one point. “There,” I exclaimed, dragging him forward. “That has to be it. Help me move the shelves.”

With Shaun’s help, I nudged aside the bags of clothing and pulled the shelves several inches away from the wall. At the bottom, previously covered by the bags, was a small dark hole.

“Huh,” Shaun said beside me. “I’m starting to wonder…”

“Wonder? About what?”

“You.” He bent down to examine the hole. It was tight, but he would fit. “You keep trying to get me alone in tight spaces.” He reached back and grabbed the camping lantern, then got down on all fours and looked back over his shoulder. “I am hot—you know, in a cocky, annoying kind of way, right?”

Oh my God. He’d heard it all. I was never going to hear the end of that…





Chapter Twelve


The tunnel leading from Gerald’s panic room dumped us out in the basement of a feed store. It must have been the building I’d seen in the distance right before we fell through the trap door. Thankfully, due to the time we’d spent stuck in the pit, it was late and the store was closed. We were alone.

I gathered some paper towels and soaked them with warm water from the sink in the bathroom, then grabbed an archaic first aid kit I’d found beneath the sink. Coming back out to the main room, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but take off your shirt.”

He tilted his head and raised a brow, but did as told, pulling the T-shirt above his head and tucking it behind his neck. This was about cleaning and dressing his wound, and that was easier without the shirt getting in the way, but it was hard not to stare. Well-defined lines and some serious ink, Shaun was definitely something to see. I found myself wondering what it’d be like to run my fingers across the planes of his chest, then tangle them in the thick, dark hair on his head.

Gingerly, I swiped the wet towel across the wound to clean away the blood. Beneath my touch, his muscles flexed, and he inhaled sharply but said nothing.

Once the wound was clean, he lifted his arm carefully to examine it. “Looks like I was right. Went straight through.”

“The bleeding seems to be less,” I said, wrapping the gauze around his arm. I finished it off with a long strip of tape. “Should be okay now.”

“What about you?” he asked, pulling his shirt back into place. I reached across to rummage through the small mini-fridge behind the counter. No luck other than an extremely outdated container of peach yogurt. I was an idiot. We should have taken food from Gerald’s shelter. Another one of Mom’s rules down the drain. Always take the time to fully assess a situation before making a move. “You okay?”

I hadn’t felt the impact from the fall into Gerald’s panic room at first, but it was starting to creep up on me now. Everything was sore and getting stiff. Add that to the fact that I was exhausted and starving, not to mention cold, and my body was ready to shut down.

Gingerly, I closed the fridge, lifted my wrist, and pushed the cuffs up as far as they would go. “I’m okay. Sore, but I’ll live.”

My left wrist was swollen and an angry shade of red. It looked like it was starting to darken around the edges—the beginnings of a bruise. “Shit,” he cursed and crossed to me, patting the counter. “Here. Sit a second.”

He set the lamp down and tugged the hoodie we’d been using to conceal the cuffs from around his waist. There was a violent tearing sound, and when I looked up, he was ripping the other sleeve off. “What are you doing?”

Dropping the bigger piece to the floor, he hopped onto the counter with me. Then, he gripped the edge of the sleeve and ripped it again, this time down the long seam line. We were sitting so close—knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder. He turned, and I felt his warm breath puffing out across my cheeks and neck. It made my pulse quicken and gave me goose bumps despite the fact that it warmed my chilled skin.