I just stare, waiting for an answer.
“’Fraid not,” he finally responds, cutting me another unimpressed look before turning to slide out a pot of coffee from the machine.
“Coffee is from this mornin’， so it’s cold,” he warns. ”But I’ll warm it up for ya first.”
Sawyer nudges my arm from behind and whispers, “See, the bean gods did bless us. With coffee beans.”
My eye twitches.
“Would like to know yer names, if ya don’t mind,” he says, turning to stick the two mugs in the microwave.
I mind.
“Sawyer,” the little thief supplies hurriedly.
I grind my teeth harder. Apparently, she doesn’t feel the need to lie to him about her name, and something about that annoys the fuck out of me. Then again, there are very few things in this world that don’t.
“His name is Enzo. Sorry for his manners. He got bullied in school and hasn’t seen a therapist yet. We really appreciate your kindness.”
Anger spikes in my chest, and slowly, I turn to glower at her. The microwave beeps loudly, and the old man turns to grab the cups, unaware of how close I am to wrapping my hands around her throat. She spares me a glance before turning her attention back to Sylvester, who is now carrying over two steaming cups of coffee toward us.
Here, she’s not so scared of me. She thinks an old man with a wooden leg will save her.
Ignoring my glare, she smiles wide at Sylvester, accepting the mug with a warmth in her entirely fabricated expression. Just like everything else about her.
It’s not hard to see she’s as broken as they come—the only thing warm about her is her pussy.
Still, she radiates sunshine, and all it makes me want to do is wipe it clean from her face. She’s the light that blinds you right before lightning strikes.
Silently, I accept the mug from Sylvester, dipping my chin an increment. Sawyer’s right—I don’t have manners. But I also know better than to bite the hand that feeds you.
“You both go on over to the couch and relax. I’ll start a fire and get ya warmed up,” he directs, grunting as he hobbles to the kitchen sink.
“Thank you, Syl,” Sawyer says warmly. She pivots and heads toward the couch while I stand firm.
Syl? She's nicknaming the fucker already?
I snarl at her as she passes by, and she puts an extra pep in her step to get away.
My mood souring by the second, I turn to the caretaker, his back to me as he rinses off the dish in the sink.
“So, how do you get all these supplies?” I question. Sylvester stills. “If you have no radios and such,” I tack on, my tone dripping with doubt.
I don’t like liars.
“My radio stopped working a week ago. Dead batteries and got no replacements. A cargo ship comes ’round here about once a month, and I buy everything I need from ’em.”
“Buy? You’re still working?”
He shoots me a glare. “I’m retired. And being retired pays well. My money ain’t no concern of yours.”
It isn’t, but his story adding up is.
Finishing at the sink, he hobbles toward a woodpile stacked against the far left wall, and I narrow my eyes.
“When did the last cargo ship come by?”
Another grunt as he starts piling wood into his arms.
“Three days ago,” he answers. “I told ’em about it, and they didn't have any with them, so they promised to bring me replacements next month.”
I just barely manage to suppress a scowl as he turns around and hobbles toward me. Fury is bubbling in my chest, threatening to spew out of my mouth.
What he’s not saying is, we’re stuck here for a fucking month. A month with an old, strange man and a girl who nearly stole my entire fucking life from me.
“I'm sure we can shine the beacon and wait for someone to come by.”
He scoffs. “Ain't no ships come around here if they can help it. These waters are dangerous, as you've come to learn yerself. That's why my supplier only comes by once a month.”
I grind my teeth. Sawyer may have made a fool out of me, but I know deep in my bones that he's hiding something.
“I'd like to see the radio.”
“Be my guest, boy,” he chortles condescendingly, digging in his pocket, pulling it out, and then tossing it at me. I catch it in my hand, shooting him a glare.
“You carry dead radios in your pocket often?” I challenge, quirking a brow.
He grunts. “Habit.”
It's a black compact device and completely dead. The switch is already in the ON position. Unconvinced, I slide off the back cover. The batteries are hot to the touch, which immediately invokes suspicion, but I can't prove he did anything yet. So, I stay silent as he makes his way into the little living room and starts piling the wood inside of the fireplace.