Page 45 of Haze of Obedience

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The truth hurts, but I snap at him, "Glad to know you lied."

"I lied? About what?" He steps next to me, and we continue stomping through the treeline.

Being a fan of my music.

I ignore his question. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"South."

"Why south?"

"We need to get to Omoa, Honduras."

"Omoa? Why there?"

"My friend Tinker from the military lives there. He can get us passports."

"How do you know?"

"He can always get anything."

"How do you know he isn't connected to people?"

"What people?"

"Bad people."

"Want to get more specific?"

“Nope."

"I'm getting tired of this game you play with me."

I freeze. "Game?"

He turns and scowls. "Yeah. You give me little tidbits of information and then tell me nothing."

Frustration is an understatement. "You're so entitled."

He scoffs. "Me?"

"Yeah. I told you one of my darkest secrets. What have you told me? I don't know anything about you. And you claim to be such a huge fan so you should know more than you appear to. So it's not my fault if you can't read and comprehend," I accuse, still hurt that he thinks I'm a snob.

"Now I'm illiterate? Is that because I'm a country boy?"

I throw my hands in the air and angrily spout, "What does being a country boy have to do with whether you can read or not?"

He steps closer, glares at me, and crosses his arms. His tattooed biceps bulge out of his T-shirt, and I curse myself for even noticing them. The potent, woody, raw smell of his skin hits me like a drug and my pulse spikes.

"You tell me," he barks.

I poke my finger in his chest. "You're a moron." I spin to walk.

He places his hand on my arm. "Tell—"

"Don't touch me," I yell.

The brown and green in his eyes flick, and he lifts his hands in the air. "Sorry."

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