Page 59 of Blood & Kisses

“The code on the saferoom. It’s locked, and I don’t know the code,” I state as the sound of a vehicle comes down the road. I look out the living room window again, only to find it’s a neighbor’s car.

“It’s your birthday,” Gabe replies with warmth in his eyes.

“My birthday?” I ask, mystified.

“I had it built for you two years after…you know. I knew you’d need it someday, and here we are. I used your birthday as the code,” he explains flatly, twinkling eyes.

I smile, feeling chuffed. Gabe built me a saferoom, knowing I would need it one day, and the code was my birthday. Nothing screams love like a saferoom. Okay, that’s a joke, but I’m taking it as a compliment and confirmation that he loves me, even though I haven’t heard it spoken from those lips.

“We’ll come to you when we’re done,” Gabe calls after me. Make sure it’s locked and secured, and don’t leave that room until we give you the all-clear.”

“Okay,” I sigh, walking away only to feel a hand grab my wrist, pulling me into his chest. Gabe’s mouth possesses mine, longingly, a kiss to outdo all kisses, laced with hunger and protection.

“You belong to us,” he whispers, “and I’m not letting anyone take you away from me.”

He pulls away as I gaze past his impressive body to Cormac, looking at me under his eyelashes. I run to him, and he hugs me tight, burying his face in the curve of my neck. “Don’t die, Cormac.”

He chuckles, “Seriously, Rae, they ain’t seen nothing yet.”

I wave to Blake; strangely, it feels like a final farewell, even though it’s not. I will see them again; I know I will.

I hope.

Hastily and trembling, I open the cupboard door under the stairs under a serenade of the boys yelling directions to one another, conducting their plans. I shut the door behind me and step to the saferoom, press my birthday into the keypad, and the thick steel door snaps open.

The space is about the size of a bathroom with a comfortable armchair in the corner, a small fridge, a gas element used for camping, a pile of magazines resting on the floor next to the chair, and a box containing cans and packets of food. There’s probably two weeks’ worth of food here for a single person.

The thick steel door shuts behind me, and the air conditioning switches on automatically, filling the warm space with cool air. I grab the blanket draped over the back of the armchair and wrap it around my shoulders.

The small space is soundproof, so I can’t hear anything outside; unfortunately, I think it's the worst. There are only three of them against; I don’t know how many men Blackadder has. What if he arrives with twelve men armed with military-style weapons or a tank and drives right into the front of the house? The house might be demolished around me, and I won’t know until I take a peek outside. Not yet, because I’ve only been in here for like… My phone is upstairs, but a small digital clock on the wall tells me I’ve been in here for only a minute.

I hate small spaces, and small spaces without windows are even worse. I flip open the fridge and take out a bottle of spring water and a can of Coke. Even though I’m not hungry, I find a raspberry dark chocolate bar, rip open the packet, snap off a bite-sized piece, and shive it into my mouth. The tart, bitter, sweet taste is quite invigorating but makes me thirsty, so I guzzle down some water.

It’s too quiet, and I’m tempted to peek outside. How long have I been here? According to the digital clock. Six minutes. Fuck.

I grab a magazine and flip it open to do a crossword, only to find that I don’t have a pen, so I hurl it at the wall in dismay. “Should’ve thought of that first, Gabe.”

The magazine underneath is a gossip rag with Blake Lively on the cover, so I fall into that garbage at the risk my IQ might drop. There’s a seductive pic of Sydney Sweeney, and I think of Zara since Sydney is her crush, and I wish I had my phone to message her. I quickly grow bored with the gossip mag, throw that at the wall with the other one, and crack open the can of Coke. I’ll clean up the mess later.

I guzzle down half a can, burp, snap off another piece of chocolate, and suck it until it’s a thin wedge in my mouth before chewing the rest down. Resting my head on the headrest of the armchair, I stare up at the air conditioning grate, hoping time will vanish quickly if I pretend to meditate. It doesn’t work that well.

Check the clock. Ten minutes have passed since I last looked. Fuck. This is torture. I try to sleep away my misery, but the caffeine and sugar from the Coke are making me wired, not relaxed. To exert some of this excess energy, I attempt a handstand and lean my legs against the wall to let blood run down to my head. Then I push off from the wall, and as I land, I whack my foot on the corner of the fridge and swear like a pirate.

It’ll bruise, but it looks like a superficial gash, so I press the cold can of Coke on it to ease the swelling.

An hour has passed, and my bladder is full of Coke, and I desperately need to use the bathroom. There’s a plastic camping toilet under the armchair that I hadn’t noticed earlier, but I’d rather use the main bathroom and grab my phone from upstairs. I pace back and forth, trying to hold on as much as I can, before I find the courage to open the thick steel door, expecting to be greeted with gunfire.

Instead, it’s deadly quiet, which is worse than gunfire. Does it mean they’re dead, lying in a pool of their blood? Does silence mean that Blackadder has won?

I open the cupboard door and poke my head out, but I cannot see or hear anyone, so I assume they’ve left the house. Running into the downstairs bathroom opposite, I lock the door, pull down my panties, and sigh when I relieve myself. I pause to flush but decide it’s a bad idea if someone is in the house; they’d hear it.

Stalling when I hear a scraping sound, I refrain from unlocking the door immediately until I hear it again. It seems to be coming from outside, maybe bush scraping against the wall, even though it’s not windy. This isn’t helping my nerves, but I can’t stay here forever.

Carefully, I unlock the bathroom door and open it a crack to peer out. I can’t see anyone but hear faint footsteps moving quickly across a soft surface like a rug. Looking both ways down the hallway, I take my chances and race across the hall, back into the cupboard, locking the saferoom door behind me.

I landed with relief in the armchair, only to propel back up again when something dug into my backside. My Glock. The barrel glistened from being inside me, covered in my juice. My heart races. Someone retrieved my Glock from the kitchen and crept into here when I was in the bathroom.

I’m not alone, and it evokes mixed feelings. If the boys are treading about silently, does that mean Blackadder is here too, or at least his cronies, since he rarely gets his hands dirty? My feet want to move to release this pent-up energy, so I pace back and forth several times before I’m tempted to do another handstand, although I immediately talk myself out of it.

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