Chapter 4 #4
Within, the ceilings are low and the walls close.
It's a small flat, the door opening into the main living area, which features a microscopic kitchenette, a ratty, threadbare couch, a mismatched pair of decades-old armchairs, a large flatscreen TV from at least twenty years ago, and a scratched, glass-topped coffee table littered with empty wine and beer bottles, an overflowing ashtray, a box of .
45 rounds and several magazines, a stack of Italian nude magazines, and a scratched and battered Android smartphone.
The air is close, hot, and smoky. In the kitchen, a kettle spews steam on the two-burner range and begins to let out a shrill whistle. A short hallway at the back of the living space leads to a bathroom on the right and, presumably, the only bedroom at the end.
Chief Goon rips off his poncho and tosses it on the ancient tile floor, shaking and scrubbing the rain off his head; the other two do the same while Killian and I stand just inside the door, dripping and shivering.
Chief Goon confers with our host, who is a huge, burly man of about forty with a thick, bushy back beard and a long, greasy ponytail. With a gesture, the host indicates the room at the back.
"Go. Window is small and has gate on it," Chief Goon says. "Is no escape."
"Can we get a blanket or a towel or some tea, or something?" Killian asks. "Unless you want us to get pneumonia and die."
"Go. I will see."
"Killy, just c'mon," I urge, tugging him toward the darkened room. "It's hot in here. We'll dry off soon."
He lets me guide him to the bedroom; a switch just inside the door turns on a bare lightbulb overhead, illuminating a bedroom as spare and aged as the rest of the flat—the same tile floor, dented and scuffed whitewashed plaster walls, the only attempt at decoration a beer advertisement from the sixties, and a double bed with a brass frame, naked mattress, and a drab green, army-issue wool blanket folded at the foot end.
There's a single, small window with bars on the outside; even if it wasn't barred, it's so small I doubt Killian could get his shoulders through it.
Killian, shirtless and dripping, looks tense and furious, his jaw ticking as he takes in our surroundings. "Step up from the container, I suppose," he mutters. "At least there's no piss bucket."
I pat his pec. "And we have light. I can see you, now. " I cup his cheek. "Hi."
He stares down at me, the fury draining out of his features, his expression softening. "Hey." His eyes scan my face, drop down to scan my body, then flick back to my face. "You're fucking gorgeous, Story."
I snort. "If you're into the whole drowned rat look, sure."
"Happens to be my favorite kink."
I pluck at the neck of the pale blue scrub top, plastered against my skin. "It's the wet scrubs, isn't it? Really gets you going."
"Y'know, it is?" he says, smirking. "You've really got my number."
I look up at him and feel my iron grip on my emotions slipping. "That was really, really scary, Killy."
"Fuckin' A, it was," he answers. "I honestly can't entirely believe those jack-offs pulled it off. I thought for sure we were gonna die."
"At the launch, especially."
He shakes his head. "Something tells me that wasn't part of the original plan. I think they're desperate. Something happened, and I’d wager dollars to donuts my sister is involved somewhere, somehow. No one can piss people off faster than her."
My legs shake, my hands tremble, my lower lip wobbles, and I find myself struggling to breathe properly. "I…need to sit d-d-down."
Killian's brow furrows. "Hey, you're okay. It's okay. We’re safe, relatively speaking."
I shake my head, breathing coming out in tremulous puffs through pursed lips. “I…I’m not—I can't—"
He blinks a few times, as if puzzled. Which, I suppose, is fair enough. You'd think after all I've been through, a scary boat ride wouldn't faze me this much. But you can't control the things that affect you, can you?
Recovering swiftly, he gathers me to his chest and scrapes my wet hair away. "Breathe, Story. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight."
"I kn-know how to s-s-squ—square br-breathe," I stammer.
He sniffs a soft laugh. "Of course you do."
"I just—I can't control my-my-myself."
"You don't have to, Story. Let it out. I’ve got you."
I let my eyes shut and try to breathe, but I keep feeling ground bucking and heaving under us and I'm shivering as my sodden clothes steam in the hot, damp air of the tiny room.
The smell of cigarette smoke is nearly overpowering in here, and the walls and ceiling are yellow with decades of smoke-stain.
Killian shuffles us to the bed, settles on the mattress with my back to his front.
He pinches the edge of the folded blanket with his toes and brings it up to where he can grab it with his hand, and then spreads it over us, tucking it under my nose.
If nothing else, the scent of the wool blanket cancels the smoke stench, at least.
Damp, shivering, hungry, thirsty, and shaken by the perilous boat ride, I nonetheless find myself dropping into a fitful slumber, the firm warmth of Killian's bare chest behind me and his arms around me.