Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Grinder
“I’m no expert, but I’m willing to bet that your pacing isn’t going to help this situation.”
I stop dead in my tracks just as I’m about to turn on my heel, then glare at Kincaid.
“Would you rather I punch the cinderblock walls, instead?” In a typical Kincaid move, she shrugs like whatever it is I decide to do, it won’t have an ounce of effect on her.
Sitting in the corner of the damp cell with her legs pulled up and her cuffed arms hugging her knees, she looks like she could be hanging out at a frat party.
If said party were located in a dungeon with dirty floors and mold-eaten walls.
“I mean, it’d be interesting to see how you manage with those handcuffs on. You know, a teaching moment.” Where hers are locked in front, they’ve kept mine behind my back. They think I’m more dangerous than Kincaid, no doubt, and they would be so fucking wrong.
Maybe that’s why she’s so calm…
“You have a plan, don’t you?” Raising a brow like my question is ridiculous, she also allows one side of her mouth to tick up into a smirk that says it all.
“Nope.” Chances are, we’re being monitored and our prospect knows this.
It’s impossible to tell how long we’ve been here. Hours? A few days? No, not that long, but I’m sure we’re well into day two or at least close to it. Sleep is nowhere to be found, my adrenaline is pumping overtime with my mind solely focused on my sister.
“Hey, you cock sucking cunt face motherfucker! Don’t be a weak ball sack and come down here!” Yelling through the bars of our cell, I watch as spittle flies out into the empty space on the other side.
“You should get some rest, Grinder.”
I know she’s right, but how does she expect me to close my eyes and relax enough to fall into slumber?
It’s impossible. I haven’t seen my sister in months, almost a year, in fact.
Then she shows up, or more accurately, she’s dragged by her hair to stand in front of me.
From the clothes she was wearing, it was obvious she’d dressed herself with her standard holey jeans that cost more than when they’re intact, and her crop-top band tee advertising some group I’ve never heard of before.
Mostly because I don’t put in the effort to listen to new music.
With almost ten years on her, our tastes are wildly different.
The shock of seeing her tear-tracked cheeks and her trembling bottom lip as she tried to hold back her fear makes my anger boil right back up to the surface.
What the fuck is she even doing here? And why didn’t she call me to tell me she was coming down?
I frown as the past week runs rampant through my mind. Last time I spoke to her, she didn’t mention anything about a road trip down from college. Spring break came and went and I know for a fact that she flew down to the Keys for the week.
The thought that maybe I ignored a notification with a missed call from her has me thinking hard, my forehead resting on the steel. Mind reeling.
“Why didn’t she call me?” The question is for the universe, but Kincaid answers anyway.
“Maybe she did.” I scoff at her optimism, that’s how ridiculous the notion is. I always make time for Mia. I’ve never ignored a call from her before.
“No, if she’d called, I would’ve known.”
“Maybe she wanted to surprise you.”
That’s the only thing that makes sense. Any other time, I’d be thrilled to get a surprise like that, but obviously, this one did not turn out right.
“Talk about bad timing.” I’m not defeated but goddamn, I’m pissed off.
The heavy door down the hall scrapes against the concrete floor and a jolt of energy flies through my bloodstream.
A girl—she can’t be more than sixteen, seventeen, tops—dressed in a gray robe from neck to feet walks toward me, her hair in a severe bun and her lips literally sewn together with a thin band of red ribbon.
It’s been there for a while because the skin isn’t bleeding or scabbed.
In fact, it looks like it’s healed around the upper and lower lips in an intricate wave-like design.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“Jesus Christ.” Kincaid is suddenly standing beside me and I don’t need to look at her to know she’s disgusted by the sight in front of her.
“Do not speak to the lamb.” Is this guy for real? The lamb?
I blink once, then a second time to make sure this isn’t some weird in-between dream, and to my great disappointment, this is not that.
The guard following the teenage girl and carrying an AR-15 while she holds a platter with two plates and two glasses, is very much real.
I swear to fuck, I want to break his face and rip out every fucking tooth he owns.
The girl, however, doesn’t skip a beat. She places the tray on the wooden table in the corner and circles her fingers around each glass before bringing them to us—Kincaid, really, since I’m still handcuffed with my arms behind my back.
Eyes downcast and her features devoid of any emotion, the poor girl turns back to the tray and picks up the plates, then hands them over through a slit in the cell’s bars.
Kincaid has barely moved except to rest the glasses on the floor and against the wall.
We’re stunned. No, it’s more than that, we’re in shock.
My brain scrambles to make sense of the picture before me, and because we’re all selfish pricks in this world, the girl’s face morphs into my sister’s more rounded features. The girl’s piercing black irises blend into light blues, the same shade as the Tarheels’ team color. Mia’s university.
That’s when my shock bleeds right back into demolition levels of anger because the girl is no longer a stranger. She’s my blood, my family. My little princess.
“You sick fucks. If you touch a hair on my sister’s head, I will fucking take you apart, piece by motherfucking piece.” I’m not yelling this time. In fact, I’m speaking so low I have to wonder if he can even hear me.
“This doesn’t concern you, postoronnij.” What the fuck did he just say to me?
“Hey, asshole, I don’t know what you just said, but if you think pasta is ever an insult, you’re fucking delusional.”
“Postoronnij. It means outsider. It’s not an insult, it’s a fact.
” He’s right, I am an outsider, and thank fuck for that because whatever is happening within the walls of this place, I want no fucking part of it.
No, that’s not right. I want to destroy it, burn this whole fucking place down with every single one of these assholes tied down like hogs on barbecue day.
“Can we please have our handcuffs taken off? They hurt so much.” It takes everything in me not to look at Kincaid just to make sure the voice is hers. Gone is the tough exterior, the sharp tongue and the nonchalant attitude. In its place is vulnerability and submission.
“I’m not supposed to…” The guy’s visibly uneasy, looking around like someone’s going to give him instructions on what to do if a woman is in distress.
“Please? I promise I won’t take advantage, it’s just…I’m scared and my skin is nearly bleeding from how tight they are.” Did she just…hiccup? Like she’s…crying? Does Kincaid even have tear ducts?
“Fine, but only you. Don’t make me regret this.”
I school my features, staying as stoic as humanly possible.
No fucking way do I want to ruin Kincaid’s easy manipulation of this guy.
The patriarchy isn’t just about men controlling women, it’s about this deep-down belief that women are weak and need men to protect them.
It never once occurs to this guy that Kincaid is probably more lethal than he and I put together.
“Thank you, thank you.” Kincaid pushes her wrists through the small opening and waits for someone to unlock her cuffs.
“Lamb.” The girl turns to look at her jailor—it’s mental at this point, I have no doubts—and he nods in Kincaid’s direction just as he gives her the keys.
One click and K-bird is free, not that she rejoices in that too much. Instead, she shows humility and gratefulness.
“Thank you, that’s so much better.” Rubbing her wrists together because I know for a fact, no matter how tight or loose, wearing these fuckers for this long is painful as fuck, Kincaid smiles at the dumbass. In any action movie, he’d be the first insignificant character to die.
At least he had a speaking role.
Grabbing the glass, Kincaid brings it to my mouth and I do what I can to not drink it all in one go. I need to hydrate and gulping it down won’t do shit for my thirst. Once we’ve had a few sips, she takes the white bread sandwich and holds it up to my mouth.
Cardboard, that’s the only word that describes the paste in my mouth. It isn’t the bread’s fault, this is all on me and my disinterest in eating at a time like this.
The crackle of a radio has me freezing mid chew.
“Get up here, we need extra hands.” Dude looks around again, as if taking matters into his own hands is a foreign concept.
“Sit down, lamb, and make sure they don’t do anything stupid.” The girl does as she’s told and sits opposite the cell bars, hands folded on her lap, head down. “Good girl.”
At his words, I want to slit his throat. Those two words should only be used as positive reinforcement in safe circumstances. Neither of those things apply here because the girl is neither safe nor is she getting anything positive out of this. It’s a not-so-veiled threat and everyone knows it.
Once the guy is out of sight and hopefully out of hearing range, Kincaid wraps her fingers around the bars and speaks to the girl.
“Hey, are you okay?” She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. “Are there cameras in this cell or where you are?” Again, no response. At least not right away.
The only reason I know she answers is because my eyes are trained right on her. It’s faint and it’s discreet but she gives her head a short and sharp shake.