It's tedious as hell to spend hours pretending you don't want to gut the guy sitting next to you like a fish. If I had the chance to be a widow on my wedding day, the way he warned me not to do to him, I would split him open and not regret it.
When the men are sloppy and snoring on their chests, Jacob stumbles to his feet and holds a hand out to me. I take it without hesitation and stand next to him, plastic pieces on a chessboard, and we walk down the hallway that leads to what looks like a handful of bedrooms. When he ushers me inside one, closing and locking the door, I take in my surroundings. Closet, bathroom, window over bed. I can't see very far into the bathroom, but I hope there's a sizable window in there.
I look at the walls, the peeling wallpaper that might have once been red but is now a faded version of puce. The bed is messy, with sheets tangled everywhere. It smells like it needs a good scrubbing, the bedding needs to be bleached, and a bomb set off to take care of the rest.
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