Thad flips the lock, opens the door, and steps out like he’s got no worries. With the electricity out, the light over the door is out, too, leaving us in the shadows. Plus, most folks are now focused on getting the lights back on—and so they’re not going to worry when a cook doesn’t show up promptly after her break. I could be asleep, trapped in the loo, or any one of a dozen other things.
The gun digs into my rib cage, a not-so-subtle reminder that right now he’s very much the one in charge. Have I mentioned how much I hate losing control? It’s not like this is a revelation, but my current lack of choices just reinforces what I’ve known all along. Men suck, being powerless sucks, and sometimes life serves up an enormous bowl of suck and all you can do is wait for a chance to trade up to something better. Which also sucks.
“Nice and easy,” Thad cautions, as if sticking his gun in my ribs hasn’t already made his point. I think he’s just rubbing it in at this point, which fits with what I know about him. He guides me down the porch, all faux solicitousness, and along the edge of the camp, sticking to the shadows and the trees. Well, I didn’t expect him to march me straight down the middle, right? I’ll just have to watch a little more closely for my opportunity.
He monologues like a bad villain, too. It’s all you’re going to be sorry blah fucking blah I’ve got you now. I get it, and yes, I’m sorry. Sorry I ever fell for his charm. Sorry I didn’t do things differently with Mrs. Joan. Sorry I didn’t take a chance on Pick and me. There’s this weird ache in my chest that I can’t even rub because I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. It’s not a heart attack, though, or even heartburn. It takes me half the distance to the parking lot to realize the sad truth. It’s heartache, and how stupid is that to only figure out now that I want things with Pick? Things like feelings and emotions and maybe possibly spending a whole lot of time with him? I’m not sure how that would work since we both like to be in charge, but now it looks like I’ll never know. I add that to my list of things that suck.
In a moment, I’m sure I’ll come up with an awesome, super successful plan to get away from Thad, march my butt to the nearest police station and try—again—to get someone to listen to me. The only way to fix that, though, is to deal with Thad, and that means somehow getting away from him. Or I can sell a kidney and lawyer up. Or… I could ask Pick for help. He has ideas. He wants to help. And I think I might be okay with letting him, as long as I can choose the plan and can return the favor some day. I don’t have to make him the boss of me—just take turns standing watch with him. And that seems like another relationship thing, me guarding his back and him guarding mine. It’s like the emotional equivalent of soaping each other’s back in the shower. Some spots are hard to reach or feel better when someone else gets them.
Halfway to the parking lot, I lunge. It’s not my best idea, because he immediately gets an arm around my throat. Two hundred yards has done nothing to change the weight/height ratio between us any—he’s still taller and stronger. Pulling my head into his shoulder, he squeezes until breathing becomes my primary focus. God. In and out, little shallow pants, until he eases up because he’s made his point, and no, apparently he doesn’t want to kill me in the fire camp.
“Don’t,” he snarls. “Be smart about this.”
There’s no answer for that kind of demand, and it doesn’t matter. The boom that shakes the ground around us swallows up anything I might have said. The camp lights up like the Fourth of July, flames shooting into the sky from the direction where we’re headed.
“Flammables shed,” Thad observes. He’s practically cackling, he’s so gleeful. “They really should have had someone watching that.”
He’s crazy. This is a fire camp full of firefighters—not a military compound. The shed was pointed out to me when I first came up here to cook—it’s a definite no smoking zone—and it’s where the hotshots lock up their fusees and flamethrowers. It also houses a small arsenal of drip torches, gas cans, and a dozen different kinds of oil.