Page 17 of Pack Rivals: Part Two
“Where’s the car?” Nate asks.
“There.” I point out the front where I left the car in an illegal zone.
Nate mutters something about clamping, but I’m pretty sure I could rip the clamp off with my bare hands the mood I’m in.
A mood for destruction.
Our phones beep a third time as we climb into the truck and I swerve out into the traffic, this time with two addresses.
“We’ll hit the male first,” I tell him. Nate nods, the glint in his eye murderous.
“Put the address into the sat nav,” I tell him.
“Sat navs are for pussies,” Nate says, pulling out his knife from his pocket, the same one he’s had for years.
“I don’t know where the fuck I’m going without it.”
“I’ll navigate.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. You can’t navigate to save your Goddamn life.”
Nate’s face turns even darker than it was. “That was your fault.”
“It wasn’t. You were in charge of the map. I was in charge of equipment.”
“You took the wrong turn.”
“Because you told me to fucking take it.” I shake my head. “Ten hours!” I remind him. “Ten hours we were lost out there in those woods.”
A smile creeps over Nate’s face. “It was fucking wild, though, right? Remember we ate a frog, we got so hungry.”
“You ate the fucking frog!”
I think about it for a second. Yeah, maybe it was wild. However, I’m not admitting it to this asshole.
“Just tell me where to go.”
He delivers his directions in clear, perfunctory instructions. The asshole’s trying to make a point. I don’t give a shit though because it means we’re pulling up outside a house within fifteen minutes.
“This it?” I ask, squinting towards the blurry outline of the numbers pinned above the door.
“You can’t read that number, Grandpa?” Nate asks, opening his door.
“Yeah, I can read it,” I mumble. “Is it the right one?”
“Number one hundred and fifty-five.”
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say, examining the blank windows and empty driveway.
“Let’s see,” Nate says, jumping out of the truck and sprinting up to the door.
I curse and follow after him.
For such a big dude, he moves fucking fast.
Nate pounds on the door and we wait, counting to ten in our heads. It’s silent inside. No footsteps. No doors creaking open.
Nate glances at me, then slams his shoulder against the door. It groans, and he does it again, this time the lock snapping and the door splintering. It swings back to reveal a bare hallway.
