Page 28 of The Player

“Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five…”

Will was at the foot of the mattress, doing press-ups on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.

“Ninety, ninety-one… I’m working out,” he panted, then carried on counting, stopping when he got to one hundred and lying on his front, trying to catch his breath.

“I call bullshit.”

“Why is me working out bullshit?” he asked, pushing himself off the floor and sitting on the edge of the mattress, wiping his forehead as he stared back at me.

“Not the working out. The number. I’d bet money on you doing twenty. Thirty, tops.”

He laughed, and for a split second I felt that warmth flow through me again. It didn’t last, though. Not when the reality of where we were was screaming at me from every inch of our shitty cell. From the lights blaring down on us, to the dirty walls with their crosses and scar-like scratches. Even the concrete had suffered from being here. It wore its wounds like a weary veteran.

Would we be the same after this?

Would we even make it out alive?

“Why are you bothering to work out anyway?” I asked.

“Because I’m keeping myself fit. Physical wellbeing is important in a situation like this.”

“Let me guess,” I ventured. “Another one of Adam’s tips for captives?”

“It is actually,” he replied, sounding way too cheerful, a fact that seemed to rub me up the wrong way.

“Why aren’t you raging?” I narrowed my eyes. “We’re locked in here. That fucker is going to do God knows what to us. Why are you acting like this is just another day for you?”

I could feel my blood starting to boil, my anger erupting, and I couldn’t keep it down.

Will twisted to face me.

“Just because you don’t see me raging, doesn’t mean I’m not burning with fury in here.” He banged his fist on his chest, his face contorting with what looked like pain as if to prove his point. “I feel just as much rage as you do, but I show it differently. I always have. To some, it comes off as flippant, care less maybe. But it’s there. It’s always there. And when I’m ready to unleash it, I will.” He took a breath and pinned me with the same narrow stare I’d just given him. “But I’m not about to release it on to you. In here. Why would I do that?”

I swallowed my discomfort at the truthfulness of his words and crawled off the mattress, standing and placing my hands on the walls. Clawing at the grey plaster, I cursed, muttering under my breath, “There must be something here. Something in this room we can use, chip away at, fucking kick it in and create a weapon. Anything.”

“Keep clawing at those walls and you can gather the dust and throw it in his eyes,” Will quipped, then added, “If you can catch him without the mask on, that is.”

I ignored him, stalking over to the toilet area.

“What about this? We could find a way to kick it, smash it off the wall.”

“And flood the room with shitty water?”

“It’s worth a try. The cistern might shatter. Give us a shard we could use.”

Will sighed and shook his head.

“I’m not saying that’s a bad idea. Hell, any ideas are worth a try, but let’s wait it out for a while. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

“There you go again,” I argued, anger bubbling to the surface. “Where’s your rage? Why aren’t you fighting?”

He shot up from his spot on the mattress, fists clenching as he gritted his teeth.

“I’m saving the fight for a time when it’s needed.” He tilted his head and glared at me. “Have you ever heard the saying, slowly, slowly, catchy monkey?”

I cocked my head, glaring back at him.