Michelle Rowen - Countdown

I hissed out a sigh of exasperation. “At the risk of sounding like I’m repeating myself, who are they?”

“You haven’t murdered before...so that’s out. Are you...” He paused and then laughed softly. “Of course. You’re a thief, aren’t you?”

I let the darkness answer the question for me.

“A female thief without a family. Perfect.” He let out a long, shuddery breath. “Well, thief-girl, I have to admit that I’m not feeling so great over here. Whatever they did to me...I don’t think they’ll have to worry about me finishing off my sentence. An eye for an eye and all that.”

I licked my dry lips. “You think you’re dying.”

“Feels like it.”

“Why do you sound so calm?”

“Because I’m not an idiot. There’s no escape. We’re both going to die.”

“Shut up. There’s a way out, I know there is.”

Just as I said it, light flooded the room, blinding me. Ironic. Didn’t these people believe in happy mediums?

I rubbed my eyes, which had started to water at the unexpected light. I blinked at the room as my vision slowly came into focus.

I sat against the wall in an entirely silver room. Floors, ceiling, walls, all made from smooth, cold metal. I’d never seen anything like it. The silver metal band that circled my wrist was attached to a silver chain secured to the wall. It was all very bland, very clinical, clean and pristine.

Almost all.

My gaze moved to the other side of the room and locked with that of the most dangerous-looking boy I’d ever seen in my life.

He stared back at me with a half smirk. His hair, plastered across his forehead, was dark and unkempt. He wore a shirt that might have once been white but was now torn and dirty.

A dark and angry red stain near his left shoulder stood out as the only color in the room. No, scratch that. His eyes. They were blue-green—the color of a tropical ocean and surprisingly jarring in their intensity.

There was a scar on his face that ran from the top of his left eye down to his cheek like an angry exclamation point. It was still reddish, as if it had healed recently. It didn’t do much to take away from his looks—which were incredible. Clean him up and I’d have to guess he’d be painfully handsome.

He wore faded jeans, also stained and dirty, and scuffed black boots with untied laces. A silver shackle led from his right wrist to the chain to the wall behind him.

Despite the good looks beneath the grime, he looked like a murderer. Like trouble. Like nobody I wanted to be trapped in a room with now or anytime soon. I was almost sorry that the lights had come on.

“You’re prettier than I expected,” he said, keeping me locked in his oddly hypnotic gaze.

I swallowed. It was exactly what I was thinking about him, too. “Well, you have been stuck in juvie for a while.”

He smiled. His teeth were white and straight, which struck me as odd for a confessed killer. Though, I suppose it was a bit of a cliché to expect him to have broken, rotting teeth—especially at his age.

“True. Sorry I look like hell.” His smile widened. “They didn’t even let me have a shower before they knocked me out and dragged my ass here.”

“Forget it.”

His gaze slid down the rest of me, black tank top, khaki cargo pants and my new red shoes. My face warmed at his blatant appraisal, until I saw his eyes move away from my body and toward my side. He frowned. I looked to the floor on my right and gasped.

There was a key lying there, only an arm’s reach away.

Chapter 2

“TRY IT,” ROGAN prompted.

I was way ahead of him. I’d already grabbed the key and found the small keyhole on my shackle, my heart drumming loud in my ears.

I frowned when it didn’t fit. I tried again. Why didn’t it fit?

I looked over at Rogan, who stared at me with a deep frown.

Something sparkled next to him, and I pointed at it. Another key. He grabbed it and tried his lock.

Nothing.

I heard a whirring and looked up toward the sound. At the top of the far wall to the left near the ceiling, a small shutter had opened and what looked like a security camera—only more modern, very sleek and silver—emerged.

“What is that?” I asked.

He looked up at it grimly. “Must be show time.”

I clenched the key so tightly that I knew it would leave an impression on my fingertips. “Why would they be recording us?”

“Because they like to watch.”

“Watch what?” I snapped. “Can you stop being so damn vague and just tell me what’s going on?”

But he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at my key. “I’m going to take a guess here that your key fits my lock and my key fits your lock.”

I frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I didn’t say I know. I said I guess.” The nearly eighteen-year-old murderer smirked at me again. “Try to pay attention, would you?”

I gritted my teeth. “I don’t like you.”

“My heart is breaking. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and throw that key over here so I can test my theory?”

“Screw you.”

He shrugged and then grimaced as if the wound on his shoulder caused him massive pain. “We can do that, too, if you like, but I’ll need to be unchained first. Then again, we can bring the chains with us if you’re into that sort of thing.”

I gave him the look I always gave to guys who tried to pick me up. The losers and the freaks who thought sex was a sport and I was just somebody to score with. In the circles I’d hung out in lately, boys like that were the norm rather than the exception. All the good ones seemed to have left the city long ago. And you know what? With some of them, I played it as good as I could. I knew that I wasn’t ugly—that despite living on the streets a little more than I’d like, I’d developed a good body and a nice face that boys—and men—seemed to find attractive. I played them, and then I took their wallets when they weren’t looking.

So sue me. But not one of them had gotten in my pants yet.

This boy didn’t have a wallet as far as I could see. He had nothing I wanted. Nothing except that key.

I shifted my position into something a little more alluring. Chest out. Stomach sucked in. I raised an eyebrow and forced a smile to my lips. “Why don’t you throw me your key first?”

Not too much. Let’s not be obvious here, okay?

He studied me. I still wasn’t letting him have what he wanted, but the vibe I was giving off was much more...friendly. I mean, the guy had been in a detention hall I’d heard was worse than anything I could imagine—and with his record, I doubted he’d been in a coed wing. He had to be horny as hell by now, right? I could work with that. He should be putty in my hands.

Dirty, murdering putty. With nice eyes and—I hated to admit it—a sexy smile. An unusual combination, to say the least.

He licked his lips. “Oh, you’re good. If I didn’t feel like my arm was about to fall off, you might have me, but pain does help me focus. Your key. Throw it to me. Then I’ll throw you mine.”

My fake smile slipped. “And when I throw you my key, how do I know you’ll give me mine?”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

He stared at me and then laughed that short, humorless laugh. “I’m coming up blank here.”

“Then I guess we’re both out of luck.”

“I guess so.” An unpleasant smile twisted his mouth, then he closed his eyes, and pain shadowed his face.

Damn. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for this guy. He was a murderer, just like the bastard who had killed my family. But if that blood was any indication, he was seriously wounded.

Then again, how did I know for sure? Maybe it was a trick. Maybe he was acting like he was hurt. After all, that camera had just appeared out of nowhere. What had he said a minute ago? Show time?