Surge (8 page)

“G-go on and try it mother fucker,” she dares, her tone steeled. “One more step, and you’ll join the bodies at your feet.” Shooting me a look that promises pain, she continues. “That goes for you too. Get your shit and be gone in ten seconds, or you lose your balls to my little friend.”

Tilting her head back to indicate her huge fucking machete that’s now strapped on her back, John covers his junk and steps back. The guy downstairs winces at the warning, and while the head that wasn’t threatened bodily harm is positive that she could, and most certainly would, relieve us of our male parts if necessary; I can see that she’s nervous. Picking up on the physical cues in the slight shaking of her hands holding the gun, eyes dilated and the sweat beaded on her forehead, I try a different tactic. Meeting her gaze, I raise my hands to show that I’m not going to hurt her.

“We don’t want any trouble,” I begin in a harmless tone. “We just came for supplies, we aren’t going to hurt you.” Her huge eyes dart between John and I, like a cornered bunny rabbit. It makes me want to go hug her and promise to keep her safe, but the fact that she would rip my face off like a rabid raccoon without even hesitating, keeps me back.

“Where’re the rest of you?”

“It’s just John and me,” I reply. Scoffing, she points to the bag full of now spilled bats strewn across the floor.

“When do you think I was born, yesterday? Two people don’t need that many, so where the fuck are they?”

“The group’s back at our apartment complex a few towns over,” John answers. “You’re more than welcome to join us.” An adjustment of her gun leaves a newly freed hand capable of making a long hunting knife appear like a goddamn magician.

“I’m sure I am,” she replies, her words dripping with sarcasm. With the gun still pointed at John’s chest, the knife is held in a defensive position aimed in my direction.

“That’s not how he meant it,” I shoot John a look that screams,
‘what the fuck?’
Where’s the,
‘I’m a good boy, I swear,’
act he used to charm Sister Mary’s skirts off with when we actually need it?

“Oh,” she inquires innocently. “Then how exactly did he mean it?”

“We help you, and you....” a jab to the ribs ends John’s poor word choice.

“What my simple minded friend here meant, is that we would like to repay our debt.” She makes a real show of thinking it over, tapping the tip if her enormous knife on her tiny chin, before replying.

“No, now get the fuck out.”

“What about safety in numbers?” John proposes. Now that gets her attention. It’s obvious that John’s back on his game, when the badass in front of us looks like a Yorkie flipping for a treat.

“How many are we talking here?” Rising to John’s bait, she sinks her teeth in and fires off questions without stopping for breath. “Ten? Thirty? Is it all men? How far away?”

“There’s sixteen including us,” I answer. “Ten men, six women, one being my little sister, Sarah. And it’s about ten miles from here.”

“Can we go now? Right this very second?” She puts her weapons away before eyeing the spilled bag of bats. “Shit. They’ll need those.” Crouching down to an even smaller size, if that were possible, she continues muttering to herself as she starts re-packing the goods.

Exchanging an amused glance with John, we know that she’s sold and we’re no longer in danger of being carved up by the black widow; at least for the moment anyway. Since we’re distracted, we almost miss her pause in movement, indicating that we’ve been caught. Her mouth snaps shut and she pins me with a glare that’s worthy of being added to the dictionary as the perfect visual interpretation. Five feet of pissed off pixie, abandon the task of packing, in favor of regaining her footing.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes in a sickly sweet voice. “I didn’t know I was performing stand up. Why didn’t you say something?” With a brush of her hands, she continues. “I would have pulled out the high quality shit for an audience such as yourselves. After all, you dumbasses were hilarious cowering in the corner.” She stops to clasp her hands under her chin, and widens her eyes, before continuing in a higher pitch. “
‘Please don’t eat me, sir. I haven’t kissed my boyfriend goodbye yet.’
”

“Hey now,” John takes offense. Rightly so, after no display of bromancing having taken place. “One, I’m as straight as they come, babe, trust me.”

She flashes him a bite me grin, one that puts John’s dazzling one to shame, in response to the first numbered fact. Oh, I’d bite her alright, but I don’t say anything since John’s still talking and I don’t want her pointing her gun in my direction. Or to lose my balls to her machete.

“Two,” John continues. “We didn’t expect it to have an alarm.”

At this point, she drops her guard and bursts out a husky laugh that I should find insulting, but it has a completely different effect all together. The sight of her cheeks flushed with mirth, full red lips parted, and eyes dancing; rage war on my libido. I ignore it, with the exception of a discrete adjustment in my now tight cargos, to see if John has a clue about what she finds so funny. A look of puzzlement on his face as he observes her like she’s the missing link is all I get there, so I return my focus to the girl. Seeing the look of confusion on our faces, she sobers up.

“My god, you’re serious.”

Shoulder checking through us, well, it’s more of a rib check in her case; the girl curls a finger over her shoulder to show it’s alright to follow her. We weren’t moving out of fear of maiming without permission, and then we stay back at the appointed,
‘twenty feet, if you value your life.’
If I’m being the honest man that my mama raised me to be, I’ll admit that I might or might not have accidentally checked out her ass four times. Shut up, I’m a guy, it’s what we do. And who can resist beholding the piece of art I have the great pleasure of trailing after? Not me, that’s for damn sure.

Beautifully encased in the snug black leather, swinging side to side with unaware seduction, and surprisingly muscled thighs to complete the picture, our to-be-named escort comes to an abrupt stop in front of the display case. This leaves John, the depraved bastard, with no time to avert his eyes from her delightful derriere. I just about bare my teeth at John for wiping the bit of drool that escaped from his mouth and shout,
‘This one’s mine, you selfish prick!’
But I manage to catch myself at the last second, and look at the girl.

Her face full of amusement, which I highly doubt she’d be feeling if she were psychic, she points out a sign that reads,
‘Equipped with alarm. Will prosecute.’
In our defense, it’s fucking tiny. A little blue triangle that every store displays in their window to scare off petty teens and the store employees always ignore the obnoxious beeping that screams,
‘This fucker didn’t pay taxes! Get him!’

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes with what appears to be utmost sincerity. “I didn’t know you were illiterate.”

“We’re not illiterate,” John hisses to cover a rare case of embarrassment. “I didn’t see the fucking sign, alright? I screwed up, so thank you for saving our asses from my neglectful stupidity.”

The girl trains hard eyes on John in the most unnerving way; it looks like she actually could be psychic. But she must have just been battling some kind of internal debate, because she nods and sticks out her gloved hand.

“Olivia,” she states while shaking a stunned John’s hand. Turning to do the same to me, she meets my gaze before repeating, “My name’s Olivia.”

<~~~<~~~
~~~>~~~>

“So, Olivia, huh?” John asks before stuffing another bite of granola in his mouth.

After her introduction, we decided to take a break before we finish scavenging for our goods. Locked tight in an office at the back of Hal’s House, Olivia’s sitting on the desk, cross legged and chowing on some delicious smelling soup in a screw top canister. I’m tempted to beg for a taste, but from the look she sent John when she began eating, she doesn’t like sharing.

“Olivia, what?” She returns absently without turning her attention away from her bowl of soup. She’s been staring at it for twenty minutes, like it holds to key to life, and has a weird smile on her face. Not weird like she looks creepy, but in a way that reveals smiling to not be something she does often; which is really a shame.

“Why’d you decide on telling us your name?” John presses. Olivia just shrugs and swirls her spoon around. “Are you full, ‘cause I can sure eat some more.” That gets her attention, her head snaps up and she blinks her eyes like she just remembered that there are two other people in the room.

“Sorry,” she says. “What was the question?”

“You’ve been staring at that bowl for a while,” I respond. “Are you full or something?”

Nodding quickly, she shoves the soup toward John and me with a little more force than necessary, causing some of the liquid to spill over onto the desk. Turning away with suspiciously watery eyes, Olivia hops off the desk and stretches. When she turns back, I’m questioning the validity of my own eyes, since hers are clear of any hint of sadness.

“Well, eat up,” she orders with a shooing motion or her hand. “We don’t have all day.”

John sizes me up, before lunging at the same time I do. The bastard may be taller, but he’s not as fast as me, so I reach it first and tip the bowl up. The flavor that bursts on my tongue has me nearly moaning in pleasure and I guzzle down half of it before John elbows me in the gut for his turn. I just about bare my teeth and hiss at him, when Olivia speaks up.

“Down boy,” she orders with a smirk. “I have more if you can behave.”

Nodding vigorously, I’m practically panting with excitement. John’s licking the bowl so that he doesn’t waste even the slightest drop. Reaching into her pack, Olivia pulls out another canister and refills the bowl with still warm soup. The smell has me salivating with anticipation, and my stomach grumbles louder than my great aunt Helga used to snore. Flashing a smile of thanks at Olivia, I devour my portion of the soup in seconds and hand back the bowl.

Without licking it like a certain dog beside me, who’s currently eyeing her like she’s a piece a filet mignon he’d love to sink his teeth into. And why does that piss me off? Death, that’s it. I’m pissed that his blatant ogling will tick her off and we’ll end up shish kabobs or with slit throats. Eventually, if I keep repeating it, I’ll believe it and no longer want to smack some sense into my best friend. Plus the bastard has a harem of groupies already, so I call dibs.

“Where the fuck did you find this masterpiece?” John demands while rubbing his stomach. “And who made it? Campbell’s?” It looks like he’s ready to wage war if need be to find out.

“I didn’t
find
it anywhere,” she snaps. “That’s
my
recipe, you cheap bastard.” Olivia balls her fists and her chest heaves in short huffs of anger. “Campbell’s? Are you serious? Those douchebags couldn’t create flavor like that, even with a gold plated recipe book.” Stepping in before John loses his teeth, I try to distract her.

“What kind of meat did you use?” I inquire. Black hair; coming undone from her braid, swishes in my direction, before steel grey eyes meet mine. “It’s really good.”

“Squirrel,” Olivia answers through clenched teeth. She takes a few cleansing breaths before continuing. “I caught it this morning.”

“So, you’re alone?” John asks, testing the waters. A quick nod of her head. “For how long?”

“A while,” she barks.

“No family, friends, acquaintances...” John trails off as her glare turns lethal, ending that topic of discussion. I try for another.

“Why’d you help us?” I inquire, since I am curious. She could have left us as a distraction while she escaped.

“I didn’t help you, I helped myself.”

“You waltzed into a store full of wheezers in a freaking frenzy, and that helped you how?” John asks bewilderedly.

“I didn’t
waltz into a frenzy
, you jackass,” Olivia retorts. “I was already here.” I notice she only answered half the question, and make a mental note to discover why later.

“What, did you pop out of the freaking ceiling like a tiny troll protecting her treasure?” I question. “Because you weren’t here when we got here.”

“We did a sweep,” John adds with a smug smile.

“You really need to work on your technique,” she advises, accompanied by a
‘tsk-tsk’
noise. “Because I was here before you dumbasses. In this very room, in fact. Just because a door is closed, doesn’t mean it’s empty.” She shoots us a chastising look. “I heard you two walking around like a herd of elephants, while I was in here trying to find the switch to turn off the security for the gun case.” Olivia pats the crossbow on her lap like it’s a prized pet.

“That’s when you meatheads decided brute force to be the better option.” Scrunching her brow and deepening her voice, she punches a fist to her chest in rendition of a caveman. “
‘Me he man and punch glass out of way.’
Instead you Einsteins triggered the burglar switch. After I cut the alarm, I saved your stupid asses from being the catch of the day.”