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Nash is still laid out on the bed as she escorts me out of the room.
Chapter 16
Nash
Waking up has been the worst part of all of this.
When sleep comes, despite the wounds on my body, I’ve been able to take some solace in the fact that maybe when I close my eyes it will be the last time, maybe I won’t wake to another day of abuse and torture.
I clench my fists, my pain not as bad as it has been but still enough to tell me I’m alive.
Something’s different. The fabric at my back doesn’t make sense. Pirro was never one to offer any sort of amenities.
I can recall the doctor and the shots, him telling me he drugged me. Everything after is a blank slate. I try to open my eyes, considering that I may have been sold. As much as I’d like to think it could mean I’ve ended up in a better place, I know better. Losing my usefulness is bad news.
I cough twice, trying to scratch the itch at the back of my throat, but nothing seems capable of reaching it.
“Water?”
I jerk my head to the side, pulling my face back in an effort to avoid danger.
“Angel?”
I blink rapidly, but the man doesn’t disappear. It does help the room come into focus. I don’t know how I should feel about the sterile place. It should come as a relief. I should cry tears of happiness that, by some miracle, I’ve been rescued from the clutches of Raul Cortez’s men.
Angel lifts my hand, shoving a pink, plastic cup into it. The straw tries to dart away from my mouth, but rather than wasting time chasing it, I press my lips directly to the side of the cup and drain the entire thing.
“The doctor said you’re dehydrated, but they got you hooked up to that shit.”
I follow the point of his finger to the IV bags hanging from the pole.
“They fucked you up pretty badly.”
I scoff, as if I wasn’t aware of exactly what happened to me, but then I look down at my body, having no fucking clue what happened after I was drugged. I guess it’s easily possible with a doctor there that they took some of my fucking organs.
“Why are you looking so swollen and irritated?” I ask because I may lose my shit if he’s pissed that he’s here.
I don’t fucking need anyone to sit at the fucking bedside and make sure I’m okay.
“I’m not going to apologize if that’s what you’re after,” he says, his tone flat and unaffected, a complete contradiction to the look that was previously on his face.
“I don’t need fucking apologies. Why are you even here?”
Angel tilts his head, and I stiffen at the sight of the two men standing across the room. So much for being a fucking expert, capable of assessing a situation. I didn’t even notice the two goons.
The leather cuts are a little “look at me”, but to each their fucking own.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snap, my voice weaker than I’d like, considering these guys aren’t exactly looking like friends.
The biggest tattooed motherfucker steps forward, his chest patch reading PRESIDENT, and KINCAID right under it.
“We’re wondering the same about you,” he says, instead of answering my question.
“They’re not so sure that you weren’t part of Cortez’s group,” Angel says, his tone dry as if he’s had this conversation numerous times already.
“Have you seen what they did to me?” I snap, unwell to waste the energy jerking the covers back to reveal my wounds. I have no intention of trying to test the limits of the pain meds I’ve been given, and I don’t owe these motherfuckers anything. “I was their captive, not one of them.”
I know that I’m here because the men who had me are dead. From what I can gather, these men, along with Angel, came into the compound where I was being held and managed to get me out. That means people are dead. Men like Pirro and Cortez don’t just hold their hands up and allow their possessions to be taken. I wonder what things would look like for me if Pirro had opted to give me a job after that last poker game rather than imprisoning me.
“That tattoo on the back of your neck is the only thing keeping you alive,” the tattooed president spits. “If we get word you were a part of what was going down—”
“You’ll what?” I challenge, trying not to wince as I attempt to sit up straighter in the bed.
The man shakes his head as he looks at me. “Fucking mercenaries.”
He leaves the room, the other guy on his team following him out.
A massive three-headed dog covers the leather on both of their backs, the bottom rocker reading Farmington, New Mexico, the top one declaring them the Cerberus MC.
