Ready Or Not (The Hunter’s Club #2)

Chapter 15

15

HOLOGRAM - Poe the Passenger

I lie in bed for what feels like hours. I think Riley fell asleep within fifteen minutes, stretched out in front of the door like a guard dog.

A confusing bubble of emotions fills my chest. I try to get out of my cuffs, wiggling them back and forth quietly, so much so that the edges of my hands get bruised and ripped. On top of that, my leg hurts.

My skin feels gross. I feel sweaty, and I can feel the gunk in my skin. I hated every minute of that trip. I finally feel back in control, but even though I’m in control of my mind, I’m so far out of control it’s not even funny.

I shimmy up so I can run my fingers along the pimple on my forehead. It hurts, so I pick at it while I think.

There is something really wrong with both Manson and Riley. One minute, they’re like robots; the next, they switch on emotion on a dime. They do it so effortlessly, too, and it just confuses me more. I already have a hard time reading people, but this? This is like an Olympic sport.

I want to go home. I’m fucking starving, I stink, and I want to lose myself in my bones. Even just sitting in the room looking at them helps. They’re the only friends I have that don’t judge. Plus, everything is simple and orderly when I’m in that room. I have a system for everything. The skulls are ordered by species and height. They’re all labeled with the type and the month I found them. Everything has a place.

I need a routine. If I don’t have my favorite food (currently chicken nuggets, preferably the frozen ones from Tyson), my comfy sweats, and my skulls, everything else starts to fall away, too.

Having a routine makes sense. It’s predictable. But now, all my emotions are out of place, and my gut twists.

I need Riley to let me go, but I’m not sure how to accomplish that. I doubt I’ll be able to pull on her heartstrings. I don’t think she has them, and even if she did, I’ve never been good with that kind of thing. I’m going to have to outsmart her. And Manson.

I study every inch of Riley’s room, trying to stave off a panic attack. It looks basic. Impersonal. She doesn’t even have any family pictures. Her dresser is dusty and looks unused.

My breathing picks up. If they know where I live, how can I go home?

Riley groans.

I stiffen.

She moans, picking herself off the floor, shaking the sleep from her head.

“Wow. Forgot how much the floor sucks.” She stretches. “Gotta pee?”

I flush, and as I do, my stomach growls.

“Oh fuck. I’ve gotta feed you too, don’t I?” Riley runs her hand down her face. “Fuck. Well, alright then, up you go.”

Riley uncuffs me and accompanies me to the bathroom. She keeps the door open while I pee, so I can’t even look for any potential weapons, then switches spots with me.

As she sits down, she mutters, “Don’t run off; the house is trapped.”

I glance at the hall, considering it anyway. My heart is pounding.

Riley sighs. “Rachel, please. Have I ever lied to you?”

I stand there, frozen. How am I supposed to know the answer to that? I have no way to prove either answer.

Riley finishes, washes her hands, then moves past me to the top of the stairs. She brushes past me, and I realize again how tall she is. A shiver goes up my skin from where she touched me. Riley fiddles with something on the wall. It looks like…a mousetrap glued to the wall?

Shit. So she wasn’t lying.

“Come.” Riley grabs my hand and pulls me downstairs. Her hand is surprisingly soft and shoots a bolt of electricity through me.

It feels weird. I pull away from her as soon as I can.

The downstairs is basic, too. There are only two couches, no coffee table, a dining room table, and some chairs. It’s an open floor plan, all surrounding the stairs. There are dusty parts and clear wood floors all around the place. Almost like furniture was moved out, and it was never cleaned. All the curtains are drawn. It feels eerie. Like this place used to be a home, but now it’s just a shell.

Riley opens the freezer. “Want steak?”

I swallow, looking around. The mousetraps are all over the house.

Riley just looks at me. “If you’re planning on running, you’ll need more food in your system.”

I square my shoulders. “Wouldn’t make sense to run with you right here.”

Riley lifts an eyebrow. We stare at each other for a second, then she laughs. “You know, you’re alright, Rachel.” She goes back to the freezer, grabbing a bag of something.

Riley pan-fries some meat, and I watch silently. I note everything I can about her. She’s much stronger than me and has a patchwork of tattoos along her arms. Her hair is still in those two braids, and she doesn’t wear makeup. What’s her story?

Riley puts a plate of steak down in front of me. She hands me a fork and a sharp knife, then gets some of her own and sits across from me.

We eat in silence. Or, I try to eat. The steak tastes…off. I try to pretend like I’m eating to appease her. I didn’t see her put anything in it, but it definitely doesn’t taste right.

Riley watches me push a piece of meat around the plate. I glance at her, and her face switches from blank to friendly in an instant. “Don’t like venison?”

Venison? That’s why it tastes off. “It’s fine.”

“You suck at lying, you know that?” Riley slowly puts another bite in her mouth.

My face burns, and anger runs through me. I lean back in my seat. I’ve always sucked at lying, and Riley seems exceptionally good at picking up lies. Which is fucking unfair. But clearly, she’s onto me right now. I need to take another route.

I pick at the skin around my nails. “You took me to piss off Manson.”

Riley eyes me, her gaze dead. She just watches me for a while. For a second, I feel like crawling out of my skin. How am I supposed to respond to a stare like that? I know what expression to show around angry people, sad people, happy people. But this? This is nothing.

So I suck in a breath and, finally, let my face fall into the expression I always make while thinking.

I stop trying.

A hint of something enters Riley’s eyes. She waves her knife at me. “You know killing you would make my life easier, right?”

I do know that. The question that has been burning in my mind is: why hasn’t she? I narrow my eyes at her.

Riley stares at me, and then a smirk creeps up her face. “Do you want me to kill you, bambi?”

“No.” The word slips out before I realize what I’m saying. But when I say it, I realize how much I mean it. I want to be in control of the way I go. I don’t want it to be at the hands of some fucking crazy woman.

Riley smiles at me. It’s a brilliant kind of smile where she shows all her teeth. “Well then. Let’s go get some groceries.”

I blink. This is a trick. No one goes from blank to friendly that quickly.

“Listen, I don’t like a mopey, whiney prisoner. You’re not useful to me if you’re starving.” Riley shoves the last bites into her mouth. “Plus, I’m bored.”

I cross my arms. She’s…bored? I’m having the worst twenty-four hours of my life, and she’s bored ?

Riley cocks her head. “Want to, or not?”

I consider stabbing her with my knife, but I know she’d just kill me. “Yes.” I get up.

“Good. Leave the knife. If you stab me on the way over, it’ll kill both of us.” Riley moves to the back door, unsets the trap, and opens the door.

I follow slowly. Instead of walking outside, Riley turns. “Loud noise. Cover your ears.”

I stare at her, watching her whip a pistol out of the back of her pants. Things move in slow motion as Riley points the gun at something outside, and an explosion fills the room.

I scream, clapping my hands over my ears. My whole body buzzes.

“Sorry,” comes a muffled voice, then a hand clamps down over my elbow.

“What the hell?” I yank back.

“Come on.” Riley motions outside. The gun is back in her waistband, and she’s acting like nothing happened.

I try to calm my racing heart. The noise made my blood heat and race, and I can feel it everywhere.

“Why?” I demand, not even able to pretend I’m not rattled. I follow Riley across the yard to the barn. The sun is blazing hot, and it looks like it is the middle of the afternoon.

“Manson had one last trail cam up to watch me.”

“What?”

Riley holds the barn door open for me. “You’re like a broken record. What? Why?” She rolls her eyes. “I found most of the others, but he thought I missed that one.”

So she found cameras and just left the last one? “Why?” I step inside, wincing as I realize I repeated the question.

Riley laughs. “You’re really naive, aren’t you?”

Anger floods me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Riley disappears into a stall for a second. There’s a rattling and shuffling, and then she wheels out a motorcycle. It looks sporty and fast, not that I know much about bikes, “That you need to get a little more street-smart if you want to survive.”

All I can do is stare at her.

Riley fiddles with the bike. “Rachel, Manson is like a cat with its prey. He plays with it before he kills it. He’ll probably have you eating out of his hand before he slices your throat.”

I look over my shoulder. “I thought you were trying to stay away from him.”

“Trying,” she hisses.

“Why? Is he trying to kill you?” Their relationship seems extremely complicated.

The barn is silent for a bit. Riley looks like she’s examining the paint on the bike for scratches.

I stand around, waiting.

“No, he’s not trying to kill me.” Riley tinkers around for a bit again.

I shift, wanting to ask why again, but before I can, Riley speaks up, “So, what’s your story?” She flashes me a smile before getting back to the bike. “Hot girl, lives alone, super weird, buddies up with serial killers.”

I blink, and my stomach turns to ice. Serial killers? Suddenly, I’m more than aware of the gun she has stuck in her waistband.

“Answer the question, Rachel.”

I rub the back of my neck. “What do you want to know?”

“Why are you living alone? You’re what, late twenties?”

I try to keep my face looking normal, but the comment stings. “Twenty-nine.”

“So?” She stops for a second and fixes her piercing eyes on me. “What gives?”

I shift. My face feels hot. “I just never found the right one, alright?” Why does she want to know this? My last boyfriend was a gamer who wanted more from me than I could give—kids and a steady stream of affection. I don’t do affection. I prefer to sit quietly in the same room as my partner while we each work on our respective projects.

Riley arches an eyebrow. “Could it have anything to do with the collection of dead things?”

“No,” I snap.

Riley chuckles, then holds up a small metal piece. “Here’s one.”

“One what?” I’m getting so over not knowing anything that’s going on.

“Tracker.”

I suck in a breath. Riley throws it on the ground and keeps going.

Something bothers me about the fact that she doesn’t like my collection. “You can't judge me.” I motion at the barn, which she clearly uses to butcher animals.

I catch the tiniest hint of a smirk, then it’s gone. “Yeah. I eat them, Rachel.”

I cross my arms. “All of my bones are ethically sourced, so you can get off your high horse.”

“I’m not worried about a thing,” Riley says. “It’s just weird. You collect dead things. Sounds like something Manson would do.”

“It’s not weird.” I pick at the skin around my nails again. It’s not weird at all. Everyone hates on collectors like me, judging and thinking it’s weird. “Bones are the map to what’s underneath. Often, what something looks like on the outside isn’t what they’re really like on the inside.” They’re like hidden puzzles.

“Like people?” Riley holds up another metal piece.

“Exactly.” I narrow my eyes.

“People are snakes.” Riley nods as if we’re in a perfectly agreeable conversation.

“No, snakes are way better than people,” I snap. I always know why a snake does what they do. Plus, their bones are prettier. I have a few in my collection, and they’re some of my most prized pieces. I have to be incredibly careful with them, as the bones are extremely delicate.

Riley lifts an eyebrow. Other than the eyebrow, her face is blank. Then she smirks again. “You’re something, aren’t you?”

I try to react to that the way she’d expect me to. The problem is, I’m not sure how she wants me to take that.

Riley throws another tracker on the floor. “Where there’s one, there’s bound to be another. And another. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Stick with me, Rachel, and I’ll teach you some things.”

“How are we going to get groceries with a bike?”

Riley hands me a helmet. It has a bunch of sharp, white teeth painted along the front in a creepy smile. “Saddlebags, babe. We’ll only get a few. Put it on.”

I look at the helmet. “There’s only one.”

Riley throws me a smile and winks. “Gotta protect my precious cargo.” She throws on a pair of sunglasses, tucks the gun into the front of her waistband, and says, “Now get on, bambi. We got places to be.”