Page 7 of Locked & Loaded

So naturally, I choose the worse option and keep needling him.

“Nothing, of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. “God forbid we talk like normal people.”

I’m not backing off now. Not when he’s finally showing something besides that infuriating blankness, even if I have nicotine withdrawal to thank for it.

Rodriguez stares at me. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His voice is level, but there’s a hardness to it that wasn’t there before. Like I’ve finally pushed him to a place where even his precious control has limits.

“It means you don’t talk,” I say. “You stand there. You say nothing. You make me guess what you’re thinking, and when I guess wrong, I look like the asshole. That’s what it means.”

He holds my gaze, and for a moment I think he might finally bite back. But the moment stretches, and his expression slides back toward that neutral mask. I sigh, the familiar frustration building in my chest.

“Right,” I huff, and the word comes out angry. “Of course. Keep ignoring me.”

I wait another second, because apparently I’m still stupid enough to think he might actually say something.

He doesn’t.

So I jump off the bed, ready to get the fuck out of here. If I stay in this compartment one more minute, I’m going to say something I can’t take back, and Toledo will have my head on a plate by morning. I jam my feet into my boots without bothering to tie them and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rodriguez asks.

Oh, so now he wants to talk?

“To find Han,” I say, not looking at him. “See if there’s another compartment. Or a luggage car. Or literally anywhere that isn’t this fucking sauna with you in it.”

I step toward the door and grab the handle. Slide it to the right.

It doesn’t move.

I try again, harder this time, putting my weight behind it. The door gives a metallic groan but stays exactly where it is. I shove at it again, then pull the handle with more force, but it still doesn’t move. Like it’s locked.

The only problem is, this door doesn’t have a lock.

“What the fuck,” I mutter.

“What?” Rodriguez asks, watching me from his bunk.

I brace my feet against the floor and shove with my whole body.

The door doesn’t budge.

“It’s stuck,” I say, my voice climbing before I can stop it. “The door is fucking stuck.”

Rodriguez stands and crosses the compartment in two steps. He reaches past me, his arm brushing mine—the contact suddenly too much in the thick, overheated air—and grabs the handle.

Then he pulls. Hard.

The muscles in his forearm pull tight, his bicep bunching under the sleeve of his T-shirt, and my brain, traitorous piece of shit that it is, decides to notice.

The door still doesn’t move.

He tries again, bracing one foot against the lower frame and putting his shoulder into it. The door groans, creaks, and holds firm.

“Shit,” Rodriguez says.

And it’s the first time I’ve heard something even remotely close to panic in his voice.