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Shit. This can’t be how I die.
Someone roughly removes my head covering, and I gasp loudly, instinctively rocking forward. If I can’t kick, hit or scratch, I can always try to headbutt someone.
But of course, that doesn’t work. All I do is manage to rock the chair up on two legs.
Behind me, someone uses the rung on the back of the chair to slam the chair back to all four legs on the floor. “Easy, sweetheart,” says someone with a voice box that’s seen better days. I look around me, but I see no one. What I do notice is that I’m in a garage somewhere. Several tools line the walls, old rusty ones. The floor is stained with oil, and there’s a broken car lift. Great, I’m in an abandoned service station, god knows where.
SEVENTEEN
Crosby
“Tell me where she is.Where are they taking Leela?”
My whole body feels like it’s on fire with rage, and I’m on the verge of a full-on panic episode, but I have to keep it together for Leela.
Several neighbors came out of their apartments to investigate the sounds of struggle and promptly went back inside. I ignore the sounds of astonishment and doors slamming, and solely focus on the giant biker whose spinal column is currently making a nice cushion for my knee.
“Fuck you, Jason.”
“For the record, I’m not Jason.”
“The fuck you’re not. This is the address they gave us.”
I could throw my cousin under the bus. I could tell him the entire truth. But I doubt he would care; he’s just a hired thug. Worst case scenario, they regroup and go track down the real Jason. Although he and I have issues—and now have major issues—I don’t actually want him dead.
Plucking the guitar string out of the thug’s hand, I take my time, wrapping it around the guy’s middle finger three or four times, and pull tight. He grunts and spittle flies out of his mouth as he tries to hold back his cries of pain.
“Tell me where they took her, or you lose a finger.”
EIGHTEEN
Leela
Through the dirtywindows of the service door, I can see that it’s almost dusk. Either that or I had been unconscious all night, which means it’s morning. That idea sends a chill down my spine because god knows what could have happened to me in that time.
I close my eyes and concentrate on scanning my body, fearing the worst. But no. I don’t think anything like that occurred. Nothing, except an injection of some sort that still has me feeling a little groggy.
“Who’s there? Let me see you!”
The man with the unattractively husky throat answers. “Sure, why not.”
Seconds later, a massive body blocks out the little bit of sunlight streaming through the door’s windows. Adjusting my eyes, I see the long hair, tattoos, filthy tee-shirt, and a black leather vest with patches. I memorize everything I see; it’s the final scrap of hope I hold on to if…no, when…I get out of here, I’ll be able to identify this jerk who jumped me. Coyote…Dusk Demon MC…and is that an iron cross tattoo? Ugh. Lovely.
Now is not a reasonable time for a World War One history lesson.
It occurs to me that he’s letting me see the name of his gang, his nickname, his tattoo—everything—doesn’t bode well for my survival.
“What do you want with me?” I ask.
“The Dusk Demons just have a thing for pretty ladies. Especially ones whose boyfriends steal from us.”
Don’t pee your pants, Leela. Do not void your bowels. Keep it together.
“Who, that guy I was with? He didn’t steal anything from the Dirt Devils.”
Coyote narrows his eyes at me. “Dusk Demons.”
I fake a laugh. “My bad. Sorry, it just sounds a lot like the vacuum cleaner.”
