Does It Hurt? (27)

Cazzo.

“A few minutes,” she answers, turning to look at the lighthouse over her shoulder.

We’re stranded out here but not out of luck yet.

Hopefully, we can find an old radio inside that might have some juice left or turn on the beacon until someone notices us. If it still even fucking works. This place looks ancient, but there has to be something we can use.

I sigh and drop my head low between my shoulders, angry and frustrated that I’m here. With her.

“Glad to see you’re alive,” I rasp out. It wasn’t intended to sound sarcastic, yet it did anyway. And I don’t bother correcting it.

I may not want her dead, but that doesn’t make her any less dead to me.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Me too.”

When I raise my head, she looks forlorn, her brow pinched as she chews on her swollen, bruised lip. I did that, and I’m having a hard time feeling an ounce of guilt.

With the rise of the moon comes a deep chill in the air. My damp clothes are freezing, the cold settling deep in my bones.

“Andiamo,” I say simply, nodding toward the lighthouse. “We need to get warm and see if there are any radios in there.”

She sniffs and nods. Aches come alive the moment I stand, screaming at me as I trudge behind Sawyer.

As we make our way toward the cliff, I notice the sand is littered with sharp rocks. Somehow, my shoes managed to survive the storm, and I’m glad for it.

Within minutes, though, I notice Sawyer’s stride grows choppy. The rocks are beginning to cut into her feet. She wore flip-flops onto the boat, so those are long gone.

Good.

Her body is bowed with exhaustion, and truthfully, it's a miracle she's alive. I still have no idea how we both managed to get here, but I'm quickly distracted from asking when I see a flash from one of the windows above. It happened too quickly to see what it was.

Probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but I stay on guard anyway.

We come up to a set of stone steps, and as we climb toward the crumbling structure, the dreaded feeling in the pit of my stomach grows.

“Someone still lives here,” she tells me. “I think I saw the beacon earlier.”

I pause, prompting her to stop and face me while I stare up at the top of the lighthouse. It doesn't look like it's been used in years, but for probably the first time, I believe she's telling the truth. If that's the case, then we have a good chance of getting out of here.

“We'll stay cautious,” I assure her, motioning for her to keep going.

“Or do you think it’s haunted?” Sawyer bursts out, as if physically incapable of keeping the question in any longer. “Maybe I hallucinated it. Or a ghost turned it on.”

“I think ghosts are the least of our worries,” I answer. “Starvation and dehydration are a little more fucking concerning.”

“Well, which is worse? Dying of hunger or dying of scary ghosts?” she volleys back.

“Which is quicker?”

She nods. “Okay, you got me there. May the bean gods bless us then.”

“The what?” I snap, my annoyance deepening. Even shipwrecked, she can’t stop fucking talking.

“The bean gods,” she repeats, reaching the last step and coming up to a cement pathway. “Canned beans survive the apocalypse. They’re always the number one thing left in cabinets after the world ends. So, I imagine they’ll be in this abandoned lighthouse that potentially hasn’t seen life since the dinosaurs.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said.”

Ignoring me, she shoots me a look over her shoulder.

“Be careful, though. The beans will give you flatulence.”

“Sawyer, stop fucking talking.”

“It’s helping with my anxiety.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not helping with my headache. Now get behind me. I want to make sure it’s safe first,” I snap, grabbing her arm and physically dragging her back when she nearly steps on a piece of glass.

“Chill,” she huffs, ripping herself out of my grip.

“You were about to step on glass. You almost hurt yourself. Walk where I walk.”

“My hero,” she grumbles, venom in her tone. But I ignore her, approaching a dirty and splintering wooden door. That ominous feeling deepens, and I’m starting to wonder if I should just take my chances with the ocean.

Stopping before the door, I knock on it a few times, waiting for several long moments. Silence.

Slowly, I turn the rusty knob, finding it unlocked. The door creaks open, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell of mildew and stale air.

We come directly into a small living area. There’s a blue couch to the right with a little end table next to it, and a lamp on top with junk scattered around it. A crease forms between my brows when I spot bullets and what looks like an antique key. The crease deepens when I note a portable fireplace in front of the couch, sitting next to a tiny box television on a stand. There’s ash piled inside the fireplace. Placing a hand to the black metal, my chest clenches when I feel how warm it is.

My eyes skip around the room, my muscles tensing with wariness. The far left wall is covered in bookcases, filled with cracked spines and what looks like children's books. There is a thin layer of dust on the end table and only a few cobwebs draping along the peeling floral wallpaper. This place should be covered in grime, and though it’s no five-star hotel, it certainly looks lived in.