Dazed and dizzy, I roll off the saturated mattress and crash to the floor with an excruciating thud. I push onto my hands and knees and spit out a mouthful of water. The noxious combination of ket and noz nauseate me. Blood’s lava and my intestines are tangled in tight cords. With no clue how long I’ve slept, I don’t know how much longer I’ll suffer the drugs’ effects, and when my head finally stops spinning, a familiar, grating laugh guides my gaze across my ten-by-ten prison.
The single overhead fluorescent bulb shines on Lyle, who’s standing on the other side of the bars. Asshole has an empty bucket in one hand and a black, side-handle baton in the other. “Awesome, you’re awake.”
“Dickhead,” I mutter as I scrape myself off the floor.
Usually, the sweltering dungeon reeks of rotten air. Not today. Today it smells like a goddamn fresh summer breeze. An excruciating tease of sunshine to chase away the gloom. I inhale the sweet aroma, grateful to noz—my best and worst friend—for having healed my cracked ribs.
“Look lively.” Lyle jerks his head at the shadowed corner by the door.
I squint at the subtle silhouette, my dick shriveling between my legs. Back in Mayhem, I’d fuck just about anything warm and willing. But this isn’t Mayhem, and I’m sure as shit not willing.
“Got yourself a lady caller.”
Explains the perfume.
I scrub a hand over my stubbled face. Swipe the curtain of dripping hair out of my eyes. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my dirty black shorts and walk to the back of the cell. My body’s cumbersome, the muscles taut beneath healing flesh. I won’t be right for another day or two, but every hour will be an improvement. As I slide down the wall, I’m in no mood to entertain some entitled bitch here for a thrill.
My vision clearing, I address the silhouette. “Please accept my declination, but I’d rather drag my dick across concrete than fuck you.”
A vein pops and throbs in Lyle’s forehead. The guy makes it too easy. All it takes is a bit of backtalk to rile him—and using words beyond his limited vocabulary. Anything larger than two syllables stumps his dumb ass.
“Sass off again, and I’ll make sure punishment’s next on the list.”
No shit.
Punishment’s always next on the list.
Lyle tosses the bucket and lifts the baton. Hope he’s not trying to intimidate me, because it won’t work. The baton is second only to the cattle prod for Lyle’s preferred means of dispensing “discipline.” He’s already broken more than a few of my bones with it, and I’m positive he’ll break a few more before this place and I are done with each other.
Bring it, asshole.
I’d prefer a beating than to spend the next few hours with my cock in this bitch.
“You thought I was asking?”
I drop my head back against the wall and crook my right leg up. With my arm draped over my knee, I tsk and gesture to the soaked mattress. “You wet the bed, Lyle. What would your boss say if his client’s only option was the floor? But whatever, man, it’s your hide, not mine.”
Lyle isn’t merely a coward. He’s a weaselly brown-nose who lives up Crane’s ass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks Crane for permission every time he needs to take a dump. Predictably, he gets pissy and bangs the baton against the bars. The crack of polycarbonate against metal amplifies the ket, sending a shock wave through me. I gnash my teeth and ride it out, imagining Lyle’s insides on the outside.
“You best think long and hard about giving me attitude, boy.”
“Or what, Lyle? You’ll call in more guards to hold me down so you can beat the shit out of me?”
Lyle snarls, the barbaric act all wrong on him. Swap out the tactical gear with a wet suit and he’d easily pass for a stereotypical surfer. He even has the scruffy, bleached-out hair and perfect Florida tan. If it weren’t for his sadistic streak, I’d wonder how this classic dude got involved with a man of Crane’s stature.
“How’s about I shove this baton up your—”
“Enough.”
Damn it all if the quiet command doesn’t put Lyle in his place with a remarkable quickness. “Pardon, ma’am. You sure you don’t want one of the other ones?”
Intrigued despite myself, I strain to glimpse the woman who, with a single word, cowed the pompous prick.
“I’m positive.” The voice, husky-feminine and whisper-soft, reminds me of warm mountain nights and strong whiskey. “You may go now.”
By Lyle’s expression, I wonder if the woman sprouted a second head. “No can do, ma’am. I got to chain him first.”
“You will not put chains on this man.”
