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I side eye her with a grin. “I think you know the answer to that.”
She snickers, grazing on my arm again. “Food darling food.”
“Tacos or quesadillas.” I shrug.
“Quesadillas it is, then.” We arrived at the door, the bright red burning my eyes. It’s so fucking ugly, and it stands out like a dirty nail. The same key code sits above the black knob, the dotted light shining neon red.
“I’ll cook it.” I raise my gun, preparing for what’s behind the door.
Anita brows crunch as she fixes her weapon. “Maybe don't burn the chicken this time?”
“You still ate it.”
“That's typically what happens when there's nothing else to eat,” she replies with a giggle.
There goes my ego. Adios motherfucker. No doubt burst into tiny pieces, but a smirk still forms. Honesty is what I love about her. Regardless.
She raises the card to the door. It beeps green with a click.
I nod, twisting the knob and walking in. “What the fuck?” I remove my glasses.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a staircase that takes you underground. The walls are made of concrete, like pieces of a mountain rock, black and white steps spiraling down to a dark stairway with dull red and brown lights illuminating the path.
We peer at each other, not sure where this leads us to, but there’s no going back. This ends here.
“I always knew it was some shit like this going on. Deep dungeons, people in masks,” Anita mumbles.
I snarl. “I’ll vomit if the worst-case scenario comes true.” Kids tied down there, inexplicable things being done to them. Hell, I’ll savagely kill them all until their meat is scrapped from the bone.
We descend the steps steadily side by side, sure to not walk too hard so there’s no creak. Our steps match each other to keep the balance. I lean over to her ear. “So, I know you said you can’t cook.”
Her head shakes slowly, her eyes straight ahead. “Correct,” she whispers.
“I can teach you.”
Her brows tip higher. “You’ll teach me how to cook burnt chicken?”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest, but I contain it. “That’s top-level chef expertise, it doesn't get any better than that, amor.” I lean closer to her ear, brushing my lip over the dents. She shivers on impact. “And if memory serves, the only reason that chicken burned is that I had you bent over the counter fucking that tight cunt until you cried out my name. Does that ring any bells?”
The memory fills my head, recalling the way she cried and suffered through my onslaughts. I didn’t stop until she was convulsing and squeezing around my cock from her torturous orgasm. Through the fire alarm and all.
She folds in her lips through a smile, licking them over. She doesn’t respond to me, and that says it all.
“Exactly what I thought.” I press a kiss on her cheek before straightening up.
The closer we get, the more we can hear the subtle voices of other people and the soft music of opera. “He wants to make sure the problem is handled,” one voice says.
“We just sent up at least twenty men. I'm sure the problem will be handled.”
The room must be soundproof then. My arm lifts, stopping Anita. She halts, pressing into the rock wall. I lean over to the end of the stairs that seems to open into a large lounge area, filled with men and women. All in skeleton masks. The masks look almost realistic, it's disturbing. Inspecting some more, I quickly counted ten individuals, and none seemed to be armed with weapons. But I can tell they’re not just regular people, they’re killers, too. Two young men come out in black and white outfits, carrying a tray of champagne. They look straight ahead, not directing any stares. One guy takes a flute, then slaps the waiter on the ass. The smack nearly made him drop the other drinks. They chuckle at the audacity of touching someone else without their consent.
My throat tightens, repulsed by the scene.
“How many did you get this month?” someone says as I turn to Anita, who’s watching me for an answer. I tell her what I am seeing. I lean into her, my chest pressed against her body, one foot on the lower step while the other one on the higher.
“We can hold them at gunpoint. Whoever they’re waiting for is down here,” she whispers, looking up at me.
I glance down at her. “Gunpoint or not, they’re not making it out of here alive.”