“He hasn’t done anything. It’s not about him. I’m not going to eat, because there’s no point in me eating. They’re going to kill me anyway. It’d just be a waste of everything: food, water and both of our time.” She shakes her head. Her voice is so hollow, it almost echoes. “If I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be at their hands.” Her eyes harden. “No. I’ll die here. Alone. Deprive them the opportunity of getting off on seeing me gasping for my last breath.”
The mention of her death mauls at me combined with the crimes I committed a few hours ago. I resist the urge to say something comforting. I ain’t a liar, and Pea’s right. They’ll kill her. Godfrey will make it a gory death, and no matter where the crime scene ends up being, a splash of her blood will forever stain my conscience.
But one of us has to die, and right now, my integrity is paralyzed by my survival instincts.
“Beat,” she croaks. Fuck, her lips. Those pinks I’d like to touch—now more than ever—are trembling with fear. “Please kill me. I know you can’t set me free, I get it. I do. But you can make my death look like an accident. Please, spare me the Archers’ wrath.”
She wants to become my third death for tonight, and my fourth in total. Do I look like the fucking reaper? I clutch my hair with both fists as I bite into my lip. It’s a sad turn of events when you realize you don’t only want to fuck the girl you’re supposed to hand over to death row, but you also want to save her.
“Hey,” I drop my hand to the floor to pick up the burrito, placing it in her hand. “Shut your trap about death. I’ll go get my food. We’ll eat together tonight.”
That’s the only thing I can think of that’d cheer her up. I don’t want her suffering. She hasn’t done anything bad to me. My dick, on the other hand, resents her round ass and suckable lips. She’s been taunting it for days. If cock teasing were an art, this girl would be Picasso.
“Beat,” she says weakly when I start ascending the stairs. I stop, my back still to her. “Bring your favorite book along. I’d like to read something good.”
My head falls in a small nod.
She’s aiming straight for my fucking heart, this chick. Shot after shot in the dark.
And sooner or later, I know, even in the pitch black, she’s going to hit her target.
He took the bait. More like swallowed the whole fishing rod.
I don’t want to hurt Nate, but I need him to set me free. And if that means compromising the truth of my mental state, then so be it.
It’s not that I manipulated him. I am depressed. I am scared. Just not enough to give up on life. I’d never give up on life. That’s the only thing I’ve got left after what they did to me.
And Nate? He gave up on his. I see how he lives. The long hours he works. Bending over backward for Godfrey. Constantly jogging to the door every time the bell rings, worrying it’ll be his parole officer, that I’m going to be found. He is a trapped animal, a caged soul and a terrible liar. I know his kind.
We eat together in the darkened basement. Nate blindfolded me because he can’t eat with his mask on. I don’t need to see him to know that he’s here.
“Thank you for the food, Beat.” I munch on my rice and bean burrito. He grunts in response. Back to being a caveman.
“Why did you get thrown in prison?” I ask, sucking sour cream from my finger with a moan. I miss good food so bad.
“You want the long or short version?”
“Does it look like I’m in a hurry?”
He lets out a chuckle. His voice is great. Baritone, gruff and throaty. Not that it matters, I remind myself. He’s business.
“Manslaughter. I smashed a vase into my dad’s head. Fractured his skull.”
By the way his leg nudges mine playfully, I’m guessing that he’s sitting with his knees drawn up just like mine.
“That’s your long version? Gee, how many words do you use for the short one?” I snort.
“One. Destroy. I’m pretty good at ruining things.”
“That’s harsh. And false. For one thing, you can football-tackle a girl like a pro,” I joke as Nate passes me a bottle of water. I take a sip and give it back to him. “You didn’t want to take me hostage. You cared when Ink hit me. . .” I trail off. “Maybe you’re good.”
I feel him chuckling against me.
“You hate your roommate,” I say.
“I hate everything,” he deadpans.
“That’s not true, you just don’t care.”
“Maybe that’s how I started this morning. Indifferent. But, today I did things I cannot undo. What’s more—I don’t want to undo them. Maybe I’m a monster.”