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Were they in danger too?
Or did he just want to throw them off his trail so he had more time to do… whatever it was he wanted to do with me?
Patrick had left the camping light, its stark whiteness making my dark-accustomed eyes hurt, but I forced them to stay open, to try to look around at my surroundings.
Just as I suspected, there was the dirt floor, the cinderblock walls, and several round load-bearing support poles holding up the house.
Turning, I inspected the thing I was attached to. Which was thinner than the support poles, and some of the screws holding it into the ceiling beams were rusted and wiggly.
If I didn’t blackout from the motion of yanking against it, there was a chance I could possibly make it fall.
Then I would just need to slide my cuff up to the top… and run.
Did running sound like it would be fun? No. But then again, neither did getting abused by Patrick.
I could do it.
I had to do it.
Gritting my teeth, I started yanking as hard as I could. Big, sweeping motions.
Each and every one of them had my ribs screaming.
Until, eventually, the pain made me blackout.
I came to on the floor with a face full of dirt. On my bad shoulder.
And the pole hadn’t budged at all.
I won’t lie, as I got back up to try again, my mind went to Jass. Went to being saved by him so I didn’t have to keep trying to save myself.
Was that weak of me?
Possibly.
But it sounded infinitely better than the alternative.
As the hours stretched on and on, though, it seemed less and less likely anyone was going to save me but myself.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Judge
I walked down to find the remnants of the party that had moved from The Bog back to the clubhouse the night before.
Beer cans and red plastic cups were scattered over every flat surface.
Pizza boxes were in an askew stack on the top of the stove.
Delaney had been right.
It was complete crap.
But edible.
So we’d eaten it.
Bodies were just as scattered as beer cans.
Two women—a blonde and a redhead—were sharing a couch. Sway was on the floor beneath them, using a third woman as a blanket.
Raff was passed out on top of the pool table, curled up on his side and clutching a box of cereal to his chest like an old stuffed animal, the little multicolored sugar-coated Os spilling out over the felt.
For reasons I didn’t even begin to understand, he had some sort of earring attached to his nose and was using a large red bra as a pillow.
The owner didn’t appear to be around, so I imagine she’d decided to sneak out without taking back her undergarment, or she was upstairs with one of the other guys.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Detroit said, coming up behind me, still pulling a shirt on, looking uncharacteristically unrested.
So he’d been up partying as well. Or trying to keep control over the party before finally giving up.
“Is it just me, or is that sweatshirt moving?” he asked, nodding his chin over toward a corner near the slightly ajar front door.
Like it had been summoned, the sweatshirt moved again, and then there was a kitten.
“Oh, shit,” Detroit said, looking taken aback.
As if offended, the cat stared right at us and let out a loud, long meow.
“Hey, man, you’re the one who wandered in here,” Detroit said, moving toward the kitchen, going to grab a bowl. “Can’t bitch at us about it,” he added, putting milk into said bowl.
“Feeding the local wildlife?” Slash asked a minute later as Detroit put the saucer down for the kitten.
He was a little rough-looking, his long grayish-white fur in need of a wash and brushing. His big blue eyes were wary but not overly skittish.
“Wouldn’t have to feed him if someone didn’t leave the front door open,” Detroit said, walking back. “Real secure around here.”
Slash ran a hand through his long hair. “Shit got out of hand last night.”
“Usually does when those two are in town,” Detroit said, looking over at Raff who stirred enough to roll onto his back, slinging an arm over his head that was likely splitting. And managing to reveal a chunk of his stomach. Where someone had traced around his tattoos with what looked like a red permanent marker.
“What time is it?” Slash asked as he followed Detroit into the kitchen, both of them intent on coffee.
“Ten,” I said, pulling out my phone, and feeling my concern kick back in.
Because she hadn’t texted me back.
At one point, I’d even called her because I thought it was weird that she hadn’t answered me.
I tried to remind myself that it had been her first night back at work, that she was still there long after our party had headed out and back to the clubhouse.
She was probably fucking exhausted.
