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Christ, she’s better at this than I am.
The thought fills me with such pride, I want to burst right open. Enough of this babysitting. I need to get back to the van and make sure I’m ready when they come around the corner.
Brent squeezes Charlotte’s ass.
I shoot to my feet, a growl escaping my throat as I see red. And then I seeRed.
A glint of light catches in the dry cleaner’s window diagonally opposite me, drawing my gaze—sunlight refracting from a shiny pistol. A pistol Red Hutchinson is holding as he stands right behind me, the reflection of the scene like something out of a horror movie. Had that light caught my eye a few seconds prior, I might have been able to avoid what happens next, but Lady Luck has turned a blind eye.
The icy muzzle of a gun presses against my temple for one brief second before withdrawing. “Hand off your weapon, Professor Fyre,” Red drawls, sounding every inch a sophisticated businessman discussing a technicality in a contract.
I wrap my fingers around the grip anyway, spinning around as I pull the trigger.
There’s no way I’m going down without a fight. I already know this won’t end well. Either Charlotte and I are going to die on this dead-end street, or we’re hitching a ride in whatever transportation Red and his pedo friend Brent rocked up in. Destination unknown but pain, torture, death, that’s certain.
The shot leaves my ears ringing, but Red unharmed. The clever fucker was standing more than a yard away from me, probably realizing I’d try and injure him. So while my shot goes wild, the one he aims at my chest hits true.
I’m flung back, slamming into the drainpipe I’d been huddling behind like a kid playing hide-and-seek with his friends. The pain hasn’t even registered yet before I fall on my back and twist to look down the street where I last saw Charlotte.
She’s gone.
Judging from the agony spiking through my torso, I’ll be gone in a few minutes too.
21
FYRE
The fact that I’m in a dungeon that was obviously carefully planned out, tastefully decorated, and stocked with what looks like high end, industrial-quality BDSM equipment isn’t surprising. What is surprising is that it’s somehow more unnerving than waking up in an unfinished basement chained to a radiator. This place has been painted. Soundproofed.Designed. So much thought went into it that you have to admire the deviancy of the mind that created it.
The charcoal gray walls create a blank, suffocating canvas for the equipment bolted to it. Red light glows out behind some of those fixtures, but the spotlight is on me…literally. It sears into my eyes from a point in the low ceiling. I’m sure I would have felt the heat of it, if it wasn’t a stark, cool white.
I’m bound hands and feet to a St. Andrews cross with thick, rough rope. The air conditioner is turned down several degrees below comfort. Goosebumps pebble my skin, my balls trying to burrow back into my body for warmth.
Wait…I remember being shot. I look down, noticing first the bandage on my chest, and then the boxers around my junk.
They’re not mine.
“Fuck,” I mutter, wincing as the effort of speaking tweaks muscles that are somehow connected to the bandaged wound on my chest. There’s a dull pain thumping through me that should be worse for the hit I took. Whoever slapped the bandage on me must have taken the time to check for an exit wound, or remove the bullet if it hadn’t come out by itself. Hell, they might even have splashed on some antiseptic or shit. I definitely got some kind of painkillers.
Red doesn’t want me dead.
Yet.
I yank at the rough hemp ropes holding my wrists above my head.
Then what the fuckdoeshe want?
Charlotte.
“Hey, Red!” I yell, yanking at my bonds again, ignoring the stab of pain this causes. “Come out and face me like a man.”
After yelling for a few minutes, someone does arrive. It’s not Red. I’m not even sure if it’s Brent, because the asshole is wearing a fucking executioner’s hood…and nothing else.
His dick swings between his legs as he walks closer. I’m grateful he’s not erect, but then I wonder what it takes to get him hard, and I instantly wish I didn’t have an imagination.
God help me.
“Who the fuck are you?” I belt out, giving my restraints another hard tug. The pain in my chest is worse, but I don’t pay it any mind. I’d rather die by bullet wound than whatever torture this asshole has in mind.
