His concern is that he was followed, and he has to be about to shit himself as he stomps toward the truck that pulls up behind him. Sylas.
Mitchel lifts his gun in the air, prepared to shoot, but he never gets a chance. Quinn clocks the gun with a rock from hisslingshot, knocking it so hard that it would take Mitchel a very long time to find it in the dark.
“What the fuck!” Mitchel screams as he spins around, trying to keep an eye on Sylas while looking behind him to find out who relieved him of his weapon.
Quinn, Ronan, and I approach casually while Sylas joins us.
“Who the fuck are you?” Mitchel shouts, backing up.
Sylas tosses a bag from several yards away. It lands directly in front of Mitchel.
Mitchel glances down. “What’s going on? What the fuck is that?”
“Strip, asshole,” I say calmly. “Down to your briefs.”
Mitchel doesn’t move. “What the fuck? Are you insane?” He doesn’t seem as high as he probably is. His adrenaline is burning off his recent snort.
“Now,” I say, my voice louder and firmer.
Another rock wizzes by me. It strikes Mitchel in the cheek, grazing him enough to draw blood. It was intentional. Quinn is fucking excellent with a slingshot. He doesn’t miss. If he grazed Mitchel’s cheek, that was what he meant to do.
“Fuck,” Mitchel yells as he grabs his face.
“Take your fucking clothes off, asshole,” I say. “The next rock is going to hit you in the eye. I hear that’s pretty painful.”
“Is this about that bitch Brea?”
Ah, so he dares to use my mate’s name.
Another rock hits Mitchel right between the eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” the asshole bellows, rubbing his head. It has to fucking smart. A knot is already forming.
“No questions, dickwad. You have ten seconds to strip.”
Mitchel holds up both hands. “Okay, okay. I don’t know why the fuck you need me to get naked. If you want to fuck, you could have just asked.”
My jaw clenches. What a piece of work.
Mitchel is trembling so badly it takes him forever to get his clothes off. “This what you want?” he asks, jiggling his junk with one hand. He’s either not hard or his dick is tiny. Either way, I don’t give a fuck. None of us wants to fuck this asshole.
“Open the bag, you fuck,” I order.
Mitchel glances around, trying to see us. It’s too dark for him to make out more than our silhouettes.
Quinn pegs him again, this time hitting one of his nipples.
“Motherfucker!” Mitchel screams, grabbing his bloody tit. Quinn hit him hard.Reallyhard. Blood is dripping down Mitchel’s chest.
“If I have to keep repeating myself, you’re going to be covered with bruises in a minute,” I tell him.
The dick reaches for the duffle bag, unzips it, and pulls out his own clothes.
“That’s a good boy,” I tell him sarcastically. “Apparently you can follow directions. Put those on.”
“What is this? These are my own clothes.”
“Yep.”
