The Catacombs (Cult 2)

His arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know…I think a heads-up would be nice.”

“She’s already scared enough as it is. I’m not throwing more wood on that fire.”

The bolt finally came undone.

“Sounds like you like this woman.” He motioned for them to open the large door. The men moved together and put their weight on the side, pushing it sideways, getting it to slowly reveal the darkness beyond.

I ignored what he said.

“You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

I walked in first and found the switch to light up the place. Bulbs flickered on along the ceiling, revealing the never-ending line of storage crates. I went to the first one and removed the wooden lid to expose the rifles and ammunition inside, properly stored so a bump in the road wouldn’t jolt the triggers. I took out the first one and examined it. Completely unmarked. No sign of ownership or make. “Jackpot.” I returned it to the crate.

Bartholomew gestured to his men. “Soak the place.” His hand reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter. His thumb struck the button, making a little flame emerge. Like a child, he watched it with fascination.

“All this work…to destroy it all.”

“Yep.”

“We could sell it. Or keep it for ourselves.”

“Both great options.” He released the button and let the fire die out. “But I’m just in one of those moods.” He turned back to me, his arms resting on the crates. “You know, where I want everyone to think I’m some crazy son of a bitch.”

“People thought that long before you blew up your own ship.”

He gave a smirk. “They did, didn’t they?”

“So, what’s the real reason?”

The dousing began. Gasoline was poured into every corner of the warehouse. Millions of dollars in illegal artillery were soaked in the gas that would light up this place brighter than the Eiffel Tower. “I’m about to teach you something, Benton.” One arm rested on the crate as he turned to regard me, as if his arm were on the counter at a café while we both waited for our espressos. “How do you negotiate with someone when you don’t know what they want? Shit, I don’t even know what I want…most of the time.”

When I walked in the door, I could still smell breakfast.

Pancakes. Potatoes. A toasted baguette she’d picked up from Le Grenier à Pain, the bakery where I told her to do my shopping. It was farther away than the ones right by my apartment, but it was the best.

But the apartment was silent, which meant Claire already left for school.

I’d missed it—again.

I didn’t just feel self-loathing, but loathing for Bartholomew. I had been thrust back into the game, a game I didn’t want to play anymore but was now obligated. It was more than obligation…closer to indentured servitude.

I left my jacket on the coatrack and headed straight to the kitchen. The food was lukewarm in the pans, but at least it wasn’t cold from sitting in the fridge for an hour. I scooped everything onto my plate and skipped the coffee.

She was on the couch in front of the fire, her fingers absentmindedly playing with a gold pendant on a chain. She shifted it back and forth near her jawline, her eyes watching the flames in the hearth. A closed book was on her thigh.

I took a seat at the dining table and ate in silence.

She didn’t look at me.

It was the same silent comfort that I shared with Bartholomew, where we could be in the same room for hours but feel no need to speak. The silence could float there between us, causing no tension, no discomfort.

When the food was gone, I left the dirty plate in the sink then grabbed the decanter of scotch in the living room. I poured myself a glass and took a deep drink.

As if she realized I was there for the first time, she turned to look at me, her fingers pausing on her necklace.

When the glass was empty, I wiped away the drops with the back of my hand.

She was always in her street clothes unless it was time for bed. Tight jeans and boots. Blouses that were flattering on her tits and slender waistline. Her long brown hair was always styled in some way, but whether it was curled or straight, it was soft, easy for my fingers to run through. Her most beautiful feature was probably her eyes—because they shone with intelligence.

“What is it?”

She rested the gold pendant against her bottom lip as her gaze shifted back to the fire. “Didn’t sleep well, is all…”

Now I wondered if she really had seen that freak in the window. “Why?”

“Nightmare.” She released the necklace and let it fall back into place as her arms crossed over her stomach. “I have them pretty often, but this time, I couldn’t fall back asleep.” Her eyes stayed on the fire, as if she didn’t expect me to stick around.