“I can’t call you F, though,” I tease. “Who wants an F?”
“You’re insufferable.” She stands up, tugging at her cotton shorts, and I look up at her.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me.”
She kicks my shoe, and then she marches off theatrically. I stay there for a second, splashing water on my neck.
It’s true, what I said to her. Just another day or so until I get us out of here. And I can hold on that long. I fucking have to.
Fourteen
Finley
“Do you ever sleep?” I’m whispering, although I’m not sure why since it’s just us and I know he’s awake.
He’s lying on his side. I’m facing him because I don’t like sleeping with him at my back. I offered him the first sleep shift, because anxiety had me wound too tightly to try, but then I got this horrid headache, so I stretched out beside him, where I quickly realized he’s not sleeping. He keeps breathing deeply and shifting about.
“Do you?” His low voice comes like something corporeal through the dark, and I find I’m grateful for it. I turned off the lantern when I stretched out here, although it frightens me to be entombed in darkness.
“A bit.” I sigh, adjusting my hair band so my locks flow down my back instead of over my shoulder. I prop my cheek on my palm and blink at him. “I can sort of see you, even though there’s no light.”
I watch his lips twitch. “I can sort of see you, too.”
“Tell me something, Declan Carnegie.”
“What kind of something, Finley Evans?”
“You know my surname.”
“Magnet at the house.” His voice is a bit hoarse with what I presume is exhaustion. His head is propped on the small, plaid blanket I gave him to use as a pillow. I scoot a fraction closer to him, and our gazes lock like magnets. Something electric zips through me—a sort of boldness, borne perhaps of sheer stir-craziness.
“What are you scared of?” I murmur.
I feel him shift a bit as he props his elbow on the blanket and his cheek against his palm, peering down at me. “I bet you’re wanting me to say bugs, aren’t you? Or clowns.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Oh, you know. Big dude scared of a little bug.”
“Or a child’s entertainer?” I smile, because it would be a bit funny.
He gives me an I-told-you-so look. “I’m not scared of bugs. Clowns don’t really wind me up either. I’ll tell you what I’m scared of.”
I lift my brows.
“Other than clocks. I fucking hate cuckoo clocks.”
I laugh. “You hate cuckoo clocks?”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“The sort that open up and something totters out?”
He nods. “Those things will knock you on your ass.”
“They jump out at you?”
“Not literally. I’m talking figuratively.”