Does It Hurt? (37)
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.”
My mouth pops open. “Why must you harass the old man? He's just out here living his life, and you're questioning the direction he pees in.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Maybe his penis curves to the side.” I throw my hands out in exasperation. When his face twists with anger, I cut in before he can bark something rude. “Look, the point is, you don't know his life, and he hasn't given you a real reason for you to question every single thing about him.”
He crosses his arms. “You believe the ghost story?”
“What else am I supposed to believe, Enzo? I'm trying really hard not to gaslight you right now, but other than giving us a bedtime, he hasn't done anything. Sometimes people are just weird and have odd quirks.”
He shrugs a shoulder, a glimmer in his eye. “And I'm going to go find out just how weird.”
He breezes past me, and I tip my head back in frustration, sighing loudly.
I don’t entirely disagree that there's something off about Sylvester, but I also stand by the fact that he's probably just a harmless kook. He's lived here by himself for decades, completely removed from society. It's only obvious he will lack social skills and have pet peeves when two random strangers come in and disrupt his life.
And after his story with the prisoners and how they attempted to break in and possibly kill him, it's no wonder he has trust issues.
We don't know him, and he doesn’t know us, either. Locking us in our room at night probably makes him feel safe, and I can't fault him for that.
By the time I make it to the doorway, Enzo is already climbing the steps toward Sylvester's room.
“Oh my God, you're unhinged. No more fish for you. Clearly, it messed with your critical thinking skills.”
His chin tips over his shoulder. “As pretty as that mouth is, I'm going to need you to fucking shut it.”
I open said mouth, ready to tell him how pretty a black eye would look on him, but before I can, he growls, halting the words in my throat. “Don't make me do it for you.”
I feel my face flush hot, his accent making those words sound more delectable than they should, causing my stomach to tighten as his cruel words elicit the exact opposite reaction of what they're meant to.
Without waiting for my response, he turns the knob and slowly opens Sylvester’s door, the hinges creaking loudly.
My eyes bug from my head, and I'm whipping around, expecting to see—or hear—Sylvester making his way up the steps to catch us red-handed.
But after a full minute of listening, I hear nothing. Turning back toward Enzo, I roll my eyes when I find that he didn't even bother to stick around and make sure he wasn't in danger of being caught.
Self-assured dickhead.
I waffle between not wanting to get involved and putting my nose where it doesn't belong in case Sylvester does have something to hide.
Biting my lip, I shut our door behind me and slink toward the three steps leading up to the room.
Try as I might to deny it, I have an attraction to doing the wrong thing.
I creep up the stairs and into the room, finding Enzo pulling open the top drawer in a lopsided dresser. Pictures of sailboats and lighthouses adorning the stone walls, dust covering the frames.
His bed is neatly made, and something about that eases my mind. As if it confirms my theory that Sylvester is just a meticulous person, and that perfectly explains why he locks our door at night and forces us to pee in a bucket—not that either of us has done so yet.