Page 40 of Lost King

I know the club is trying to find me, but let's be real, how in the fuck will they find my ass? I'm in an underground bunker somewhere in the mountains of Polson. It will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Not that I don't have faith in them doing the best they can to find me. I'm realistic about the fact I may be here for a while before they have the good fortune to stumble upon the place. And knowing Reid, he'll use his technical skills to find a way to pinpoint my whereabouts. I hope.

Scanning the room, I see Boulder and two of his ass kissers are the only men in this underground hotbox aside from myself. I watch as their President makes his way to a small table located near the other end of the bunker. Twisting on his heels, he heads back carrying a black duffle bag in his left hand. Hauling a chair across the floor, he stops. "Seems as if your brothers might need a little more motivation to realize I mean business," he drops the bag at my feet. Tilting forward he brings his face close to mine, his breath smellin' like he ate ass for breakfast. "Gives us more time to get to know one another a little better. Don't ya think?" he taunts.

Doing my best, I lean back as far as I can and breath through my one good nostril to avoid the stench. "Jesus, your breath could gag a maggot. Never in my life have I smelt ass mouth that bad before."

He sneers.

Oh yeah. He's pissed.

Reaching into his cut, he pulls out a cigar and actually bites the fuckin' end off. Who does that? This guy has watched way too many movies.

"You're a funny guy aren't ya?" Striking the lighter he sets fire to the torn tip and takes a few tokes to get the tobacco leaves burnin'. "You like the movies, pretty boy?" he asks.

His use of the word boy rubs me the wrong way. I can handle a lot of insults, but callin' me a boy—. "Boy?" I glare at him. "You're dealin' with a man, motherfucker," I spit in his face, which in return earns me a bitch slap across my cheek.

"You'll be cryin' like one by the time I'm through with you." With the cigar dangling between his lips, he crosses his arms over his chest. "We're gonna film ourselves a little video," he puffs on his cheap smellin' cigar, then blows the thick smoke in my face. Twiggy sticks both hands into his front pockets and steps aside revealing a cell phone mounted on a tripod.

He's been recording this whole time. Dammit.

I can do this.

Whatever he has planned for me today—I'll make it out on the other side. I tell myself a few times as I cut my eyes to the phone hoping the guys take notice.

I try telling them with a look. Don't give in to these motherfuckers.

He thumps the built up ashes from the end of his cigar, letting them fall to the floor, then studies the hot end for a moment. The chair he's sitting on creaks from his weight when he stands. Helpless, I keep my eyes trained on him while trying to watch out for the dickhead on the other side of me as he watches.

Not gonna lie. It's pissing me off that the fucker is wearing a satisfied smirk knowing they got me by the balls.

"Let's see if your brothers value your life more than their club or this town," he pauses and grabs me by my hair. Lurching my head to the side, he takes the hot end of the cigar and burns my neck with it. Instinctively I recoil from the pain. But even through the agony of the fire ripping through my neck, and the smell of my skin being singed, I refuse to show these assholes weakness.

Releasing me, he picks the bag off the floor and pulls out a hammer. Twiggy slides the chair out of the way as his President stands in front of me with the hammer swinging at his side. I know the blow is comin'. Doesn't mean I'm prepared for it as he raises the hammer bringing it down across my left kneecap. Not as hard as I anticipated but hard enough.

Clenching my teeth, I ride through the pain.

The hammer switches hands, and while I'm still trying to ignore the pain from the first blow, he almost shatters my other knee with the second.

I hold in my curses. Motherfuckers and a son of a bitch are on the tip of my tongue. It's not easy, but I won't give them the satisfaction.

Dickhead laughs.

It fuels my anger. Rage starts to dull the pain, and I focus all my energy on that feeling alone.

"Impressive," the Reaper prick says lookin' down his nose at me. "Seems you have a high tolerance for pain." He turns his back towards me and rummages through his bag of tricks. When he turns around, he's clamping a small pair of vice grips onto a long thin sewing needle. Reaching over his shoulder, Boulder grabs a small torch from the shelf behind him. Lighting it, he heats the tip of the needle until the metal glows as red as the flame.

The President kneels in front of me and grabs ahold of my right pinky and shoves the searing hot needle under my nail bed.

Every muscle in my body tightens, and I growl in pain as he pushes it in further and leaves it there. He repeats the process nine more times. Each time I lose the ability to keep silent. Each time I scream because the pain becomes too much.

I die a little inside knowing I've shown weakness.

One last needle comes into view. One I am more than eager to feel the prick of. Another sign of defeat, but the thought quickly leaves my mind only to be replaced with hunger. I don't want to be here. I know I'll feel better than I do right now.

I won't feel at all.

I know if I close my eyes I'll see her.

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