Chapter 5
Flint blows smoke up into the already hazy air circling our heads, but he keeps his eyes on mine. His long, long legs spread wide, back of his knees flush to the floor. Heels of his trainers pressed to the concrete, the soles facing out.
Flint.
That’s what he grunted as a way of introduction as he sauntered into the crumbling room Blaze locked me inside of. I didn’t try to get out, didn’t hammer my fists uselessly against the door, knowing there’s no point.
When the door eventually opened, this huge, tall man entering, ducking as he did, peering down at me with bright blue eyes. He walked past me. Peering out of the window as he reached it, his long fingers scissoring between the broken slats.
My back is to the opposite wall, my knees flush with my chest, bleeding thighs burning with the pressure from my tight jeans.
But I don’t relax my hold, I like the way it hurts.
From his position opposite me, Flint’s hellfire blue eyes singe my skin, but like a third degree burn, it doesn’t cause me pain right away, because it’s bone deep. The heat in his gaze, the bright cherry of his spliff, the gloom of the concrete box room. Light filters in from outside, street lamps, many floors below, offering a slice of orange tinted light.
But all that I feel inside this room is darkness.
“You’ll get high with me if I want you to,” he warns, shrugging loosely, something I told him I would not be doing when he first slumped into position across from me, offered me a joint with long, tattooed fingers, nails painted black. “I’ll hotbox this room,” he says casually, cocking his head slowly to one side, the long length of his throat hidden beneath a flame patterned bandana tied at the back of his neck, “so you may as well have a toke.”
I say nothing, swallowing the sticky sweet air as I breathe in too deep, but I don’t break eye contact, keeping my sight locked on him. His feet mere inches from my tucked up body, my arms tight around my shins, fingers biting into the delicate skin of my inner elbows, blades of my shoulders sharp points against the chipped cement wall. It’s rough, harsh enough to cut skin, and I relish in it with a half-smile. Flint’s eyes twitch in unison, narrowing at the inner corners at the subtle curl to my lips.
I can hurt myself even in an empty room.
He sighs, revealing just a few little licks of the ink on his throat as he drops his head back, knocking it against the solid outer wall. The windowsill only a few inches to his left, a rough corner to the cracked white plastic that’s sharp like a jagged knife point.
“Babysitting is dull,” he sighs again, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, a crease immediately forming between his brows.
I glance up, gaze lifting slowly beneath my thick lashes, to see what he sees.
A bare white electrical cord for a light long gone, red and green wires poking out of the end, little spikes of copper exposed in each of them. There”s no electricity in this flat, that’s what Flint told me, like he was gloating I’d hate it. I don’t. So we can’t get electrocuted, shame, but the white cord is long, too long, much longer than a regular light fixture, probably because of the gaping hole in the plasterboard ceiling, exposing the steel beam structure above.
My head cocks to the right, tongue poking out to lick my dry, chewed lips. Two feet of wire is exposed, and I could probably reach it if I jumped. I could pull on it, make it longer, curl it around my throat, and tie it off.
“Fuck me,” Flint laughs, drawing my gaze, his bright blue eyes widening. “You’re crazy.”
I say nothing, blinking at him as he shakes his head, still laughing.
“I thought rich girls only ever dreamt of shoes and lipstick and Caribbean holidays they can pay for with their daddy’s credit cards.” He brings the joint to his lips, sucking long and slow, the cherry crackling, ash dropping to the thighs of his black joggers. “Not you, though,” he laughs a little, exhaling smoke, but there’s no humour in it, letting the spliff hang on his bottom lip, he licks his top one, flashing a silver bar in his tongue. “You only use that pretty little head of yours to think about death, huh, Sugar?”
Sugar.
The masked man from the kitchen.
Silence follows his question as I think of him chasing me, and I can tell it won’t stop him asking more, but I don’t care. I have nothing to say to that. I’m not sure how often I think of my end.
I float through life, uncaring of how many hours, days, years, pass me by. I have no goals, no wants, nothing to wake up for in the morning.
But I still do.
Wake up.
Like a habit.
A bad one, I suppose.
Perhaps it would benefit everyone if I didn’t.
I know how much of a burden I am to my dad’s finances. Personal security teams, cameras, drivers. So many unusual things I need because I’m scared.
I think of when we lived here. We had nothing, no money, the area was gang run, there was crime and drugs and violence. But I was never unhappy here.
Now that’s all I ever am.
“Maybe that’s why my brother’s so obsessed with you,” Flint hums, staring at me, and I drop my gaze to my knees, blood soaked black denim sticking to my skin. “And what’s harder than tryna keep a suicidal abductee alive, whilst also simultaneously tryna push her to the brink of wanting to die.” I scrunch my brow, staring, unseeingly, at my legs. “Blaze always did like a challenge; I’ll give him that much.”
“Brother?” I ask, slowly lifting my gaze onto his, Flint’s bright one already on me.
“Yes. Brother.” Flint shrugs, and I frown harder.
“Blaze didn’t have a brother when I knew him,” I inform him quietly, confusion creasing my face.
Flint’s reaction is slow, a controlled thing in the form of a single raised bow, the slight downturn of his lips, “And when, exactly, did you know him, Sugar?”
I blink, tightening my arms further, my elbows aching in protest as I squeeze my shins, but I don’t speak. I don’t say anything.
If Blaze wanted this man, Flint, his brother, to know anything about me, us, he would have told him.
So, I say nothing, keep my gaze down, and Flint’s short, rasped laugh is surprising to us both.
“Fuck me,” he huffs, and I hear him shifting, his clothing catching on the rough floor, the uneven cement wall at his back. “You not gunna speak to me now, Sugar?”
I bite down on my tongue, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” that’s all I say.
Instantly, he barks another laugh, shaking his head, the sides shaved almost to the scalp, the middle section on top and down the back of his head is straight and long, hanging across his eyes like an unstyled mohawk.
He leans forward, and as though I’m trying to stay as small and insignificant as possible, keeping my head down, I lift my eyes, his already locked on me.
He licks his lips, stubbing out his joint on the concrete beside his thigh, and I can see the tattoo on his throat now, a wide open mouth. It’s not human, it’s a black gaping hole surrounded by long sharp teeth.
“Oh, Sugar,” he coos, and he looks so much like Blaze in the moment that I wonder if they really could be blood brothers. “You and I won’t be strangers for very much longer.”
Then he smiles with all of his straight white teeth, and he looks like a fucking demon.