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‘What? Why did he do that?’
‘Because he cares about you, of course.’
‘What did he say?’
‘To me? Nothing. I just got word from the paper. Apparently he told them he’d been battling drugs for a while. He mentions excessive partying and drinking and whatever else you can think of. Idiot gave them enough juicy titbits to make them forget all about you. Which they’re going to do by the way. He’s even mentioned the overdose and his arrest. He’s well and truly screwed himself.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Tate? Haven’t got a clue. He’s conveniently ignoring my calls. I can’t believe he did this! Why couldn’t he just wait? I was trying to sort it. I don’t suppose he’s picking up the phone for you?’
Chloe shakes her head. ‘Gregg just sent me a message. He got an ‘I’m grand’ message from him but nothing since. Gregg’s on his way back. You don’t think Tate would...’ Chloe can’t finish the sentence.
Clearly she doesn’t need to. Ellen’s face turns sombre and she shrugs. ‘I hope not, but he hasn’t been himself for I don’t know how long. Dillon and Luke should be at his house by now. I’ll give then a ring. See if they’ve heard anything.’
She walks into the living room leaving Chloe staring at the driveway. Since he stormed off, she can’t shake the sinking feeling in her gut.
‘Please be okay.’
29
Tate tries to wakeup, but his brain is seriously struggling. He moves his head a little but instantly regrets it when the headache bounces around his skull like a spiked metal ball. Fuck he feels shite. He convinces one eye to do its job, but it doesn’t help him figure out what the hell is wrong with him. His other eye joins the party, and his vision clears a little, not that it helps at all.
He’s lying on a bed in a small bedroom. Something is familiar about it, but his brain is too foggy to give it much thought.
How the fuck did he get here? He’s sure he was in his truck. Wasn’t he? He shuts his eyes and tries to remember, but his brain won’t get with the program. Whether his brain or body wants to, it’s time to get up. But he can’t. Neither hand will move.
Using far too much energy he looks up to the head of the bed where his hands are and knows he’s in a whole world of trouble. He’s chained to the metal bed frame. He pulls at the restraints, but the thick chain is painfully wrapped around his wrists and padlocked in place. Someone wants him to stay put.
With his brain still playing catch-up, Tate looks down at his feet and sees similar restraints securing his ankles. It takes him a few seconds longer to realise where he is. This is one of the small downstairs bedrooms in his grandparent’s old farmhouse. The windows have been boarded up from the outside, but everything else is still the same as he remembers it. It was the room he stayed in when he spent the night as a child.
Something pinches the crook of his left arm. He twists his arm around and his stomach takes a dive. There’s an IV line disappearing into his arm under a thick layer of tape. The tube has been secured with more tape all the way down his arm to make sure it doesn’t come out. The other end of the tube isn’t attached to anything but that doesn’t make him feel any better. The fact it’s there in the first place is a serious worry.
He hasn’t got a fucking clue what’s going on, but he knows he really needs to get out of here. He yanks his arms towards him, but the damn chain won’t shift. He grabs onto the bed frame and pulls his legs up hard. Nothing happens. The bed is one of those old-fashioned ones with a heavy metal frame. He hasn’t got a chance of breaking it.
He gives up and lies still, trying to give his stomach and head a few minutes to get back to where they should be. He swallows deeply a few times. His stomach is having serious objections to something. Tate quickly leans over the side of the bed as he loses the battle with his stomach.
