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“Great. Fucking six floors of this shit.”
Behind me, Alexandra laughs.
“No. Seven. The builders cheaped out and accidentally bought two sixes when they were labeling the floors, and they just ran with it instead of buying the correct signs. We’re on the second sixth floor.”
“I hate this place.”
“So do I. Only reason I lived here so long was because it was the best place to live to kill you.”
I’m flattered. That she would hate me so much that she’d live on the second-sixth floor of a rattrap building and make an entire life here in town just to get to me is the closest thing to a compliment that I’ve received in a long time. Maybe ever.
Stepping into the stairwell and going down a flight, I see the second sign for the sixth floor and curse, because a part of me had hoped that Alexandra was just lying, and then I shift the weight on my shoulders and keep going. This fucker’s heavy.
"You know, for a tough guy, you sure are huffing and puffing a lot," she taunts, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
I bite back a retort, focusing instead on navigating the narrow steps without stumbling. The last thing I need is to drop this asshole and give her more ammunition to mock me with. As we reach the next landing, I pause to catch my breath, shifting the body's weight. Alexandra steps around me, her gun still trained on me.
"Keep moving, buttercup. We don't have all night," she orders, gesturing with the barrel of the gun.
I glare at her over my shoulder. "You drugged me, I’m hung over, and I had to beat this guy to death. I’ll go as fast as I go. Now, you want to take a turn carrying this dead weight? Be my guest, princess."
She rolls her eyes. "Please. I've got more important things to do than play pack mule. That's what I have you for."
I start down the next flight of stairs. The muscles in my back and legs burn with the strain, but I refuse to show any weakness in front of her. Never in my life have I wanted to help someone as much as I want to help Alexandra Reyes, younger sister of the man I murdered, and never in my life have I hated someone as much as I hate Alexandra Reyes, the snarky, gun-toting, drink-doping bartender who has no respect for the Marines.
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, I stop and wait for her.
The door to exit the stairwell is shut and I’ve got two-hundred pounds of killer on my shoulders, a crick in my neck, and my legs hurt like I’d just let Moose give them a dry, deep tissue massage with a pair of wooden rolling pins. He’d probably like that. Probably tell me about how he once moonlighted at a spa in Argentina and fucked the entire national soccer team. Twice.
“You going to get that?”
She shakes her head. “You’d make a woman open the door for you? Wow, some man you are.”
“I’m carrying this piece of shit and I’m the one who saved your life. Can you at least get the fucking door?”
“I’m the one with the gun, and I say you open it.”
My jaw clenches, a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect for her stubbornness twining together like barbed wire around my heart. I shift the dead weight on my shoulders again, angling my body awkwardly to reach the door handle with my free hand.
The door creaks open, revealing the dimly lit parking lot strewn with a few dented and forgotten vehicles that look like rejects from the post-apocalyptic Mad Max wasteland. As we step out into the muggy night air, the stench of garbage from a nearby dumpster greets us and a pair of cockroaches scramble over my feet as I step into the dark.
"Over there," she instructs, nodding toward her car with a tilt of her head. "The Ford Focus. Make it quick."
I trudge over to the trunk, trying to ignore the throbbing in my muscles and the way my shirt sticks to my back with sweat. With a grunt, I deposit the body into the trunk. I slam it shut and turn to look at Alexandra, who is smirking in that infuriatingly confident manner of hers.
"There. Happy now?"
"Thrilled," she replies dryly. “There’s a dead body in my trunk and it isn’t you. This is exactly how I wanted my night to go. Fuck you, Dixon.” Then she reaches into her pocket and tosses me a set of keys. “You’re driving. I’m directing. Like usual.”
She’s smart, I have to give her that; making me drive so she can keep all her focus, and her aim, on me. I slide into the driver's seat, the worn leather groaning under my weight. The seat is about as stable as a contestant on The Bachelor. I can feel Alexandra’s eyes on me from the back seat, the cold steel of the gun pressing into the back of my neck while she sits, queen of all she surveys from her makeshift throne in the back of her Ford Focus.
As we pull onto the road leading out of town, I take a moment to reflect on tonight and realize that, out of everything that’s happened to me — the drugging, the kidnapping, the near-death experience, all of it — the most undignified thing is that I’m behind the wheel of a Ford Focus. I hope no one finds out about this.
The city gives way to dry coastal forest, then beyond that, the desert scrublands. The dry wilderness swallows us whole, an endless expanse of barren silence. I drive, each mile marker lulling us further into no-man's-land, away from prying eyes and the reach of civilization.
As light creeps over the blasted landscape, Alexandra finally commands me to stop. I pull over and kill the engine, the silence of dawn enveloping us like a shroud. She steps out, retrieving a shovel from the trunk while I haul out our grim cargo for a second time.
I follow her lead. There's a finality in our march that chills me more than the desert cold biting at my flesh.
