He yanks it open, and we descend.
My bare feet are a little sore from running over here, catching a few pebbles when I crossed the street, but when we reach the bottom of the stairs, the cool concrete floor soothes my soles.
Hans lets go of my hand so he can resecure his towel, but he doesn’t stop walking, so I follow him across the unfinished basement to… a wall.
My lips purse, starting to form the word what, but then he presses his hand to the wall, and a door-sized panel swings outward.
Behind the secret door is a hidden door made of metal that looks sturdy enough to survive a bomb.
Hans lifts his right hand and sets it on a black rectangular screen embedded in the wall next to the door.
My jaw drops.
Is that a freaking palm reader?
There’s a heavy-sounding clunk, then the thick metal door opens inward.
Wow.
Hans guides me toward the pitch-black room, and as soon as I step foot inside, lights automatically turn on above me, filling the large room with an even glow.
Extra wow.
My mouth opens even wider.
The room is big. Like bigger than it should be, based on the size of the house upstairs.
I can’t tell whether the walls are made of concrete or metal. But one entire wall is covered with a sort of rack system with hooks. And hanging from those hooks are guns. A whole-ass wall of guns. And are those… grenades?
The door shuts behind Hans, and I hear the quiet whirl of fans turning on.
“The life support systems automatically come on when a body is in the room.” I look up at the ceiling, then over to Hans. He tips his head to the side as he walks past me, like he’s thinking about what he said. “Well, an alive body.”
“Um, has there been an unalive body in here?”
I probably shouldn’t ask that. If this were a movie, I’d be yelling at the girl to turn around and run out of the scary bunker.
But this isn’t a movie. This is my life. And this is my neighbor who calls me Butterfly and drives me to the airport. And who I’m now ninety-nine percent sure was the man on the bus in Mexico.
“Not in this house.”
Not in… Oh, right. Dead bodies.
My eyes follow Hans as he opens one of the four doors lining the far wall, revealing a closet.
More scars mark his back, with one particularly long line of raised flesh two inches away from his spine.
“You have other houses?” My question comes out breathy.
“A few,” Hans replies, then he drops his towel.
And holy ass cheeks, this man is built like a Viking god. Battle marks and all.
Even though I’ve had his tongue, fingers, and cock inside me, I haven’t seen him naked. Not even shirtless. Until right now.
When he bends down to pull on a pair of black boxer briefs, I get a glimpse of his balls hanging down between his legs, and I have to brace my hand on the wall.
Lord have mercy, why is that hot?
When he starts to pull on a pair of black pants, like the ones he wore to dinner at my parents’， I drag my eyes away to look around the rest of the room.
Opposite the weapon wall is what I can only describe as a monitor wall. Like something out of one of those Jason Bourne movies. Rows of screens, all turned off at the moment, mounted above a counter that runs the length of the wall.
“Wait, did you say you have a few houses?” I ask as I walk over to stand behind the rolling office chair centered in front of the monitors.
“We’ll talk about it after. Okay?”
I turn back in time to see Hans lacing up a pair of his boots, black T-shirt already in place. “After?”
Righting himself, Hans moves to the weapon wall.
He slips a shoulder holster off a hook and shrugs it on.
I watch in fascination as he selects two matching handguns, doing that thing people do in the movies to check the clips, then shoving them into the spots on the holster. Then he grabs a long knife in a fabric sheath and attaches the whole thing to his belt.
“You’re like Batman,” I whisper. He’s only missing the cape and mask.
Hans shakes his head. “Nah. My parents got rich off mining.”
His tone is dry, and it sounds like he’s joking. But I guess I don’t know the Batman lore that well because I don’t understand the joke.
“Wait.” It suddenly dawns on me what he’s doing. “You’re going over there.”
Hans nods, then gestures for me to move so he can pull the chair out.
I do, and then he points. “Sit.”
I comply.
Hans grips the back of the chair and turns me to face the monitors.
I don’t see a way to turn them on, but then Hans flips up some hidden panel in the counter and a keyboard appears before me.