He slammed one of the guns on the table then turned toward me, his eyes narrowed. “You make my trigger finger twitchy.”
I pulled my legs up and rested my chin on my knees. “Go ahead. It’s exhausting mentally and physically waiting for you to decide when you’re finally going to kill me.”
He picked up one of the guns in front of him and stood, walking the few steps over to me. The cold steel of the barrel end pressed to my forehead. Instead of panic or fear, instead of my body tensing, waiting for the shot, relief flooded. A half-inch move of his finger, and the nightmare my life had become would be over.
His lip curled up in a snarl. “I’ll kill you when I’m ready, and not before I’m done with you. Now, shut up.”
He pushed the gun forward, tipping me until I fell back onto the bed.
Laid out, I stared up at the ceiling, contemplating if I wished he’d pulled the trigger or not.
A few hours later, I’d finally tallied up the number of water spots and determined that the shit motel was in desperate need of a new roof before the current one collapsed. Not that it would be any great loss. Who would come to such a small dead town and rent a room besides a psycho anyway?
“Bored,” I said as I lay on my side and stared at him.
The gun in front of him had his complete attention. “Not my problem.”
How long did it take to clean a damn gun?
“Yes, it is. You’re the one who kidnapped me and dragged me to a place with no Internet or even a damn book to read while you polish your weapons. Seriously, how much do you have to do that?” I looked over to him, but he ignored me. His movements were skilled, practiced, and I watched in warped captivation of his deadly collection.
“Watch TV then.”
I grimaced. “Ugh. There’s no cable, and all that’s on is daytime shows that make me gag.” I rolled onto my back and stared up, counting the water stains on the ceiling for the umpteenth time. At the snail’s pace rate of nowhere we were moving, I was going to go crazy. “You never did answer me. Have you ever been in love? And with a person, not your weapons.”
“Love creates weakness.”
His answer surprised me, and not just the implication, but that he responded. Obviously, love was not for cold-blooded killers.
“Aren’t you ever lonely?”
He chuckled, dark and deep. “All I need a woman for is the companionship of her pussy with my dick.”
“Which am I then? Captive or companion?”
His jaw flexed, and he stormed over to me. The anger in his eyes made me flinch—I’d really pissed him off. Flight kicked in and I tried to crawl back up the bed away from him, but it was futile.
He grabbed hold of my throat and pulled me up, bringing my face even with his. It hurt, his grip tight, making it difficult to breathe. I dug my nails into his hand on instinct to get him to release, but pain didn’t seem to register much to him.
The hand on my neck squeezed tighter. “Shut the fuck up or your throat will be polishing my weapon!”
He shoved me down on the bed, releasing my neck. My throat was on fire as I drew in a fresh breath, coughing at my attempt to get oxygen back in my system.
It seemed talking was not on his list of things he liked to do. I’d barely said anything, and he’d gone off. Then again, I asked questions and annoyed him on purpose. It was no wonder he was angry.
I stopped talking then and instead studied him. The quintessential handsome man—strong jaw complete with sharp jawline, straight nose—though I was certain his had to have been broken more than once—and intense dark eyes. Add to that an athletic physique and there really wasn’t much room to wonder why I was so physically attracted to him.
Granted, his actions should have overwritten that attraction, but for some reason, they didn’t.
I was one fucked-up person. I had to be, right? To want sex with a man who killed my friends and kidnapped me.
Eventually I stopped staring at him, but didn’t move, only let my vision unfocus.
“What?” he huffed some time later.
“What, what?” I asked as I sat up, bringing my attention back to him.
“Your staring is getting annoying.”
I wanted to laugh. My gaze was aimed at him, but I’d long stopped looking at him.
“Why didn’t they find your fingerprints at the motel?” The thought had nagged in the back of my mind since we saw the news report, and what a perfect segue.
He walked over and held his hand out in front of me. Angling it in the light, I understood—just like John Doe, Six had no fingerprints.
“You knew him,” I said, not even bothering to ask. His reaction told me that. “That’s why I’m still alive. You want to know why he’s dead.”
He pulled his hand back and returned to the chair. “A bullet to the head killed him, but you are the only one who knows why a bullet was able to get there.”
I quirked my brow. “You and him are the only two to make that kind of shot? It was execution style, that’s how.”
Six shook his head. “Not possible.”