Page 33 of Riot's Thorn
A laugh bubbles out before I can tamp it down. I didn’t expect to like anyone associated with Riot, but Navy broke through that wall in the first five seconds of conversation. “Nice to meet you.”
My eyes widen when she wraps an arm around me and shifts us both away from Riot before whispering, “Are you okay? Do we need to intervene?”
Her tone is playful, so I grin politely because even though I’m being held against my will, the manners so deeply instilled in me won’t allow for anything else. In my mind, though, I’m wondering what she would do if I did ask for help. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m met with Riot’s icy gaze. Apparently, he isn’t amused by her joke.
He narrows his eyes to slits, and his nostrils flare. “The fuck?”
She giggles at his response, but Riot is dead serious, and judging by his expression, he’ll pull out that gun he keeps holstered and murder his whole “family” just to keep me with him.
“No need for that,” I say. “Riot has been. . . hospitable.”
Navy studies me for a second. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
“There you are.” The constipated man, Rigger, I think she called him, comes over and pulls Navy away from me. He nods at Riot, having a whole conversation with a simple lift of his chin. “That’s enough meddling, babe.”
“I had to ask,” she says as he pulls her away then whispers, all humor gone from her tone, “You know how he gets.”
How he gets?
What does she mean by that? It was obviously a dig, and I’m shocked when I feel a twinge of indignation on his behalf.
Am I okay? No, seriously. I need someone to tell me Riot didn’t cause brain damage with the lack of oxygen from choking me, because what the hell? Not only did I not take Navy up on her offer to escape my captor, but I also wanted to stand up for him? Dad would be disgusted with me. Or am I the one disgusted by him?
Jesus Christ, I need a therapist ASAP. I wonder if Riot would provide one for me.
“Are you hungry?” Riot mutters.
“I could eat.”
“Let’s go then.” He grabs the back of my arm and all but drags me toward the grill.
“Riot, stop.”
“What? You said you were hungry. The food’s over there.”
“Yeah, and we agreed that’s where we were going, so there’s no need to force me.” I yank my arm from his hold. “If you want to keep me close, try holding my hand.”
Wait, what? Why the hell did I say that? And why the hell is my heart pounding while I wait to see what he’ll do?
He stares at my open palm for long seconds before he takes it and continues walking. His hand is warm. . . and a little sweaty. Is he nervous? He’s a cold-blooded assassin, a profession I’m assuming would require a certain level of confidence, but his interactions with me are uncoordinated and awkward. The two personalities inside one human being are confusing.
I took Psych 101, so I could guess a reason for his stilted social skills. I thought that could be the reason he seems to keep his distance from others, but after my conversation with Killer and then Navy, I’m starting to see there could be others. I wouldn’t want to hang out with people who think poorly of me and treat me like I’m under a microscope when I show up at a party like everyone is doing right now.
The weight of their attention is suffocating as we walk across the yard. There’s a sea of tight smiles, but no one approaches. He calls them his family, but even from my limited experience, this doesn’t feel like family.
At least I finally get to see more of where I’m being held. The only thing I got from looking out the windows was that we were surrounded by trees, so we weren’t in the city. Being in thebackyard of the clubhouse doesn’t give me any more directional clues, just something new to look at.
Well-kept, green grass separates the clubhouse from the cabins. Riot’s is the farthest away, which tracks for his personality, but the others are closer in, with less tree cover, which still gives them privacy but also provides a sense of neighborhood.
These cabins are so different than Riot’s. They aren’t dilapidated and clearly receive general upkeep, like roofs that don’t look like they’ll collapse and porches that aren’t being taken back over by Mother Nature.
Their sizes vary, but they’re all fairly small, the biggest probably having no more than two rooms. I wish Riot’s cabin had two rooms. My subconscious mind whispers,but do you really?She’s a hussy who snuggles each night into the man who killed her father.
When we reach the long folding table loaded with all kinds of toppings for burgers, side dishes, and desserts, Riot hands me a plate with his free hand. He’s reluctant to let my other one go but realizes it’s inevitable and slowly loosens his hold.
I say nothing as I plop a little scoop of everything on the plate. Since Dad worked a lot, he hired a chef to come in once a week and food prep for us, but it was stuff like lobster risotto and grilled salmon. I never had simple food like this until I left for college, and suddenly, it was everywhere. I couldn’t care less about the fifteen pounds I’ve put on since leaving home because I now enjoy my food like never before.
Riot walks over to the grill, where the biggest man I’ve ever seen in real life is flipping burgers. The guy towers over everyone else here and has the personality to match.
