Page 29 of Off the Rails

Sucking in a deep breath, I forced my shoulders to relax. Beyond my door, I could hear the upbeat guitar of a 70s classic blaring from the living room. Someone was awake. Someone who might have answers.

Crawling out of the bed, I shook out my sore limbs and crossed to the wide dresser, hoping for something to wear besides my skimpy, muddy clothes from the night before

Luckily, the drawers were jam-packed with clothes. Though, there seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to the selection: skimpy tank tops were mixed in with huge graphic t-shirts, biker shorts and full lengths khakis, mens and womens. It was more like a lost-and-found bin than a wardrobe.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.

I rifled through the tangle until I found a big, tie-dye tshirt from a local sandwich shop and a pair of men’s flannel pajama pants. It was ridiculous: I was practically swimming in the pools of fabric. But I’d rather not tempt the horny fuckers keeping me inside their padlocked tower.

And frankly, I was way too fucking hungry to search for anything better.

Tying the drawstring tight around my waist to keep the pants from tripping me, I slipped out into the hallway, careful to keep my steps light as I approached the common area.

In the kitchen, a stunning masc with tight brown curls and bulging muscles fried pancakes on the stove, hips swaying along with the music. Not Blade — I knew that much from our exchange last night. And I had a hard time imagining stiff, hulking Cyrus dancing by the stove.

The sound of her deep voice was enough to confirm her identity. “Morning, Sweet Lamb.” Nash peered at me over her shoulder, flicking the pan in her hand to flip one of the pancakes into the air. Over on the counter, the cat laid on a cushion Nash had laid out for him, watching carefully for any scraps of batter that might land on the floor.

Nash’s voice was unbelievably smooth, slightly easier to hear without the mask in the way. The peek I’d gotten at her face over her shoulder was enough to tell me she was fucking gorgeous: full lips, high cheekbones, and a breathtaking smile. A few light piercings adorned her face — snake bites at her lip and a hoop in her right nostril — but the simple gold was far less assuming than Blade’s piercings.

And once again, the question rose in my mind. Why were these fine fucking lesbians resorting to holding girls hostage in this rickety old park? Maybe the pretty face was just a trap, perfectly sculpted to lure me into whatever depraved schemes were playing out behind those eyes.

If Nash’s looks were a trap, I was already more ensnared than I could afford. I only realized how loud the silence was when Nash glanced back at me again, cocking her head to the side with a grin.

“Oh, um. Hi.” I managed as I leaned against the far wall. Even if it was hard to remember in the light of day, she was dangerous — a killer — I didn’t need to get any closer than this.

If she took offense, she didn’t show it, turning down the music slightly as she plated a finished stack of pancakes. “How’d you sleep?”

“Alright,” I muttered. My gaze was trained on her back as if she’d drop the spatula and pick up a knife the moment I blinked. But as vigilant as I tried to be, I was only human.

Her skin glowed in the warm morning light, dense muscle shifting beneath inked skin as she worked over the hot stove. A soft bead of sweat trickled from the base of her neck before disappearing under the tight line of her sports bra.

With the terror of the past evening gone, I could really take in her tattoos. Stretching from the back of her neck and down her right arm, long, winding bolts of lightning hugged every curve and dip of muscle, punctuated by a well of shadow that claimed her middle finger.

Her left arm, and the rest of her body, for that matter, was claimed by a patchwork of spiderwebs. It was an odd combo; something so delicate paired with such a force of nature.

Both are deadly, though.

From the grin on her face, it quickly became clear that Nash could feel my eyes on her bare skin. A blush rose to my cheeks as I braced for her to tease me — Blade certainly would have — but instead, Nash held out a fresh plate of pancakes garnished with berries and whipped cream. “Syrup’s on the counter.”

“Thank you.” I reached out for the white porcelain plate, willing myself to meet her gaze. But the second I did, the dish nearly tumbled out of my hand.

Butch meowed his protest over the clatter, but Nash just chuckled, catching the edge of the plate before it could tumble to its demise. “Whoa, there. You okay?”

“Sorry,” I muttered, hands shaking as I adjusted my grip.

Nash instantly clocked the tremor. “No need to be scared, Sweet Lamb. I don’t bite. Not during the day, at least.”

Her chuckle was meant to diffuse the tension, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her until a frown tugged at her lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just… your eyes are gray?”

I wracked my memory, trying to place them. I’d only ever known one person with gray eyes, a kid from back at the home, but she wasn’t⁠—

“Blue,” Nash shook her head, turning back toward the hot pan. “Sometimes the lighting makes them look pale, though.”

I struggled to picture it, but she sounded so certain. I swallowed down my urge to push back, taking a bite of the fluffy pancakes instead.

I’m paranoid. Who lies about their eye color?