Page 8 of Nasty
“I don’t wantrevenge. I want—”
“Iknowyou want revenge for what this guy was planning to have done to you but involving yourself beyond this point is sheer recklessness and stupidity. That’s not how this thing gets done. You can’t go blindly charging after this guy without any forethought. You’ll end up getting hurt. And I won’t be party to anything that will risk your safety. It’s just not gonna fucking happen. So get used to it.”
My mouth hung open. I’d been so angry with him over the past few days as we’d driven here, and he’d played along so well—the remorseful little boy with his tail between his legs—that I’d almost forgotten that wasn’t who he was. He’d been repentant and patient, carefully considering his words (for the most part) whenever he spoke to me; he’d slept on the couch or on the floor without complaint, and besides a few tongue-in-cheek comments like the one he’d made just now about that motel, he hadn’t made a single move toward me.
But none of that was him. Not truly.
This was the real Fix, and he was a force to be reckoned with.
“You can’t just blow into my life like a goddamn storm, turn everything upside down, and then expect me to walk away from something like this,” I ground out.
He narrowed those beautiful pale eyes of his. “If you were smart, that’s exactly what you’d do.”
“I’ve been in the business of protecting myself and those dear to me my entire life. And I’m not going to quit now. If that makes me stupid, then I’ll gladly accept the title.With pride.”
Fix clenched his jaw. He folded his arms across his chest, rocking back, sizing me up. His lips parted. I knew I wasn’t going to like the next words out of his mouth. I was already ramping up for the fight that was brewing, but when he inhaled, about to speak, whatever he had been going to say never made it out. His dark brows banked together, his gaze drifting over my shoulder. “What the fuck is that?”
I turned. I frowned, too, hunting for the source of his confusion. And there it was, on the other side of the road, almost invisible amongst the long, dried out grass. A hatch, steel, industrial and heavy looking, two feet across and sunken into the ground.
“What house number’s in front of that?” Fix asked, already walking over to investigate. He got there before me, answering his own question as he stooped down and uncovered the numbers six-two-six-three-four in dull white paint on the broken piece of curb that he overturned. “This is it,” he said. “This is the address the IP was registered to.” He was already eyeing the hatch with intent. I stepped right up to it, immediately noting how shiny and new the metal seemed. There was no visible lock. Nothing to prevent anyone from coming along and raising the slab of steel to see what was inside.
Blowing a hard breath out down my nose, I shook my head, backing away. “If there really is a fire burning beneath this entire town, the very last thing we should be doing is lowering ourselves into a hole in the ground.”
“Looks like a bunker or something. Probably has concrete walls three-feet thick. Where’s the harm in opening it up and looking inside?”
“If you want to burn your face off, be my guest. I’ll be ready to call 911.”
Fix didn’t flinch, but something about him hardened. “It’s gonna be fine. But…never call 911, Sera. No matter what. Ever. Under any circumstances. What do you think would happen if I were ever taken to a hospital?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. They’d patch you up, and you’d be on your way. You have insurance, don’t you?”
“Paper trails are bad, Sera,” was all he said. He turned his attention toward the hatch at his feet, considering it intensely, like it was a coiled snake that was rearing back, preparing to strike. “If I do get my face burned off, just shoot me in the back of the head and leave me for the crows.”
“Gross.”
“What? Birds love barbeque.” He took hold of the thick handle on the hatch, wrenching it upwards. There was no squeal of metal on metal, or shower of rust erupting from the hinges. Whoever had put the hatch here had done it pretty recently, it would seem. It yawned open, revealing a pitch-black darkness beneath it.
“No flames,” I observed.
“Nope. Doesn’t look very hellish.”
“You’d know, given your history with the devil.”
“I prefer to think my history was with the other guy. He’s undoubtedly not speaking to me anymore, though, so you’re probably right.”
For the first time, I found myself wondering whether Fix still spoke to his god. It seemed unreasonable to think that a person would devote their lives to their religion for years, and then turn their backs on it so irrevocably. I didn’t plan on asking him about his faith; it was too personal a line of questioning, but I was pretty damn curious.
Fix swung his legs over the side of the hatch, peering into the darkness, and a jolt of panic swept through me. He didn’t know how far the fall was below, and he hadn’t bothered to check. He was just going to slide himse—
He disappeared before I could even finish the thought, and my heart leapt up into my throat. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god…
A soft thudding sound reached my ears, along with anumpphh—the air leaving Fix’s lungs. I hurried to the hatch, dropping to my knees, leaning over to look over the side. The day was bright, which made it hard to make out anything in the hole at first. And then, gradually, my eyes adjusted, and I could make out dim shadows below, one of which was moving.
“Didn’t break both your legs, then?” I asked.
“Apparently not,” came a reply. “It was only eight or nine feet. Drop your phone down.”
He had his own phone, but I didn’t bother asking why he didn’t have it on him. At all times, the man seemed to be doing his solid best to leave it anywhere but on his person. Grumbling, I took my cell out of my back pocket, holding it down into the dark, and my breath caught when Fix’s fingers brushed against mine. It was the first physical contact we’d had since I found that envelope in his truck, and I wasn’t expecting the instant reaction the gentle brush of his fingers had on me.
