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“Come on, we need to get out of here.” I take the lead and head up the stairs, pushing the door open for us. Only, it doesn’t budge. “What the hell?” I mutter and try again, pushing harder this time. Still, it doesn’t open.
“Mother fucker,” I growl. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The old man finally upgraded to the locks I hounded him about for years, but no one said shit to me?”
I pound on the door, yelling for Manny. This can’t be happening. I can’t be locked in this place. My ears hum with a low buzzing and I pull out my phone, releasing an exasperated sigh when I see the ‘no service’ symbol flashing in the top right corner of the screen. Why would there be service, Dante? We’re below ground in a stone and cement-encased space with metal backing. Idiot.
Brushing past Bambi, I jog over to the old rotary phone on the wall.
Dead.
Of-fucking-course it doesn’t work.
“Mother. Fucker.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, scrunching up my nose. The tattooed giant is radiating some massive pissed-off vibes and it’s killing my pleasantly tipsy one.
He runs a hand through his hair and down his face, looking decidedly more unkempt than I’ve seen thus far. “We’re locked in,” he groans.
I bob my head and gesture for him to continue because surely that can’t be everything. He shakes his head, muttering about brats being more trouble than they’re worth. I’m not one, but I’m definitely feeling feisty.
“My father finally upgraded to a timed door lock. He’s had issues with break-ins in the past and this was something I pushed for, years ago. I just never expected to get locked inside.”
“How long will we be trapped here?”
“I don’t know. Probably until the morning, unless Manny comes back tonight.”
Walking up the steps, he resumes his banging while I back away. The man has some powerful fists, and the sound of them colliding with the metal door is rattling my brain. “This is such bullshit,” he snarls, sounding more animal than human.
“Well, getting locked in a cellar definitely wasn’t on my to-do list for this weekend,” I mutter, purposely leaving out the ‘with a grumpy asshole’. He doesn’t seem in the mood for playful banter, though I’m sure I can change that and egg him into a little fun. Everyone deserves to have a good time now and again, even Mr. Grumpy Pants with his stoic features and hard rules.
There’s a trio of upright tequila barrels near the entrance to the tasting room. I hop up on the middle one and let my legs hang over the side, adjusting my wrap. The wood is rough against the bare skin of my thighs, but I’m rewarded with a half full bottle of chilled silver tequila. The tattooed giant hands me a clean shot glass, and I pour us each a few ounces before tossing mine back. I lick my lips, savoring every drop of the spicy honey taste. Delicious.
“Let’s play a game,” I suggest.
“Do I look like I play games?” he challenges, frowning at me.
A giggle tumbles out, and I slap a hand over my mouth. No, he definitely doesn’t look like he plays games, but the man could stand to loosen up a bit.
“Don't be such a sourpuss,” I drawl.
“We need to get out of here, not play childish games.”
“Why do you assume the game is childish? Besides, it’s obvious from the lack of response to your banging that we’re not getting out of here anytime soon.”
I let him sit with that for a moment and lift my phone up to check my messages. It’s hooked to my camera’s strap—a nifty way to not lose it while I’m engrossed in a photo shoot. Obviously, there’s no service down here, but I felt it vibrating while I was at the beach earlier and haven’t had a chance to check it.
Jesse
How’s Mexico? Found any hot cabana men to smuggle home for me?
* * *
Lucy
Jess, she can’t smuggle someone over the border, don’t egg her on.
* * *
Jesse
