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The guy was slouched back in his seat, still using his shirt for a towel and Sam really was beginning to think they were going to have to postpone. Dude was a bleeder.
Cas saw it, too. He stood and marched to the door to holler at the guard standing just outside. “Have someone bring a first aid kit and some extra towels in here.” Somebody on the other side grunted to the affirmative and walked away. They all turned back to their scumbag.
Dean steepled his fingers under his chin, smiling cockily at the man. “All right. I’ll play. Hit me some of your all-powerful questions, and we’ll see who gets the farthest with it.” They eyed each other like Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach inThe Good, The Bad, and The Uglywhile Grungy weighed his odds.
“Who’s the guy they saw goin’ inta Bradshaw’s?”
Dean raised his eyebrows at Cas, and he fished out a mug shot from his briefcase of a man with a receding brown mullet, slicked back in a greasy ponytail. He was in his mid-twenties and had blue eyes and a shitty goatee. He stood six-three wearing a faded Bowie T-shirt with a stain on the chest and glared into the camera like he hated the entire world.
“Oh him,” Grungy said, trying for disdain, but there was a meanness to him now that he couldn’t hide. “Yeah, I know him. Maybe I can help you boys out. Maybe. But first you gotta let me outta here.”
“You know that’s never gonna happen,” Dean told him in disgust. “Tell us what you know about old”—Dean looked at the mug shot—“Roy Devers here and we’ll see if we can get you a lawyer in here and talk about sentence lengths. That’s how these things work, asshole. I know you’ve been too oily to ever have been caught before, but you’re good and trapped now, so get this through your thick head. You’re not breathing free air for a very, very long time. How long? Well, that’s going to depend on the next words that come out of your stupid, rot-filled mouth.”
Sam would’ve been scared shitless in his place. At the very least he would’ve been impressed, and he would’ve shut up and listened, but the idiot only spat again and laughed at Dean.
“You think so, big man?” he said. This time he nailed the disdain. “You really think so? Y’all assholes still don’t even know my real name, so who’s the real power in this here room, huh? I told ya. I know important things. And I know me some important people. This here is what I call me a hiccup. Now, back to my questions. Why you think Bradshaw’s got anything to do with anything?”
Stupid son of a bitch, he’d led them to his own weakness and still didn’t have any clue.
“She’s been pretty obvious about her stalking since you went MIA,” Dean told him. “We hadn’t been able to pin down which therapist you were using, since one of the women we rescued had seen her, but the others hadn’t. Plus, she’s been extremely careful in her manipulations. In fact, some would say she’s only been doing her job as a sex therapist.”
Grungy slapped the table hard. “Damn right she was.” Pride rang in his twangy voice. “She’s a right good shrink. Aint nothin’ wrong or illegal with what she does.” His eyes suddenly darted about the room. “I’m just worried ‘bout her, is all. See, I think maybe that guy there”—he stabbed angrily at Roy’s photo—“him and her maybe might be in trouble, too. Maybe whoever took them girls took them two, too.”
“Wait a minute.” Dean picked up the mug shot and flaunted it an inch from Grungy’s face, watched the man’s lip twitch in repressed fury. “You mean to tell me you’re worried for this man? Is Roy your buddy, Grunge?”
“Get that fucking thing outta ma face ‘fore I tear it to bits,” he told him in a hissing voice. “Nah. I cain’t stand his muscled up, Chuck Norris wannabe ass but that don’t mean I cain’t have concern fer my fellow man, do it? Guy’s an asshole, but now he’s a missing asshole, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, well, he beat the woman he’s missing with to shit the night before,” Dean told him.
Grungy shrugged. “The fuck I care about that? He do it in the club? Then she asked for it. You fuckers and your tight-assed restrictions on fuckin’. Let people get their rocks off, and you go get yours. Leave others the fuck alone. Assholes.”
The door opened and two officers walked in. One stood over six feet and was all wiry muscles; the high energy of innocence and optimism still clung to him. He stood out like a shiny penny in this room that reeked of confessions and lies. His counterpart had bottle-thick glasses and stood about five-eleven. He had an ex-military bearing and a world wary hardness that clung like Charlie Brown’s Pig Pen; a cloud of doom around him that said he’d seen it all.
Sam noticed there was a distinct lack of animosity between prisoner and guards as they set down the requested items and more. The men had also brought in bottled water, coffee—only one cup—a pack of smokes and an ashtray. Grungy nodded at the men while Sam and the others stared.
Then Dean said, “Tell me why you’re so concerned with Bradshaw, then.”
And the surly military guard knocked him out cold with one punch.
Chapter Six
Kimberly and Shawnawere out for a drive. Shawna was having another good day. She’d been having more and more of them lately, and each gave Kimberly more hope. She, herself, was having a pretty spectacular day as well.
Kimberly smiled and flushed as she felt another rush of remembered pleasure.
Dean’s hands on her breasts.
Sam’s cock in her ass.
Dean’s mouth on her cunt.
Sam’s ropes on her body.
Kimberly shivered all over and reminded herself to focus on the road before she drove them off a cliff. Good Lord, she loved them both so much she was going to drive straight into the clouds if she didn’t stop daydreaming.
“So, you’re really in love, huh?” Shawna, her trusty copilot, asked.
“Oh, honey.” Kimberly melted like she was sixteen again. “I really, really am!”
