Page 76 of Massacre
After three days of lying in bed, I was done. I didn’t give a damn what anyone said anymore. I was bored shitless. I flat out refused to listen to Amber read any more books. I wasn’t any good at games, and if I ever watched PBS again, it would be too soon.
The air in the cabin was thick with the scent of pine and old wood, and I could hear the wind whispering through the narrow windowpanes almost as if the annoying noise was laughing at my misery. Amber was curled in the armchair, her knees tucked up, pretending to read but really watching me from behind the battered paperback. She’d given up trying to cheer me up about a day and a half ago, and now she just waited—patient, infuriating, stubborn as hell.
“Seriously, Amber,” I groaned, flopping back against the lumpy mattress. “I’m losing my damn mind.”
She didn’t look up. “From my understanding, you can’t lose something you never had.”
I threw a pillow at her. She caught it, smirking, and lobbed it back at my face. “You could at least pretend you care about my suffering.”
“It’s hard to care when you’re so dramatic about it.” She did look up then, her gaze softening just a bit. “If you want out, maybe you should do something about it instead of whining.”
“Oh, I have plans,” I muttered, pushing myself upright, wincing as my back twinged. “Big, elaborate, possibly illegal plans.”
Amber snorted. “Get up first. Then we’ll talk felonies.”
The truth was, I didn’t know what I’d do if I left. Out there, the world felt sharp, mean, waiting to bite. In here, at least the demons were familiar, the pain orderly and contained. Still, the walls were closing in on me. I had never been good at sitting still. Even worse, when I was sick. But this shit sucked balls. I could feel the weight of my restlessness pressing at my ribs, begging for movement, for trouble, for anything but this excruciating waiting.
Amber closed her book and set it aside, her feet thudding softly on the rug. “What would you do first, if you could?” she asked, and her voice was too gentle for teasing now.
I hesitated, running a hand through my tangled hair. The question hovered in the space between us, more dangerous than it sounded.
“I don’t know,” I grumbled. “I’d kill for a burger. Maybe go for a ride on my Harley or drink my weight in beer.”
“You mean, cause more trouble.”
A crooked grin flickered on my lips. “I mean, live a little.”
Amber shrugged, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. “Living is overrated. Surviving, though—now that’s a thrill.”
We sat in the quiet that followed, the kind that settled between conspirators just before a rule gets broken. Outside, dusk pressed against the windowpanes, painting the room with long, uncertain shadows. My heart thudded a restless rhythm, impatient for motion, for the wild promise of something other than this.
“Maybe we just need one minor act of rebellion,” Amber said, almost whispering.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Not a felony. Not yet. Maybe just... a taste of freedom. Unless you want to call King and Reaper and tell them to go fuck themselves. I mean, you are a grown-ass man who is more than capable of making his own decisions.”
I cringed. “Are you trying to get me killed, woman?”
She shrugged, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “So? What’s it going to be?”
For a second, I stared at her, wondering if she was fucking real. Amber never struck me as the adventurous type. If anything, she kept her head down, trying not to draw attention to herself. Yet, something in the way she was looking at me now had me second-guessing myself, and her.
“Fine,” I said, forcing bravado into my voice. “But you’re going with me. If I’m going to break bad, I want backup.”
Amber’s laughter felt like a window sliding open—sudden and clean. “Just try not to get us arrested before sunrise.”
We never made it past the horse barn because wouldn’t you know it, King and Reaper really did think of everything. The second we snuck past the enormous building, Winchester, a brother in the Silver Shadows, walked out of the darkness, holding a long barrel with a scope.
“Going somewhere, guys?” The infuriating fucker smiled, then escorted us back to our makeshift prison.
The second time, we never made it past the front porch.
“Well, this blows,” Amber huffed, throwing herself on the bed. “This is worse than being locked down at the clubhouse. At least there I had something to do.”
I dropped down beside her; the bedsprings creaking their protest under my weight. The thin curtain between us and theworld outside fluttered in the breeze, carrying the faintest whiff of hay and gasoline. For a moment, neither of us spoke, our failed escapes hanging heavy in the air like my battered leather cut slung over the chair.
“How long do you think they will keep us here?”
