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Rage is processing, looking to the ceiling, deep in thought. This isn’t the time to try and shake her out of it unless you want to be on the bloody end of her crystal studded blade.
I take another swig of whiskey and decide I’m glad Rage came today.
Frankie enters the room and pauses when she sees Rage sitting on the counter. Frankie’s eyes widen in surprise, and she looks to me. “Who’s that girl?”
“That ain’t no girl,” I say setting down the whiskey. “That’s Rage.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Sit,”Smoke says, sliding out one of the chairs from the dining room table.
“Is she okay?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the blonde with the white shorts and matching flip flops. She’s gorgeous. Weird with that unblinking robotic look in her bright blue eyes, but gorgeous none the less.
“Depends on what your definition of okay is,” Smoke answers.
“Why is she here?” I ask, wary of this new person in the room.
“To watch you. I’ve got some shit to do in town.”
“She’s going to watch me?” I ask.
A knife, no, a dagger, spirals through the kitchen and lands with the blade in the table less than an inch from my arm, its white, crystal handle sparkling in the sunlight.
I look up.
“Yeah, I’m gonna watch you,” Rage says, her eyes now focused. “We’re gonna be BFF’s, I’m sure.”
There’s no emotion in her voice and something off about her words. About her.
About the way she just threw a fucking knife at me.
“Is she your…” I start to ask.
Rage laughs, her head thrown back. “Negative, crime fighter.”
“Can’t I come with you?” I ask Smoke, not taking my eyes from Rage who’s now staring at me again.
She’s not blinking.
“No,” they both answer in unison.
“She’s pretty, Smoke. Even all banged up. I like her hair. And she’s got cat-colored eyes,” Rage says, as if I’m on display at the zoo and not in the same room.
“More like fire,” Smoke says, staring at me for a few seconds before looking away.
Rage tosses him something that isn’t a knife.
Smoke drops to his knees on the floor and tugs my leg so my calf is lying against his thigh.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Do you always have to question everything?” he groans, adjusting a thick black bracelet around my ankle.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Smoke says.
The bracelet has a black square attached to it slightly smaller than a pack of cards.
“This, is insurance,” he explains. “An ankle monitor,” he checks to make sure it’s secure.
“Like for someone on house arrest?” I ask, remembering seeing it in movies when the convict gets sentenced to time at home instead of jail. They’re monitored by the police and used to make sure the criminal remains at home for the duration of their sentences.
“Yes, the same concept.”
“Except,” Rage sings, pressing her lips together and swinging her legs off the counter. “This one’s waaaayyyyy more fun.”
“How is it more fun?” I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.
Rage’s eyes go wide. She smiles maniacally.
Smoke locks the device in place and tucks the little key into his pocket. He stands.
“Mostly, because it’ll explode,” Rage squeals with joy, staring with an uncomfortable amount of interest at the little box now tethered to my leg.
“It’s a bomb?” I exclaim, jumping up like I can somehow distance myself from the thing, but it’s too late.
Smoke continues, “I’ve set the perimeter guidelines to the fence which goes around the prison. Zelda’s house is included. If you go outside the perimeter, it’ll give you a warning beep then you’ve got yourself ten seconds to get back inside before it goes off. Same goes if you try and fuck or tamper with it in any way.”
“Boom,” Rage whispers, making an exploding motion with her hands.
Terror dances up my spine.
“You put a bomb…on my leg,” I whisper. I sit and look down at my new explosive ankle jewelry.
Smoke smirks. “You can look at it that way.” His eyes meet mine. “Or, you look at it like I’m giving you some freedom.”
“Freedom…with a bomb on my leg.”
Smoke nods.
Rage whistles.
“But I thought she was here to watch me,” I say.
“As I said. Insurance,” Smoke answers.
He was giving me what I asked for. Some freedom during my last few days.
Never in my life did I ever think I could be grateful for a bomb strapped to my leg, but I am.
Smoke holds up something that looks like a controller for a DVD player. “I can also set it off remotely,” he says, tucking it into his back pocket.
“Oh, can I have it?” Rage asks, making grabby hands in the air.
“No,” Smoke and I both answer.
I close off the part of my brain freaking out over the explosive factor of my situation and instead focus on the tiny bit of freedom aspect. I begin to dance around the kitchen, the weight of the ankle monitor making me feel freer than I have in days. Smoke watches me expressionlessly until I dance myself right into a cabinet. The monitor vibrates on impact, and I freeze, looking up to meet Smoke’s eyes.
Smoke covers his mouth, and I realize it’s to hide a smile. I’m disappointed because I would like to have seen it.
Rage leaps off the counter.
“It’s sturdy,” Smoke crosses his arms over his chest. “It won’t go off if you kick it around or knock it into things. It doesn’t work like that.”
I exhale. “Thank God.”
“No. Thank Smoke,” Rage corrects.
“Thank you, Smoke.” I say, and I mean it.
For a few moments, we just stand there, staring at one another silently until Rage clears her throat.
“I gotta go,” Smoke says. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Smoke leaves the kitchen and heads into the back bedroom where I hear him rifling through the storage containers.
“So,” I say. “Your name is Rage.”
