Chapter 2
Nolan
I really need to hire that guy I interviewed last week.
He was acceptable.
Not the best lug nut in the package but good enough to get the job done.
Truth is, I’m just so fucking tired of dragging my ass out of bed at one in the morning to change a flat of the non-diaper variety.
I don’t mind getting out of bed for that.
You would think that I would.
That I’d hate having to get up to change a goddamn dirty diaper when I’m happily passed out with a handful of my wife’s tit and my dick wedged nicely against my husband’s ass, but I don’t.
I love being there for our boy.
I love getting to be the father I never had.
The one I wanted.
The one The Kid fucking deserved.
I love every portion of the fully loaded dad package.
The giggles.
The finger curls.
The pick me up wiggles.
Fuck, I even love the less lovable features too.
The shitty diapers.
The late-night feedings.
The cock block cries.
Which actually have a slightly different rev to them.
Yeah.
Like a fucking engine.
No surprise that The Kid was the one to point that shit out.
I swear he’s an audible genius.
I sure hope he passed that along to our little guy.
He already has his blue eyes and thick black hair and love of everything else car related.
And I love that shit too.
I don’t resent the fact that Andrew – because Rabbit refused to let him be named Andretti – looks like a mini me of the two people I love more than anything else on this fucking planet.
I’m proud of that.
Besides they’re the better-looking ones.
At least this way, Drew’s got a chance at pulling a hot piece of tail in his future.
Or…two?
Whatever shit is right for him.
That’s all we want.
And being raised in a house with three parents will – theoretically – work as a reminder that we believe in doing the shit that fits him best, whatever that means.
I pray to the big mechanic in the sky he never worries about that.
Stopping outside his bedroom, I crack the red painted door a little wider to sneak a peek of him in his crib but am surprised to see nothing but crinkled blankets.
Red crinkled blankets.
What the fuck?
Why are they red?
When did he get red blankets?
Where are the checkered racing pattern ones?
Did he puke on them again?
I give the door another glance during my exit, immediately noticing the shade is now much darker than I remember.
Why’d we pick this one?
Why’d we pick something that looks so much like blood?
Why didn’t we pick something closer to the classic sportscar color?
And why’s the Ferrari horse decal crooked?
Wait.
It’s not crooked.
It’s fucking broken.
Headless.
Headless?!
What. The. Fuck!
Why’s it headless?
When did it get that way?
Why would The Kid not fix this shit the second he saw it?
Does he want our little guy to have haunting nightmares for years to come?!
Is it not bad enough that our wife still does?
Unhappy grunts reverberate throughout the short hall during my stomp to the end where our bedroom is located.
For now, it’s not so bad having his nursey close aka within an immediate retrieval distance.
When he gets a little older?
That shit’ll change.
We’ve already got the plan worked up.
He’ll need his space, and so will we for the same yet very different reasons.
I’m thinkin’ maybe we turn his current spot into a hobby room.
Maybe start putting together model cars.
Me, him, and Kid.
Have something that we can always do together.
No matter how old any of us get.
Seeing our door cracked just like our son’s was instantly has me pausing.
Because it shouldn’t be open.
Just like it shouldn’t be fucking red.
Why are all the doors in the house suddenly red?
Seriously, what the fuck is going on around here?
Did they wake up in the middle of the night to paint this shit, just to fuck with me?
Nudging the blockade with the edge of my boot reveals to me a sight that immediately drops me to my knees on a gut wrenching, “Noooooooooooooo!”
Blood from all three of my slaughtered family members unrelentingly drips from every surface.
Our bed.
Nightstands.
Windowsills.
Even the fucking air conditioner vent.
Taunts are scribbled on our headboard.
The walls.
The door.
Each direction my head wildly turns crimson colors coat whatever they can, turning what was once our paradise into something from my deepest, darkest, most disturbed nightmares.
Nightmares…
Nightmare!
The one word repeatedly echoes throughout my mind prompting my head to slowly shift from one side to the other, cheek scraping against a cold, hard, uneven surface.
Faint groans grow in numbers as nausea transitions into actual bile that burns up the back of my throat in search of an escape. Unfortunately, there isn’t much room for my jaw to lower due to the sticky barrier covering my mouth, leaving me with no choice but to clench my teeth.
Squeeze my eyes tighter.
Swallow the chunky, rancid mixture and keep swallowing until it’s returned to its origin.
Additional grumbles of discomfort are attached to the actions, but I push past them.
Force my eyes to open.
Focus.
Figure out where the fuck I am.
What the fuck happened.
How much more of me is restrained.
Despite the unbearable burning in my sinuses, I demand my blurry stare to get it together by blinking rapidly.
Command it to clear away the tears that are making my view hazy.
To let me see my surroundings.
Tiny slivers of moonlight make visually scouring the darkness possible; however, the gusts of cold air rushing across my scraped-up cheek insist on hindering the process.
They beg me to simply shut my eyes again and retreat inward where I can’t feel.
Or think.
An unexpected whimper instantly redirects my attention, prompting me to snap my face the opposite way, knowing the source of the sound better than any other in existence.
“ Kidddddd! ” rushes out bu t is effortlessly muted by the tape.
It’s unclear if my attempt is heard.
Fuck, it’s unclear if my attempt can even be heard.
His lack of movement pushes me to crane my face closer.
Study his chest in hopes of seeing it rise.
Fall.
Rise again.
Make any sort of movement that can provide me with a smidgen of fucking hope.
Hope that that noise wasn’t his last dying breath.
Hope that he’ll live.
Hope that he’ll let me see that mischievous glare I love so fucking much.
That bashful grin.
Anxious to have that hope grow, I grate the side of my face against the ground, determined to get a closer look, refusing to believe I’m lying next to his corpse rather than simply him in a momentarily incapacitated state.
The wind howls louder and harder and harsher scolding me for staring by igniting an ache deep in my ears and new stinging sensations in my eyes.
But I can’t look away.
I won’t.
Not until I know.
Not until I see something.
Fuck, anything.
“ ComeonKid, ” I quietly plead behind the tape. “ Openthoseeyesforme. ”
Nothing.
“ Openem. ”
Still.
Nothing.
“ Opennnnnthemmmm! ” Breathing is only done to collect more air for louder screaming. “ Fuckingggggopeennnnnthemmmmmm! ”
Yet again.
Nothing.
Not a twitch.
Not a flinch.
Not even an involuntary fucking spasm.
The lump of uneasiness in my throat begins to expand in tandem with summoning the previously shoved down bile back upward.
Tears collect in the corner of my eyes as I slowly shake my head in disbelief.
No.
No…
No!
He’s not dead!
He can’t be!
This isn’t how this shit ends!
This isn’t-
A second almost inaudible whimper occurs informing me that he is alive.
Barely.
But definitely.
New rounds of determination roar throughout my system, forcing me to resume my surveying.
See where that twisted bastard is.
How much time we have to get loose.
Our seemingly deserted surroundings encourage the settling discomfort to surge once more.
Where the fuck is he?
And where the fuck is Rabbit?!
Is she okay?!
Is she alive?!
Dread mercilessly latches onto my throat, threatening to pin me in place, but the need to properly check on Kid and get to our woman – who’s pregnant with our fucking child – propels me to whip my frame around.
Search for give in my bound hands.
Feet.
Finding neither is what flies me up to a sitting position where I lift my wrists high into the air above my head before slamming my elbows down, with all the momentum I can muster, past my ribcage, splitting the gray cuffing in two.
Because that’s the thing about duct tape.
It rips pretty fucking easy.
It was designed too.
And that design is why you shouldn’t use it when you’re hoping to keep someone bound for a long period of time.
Especially unattended.
Fucking moron.
Grateful to have range of motion in my wrists is expressed by a quick roll and the swift removal of the piece on my lips.
“ Fuck! ” is sharply whispered prior to a shake of the head.
Why do people pay for someone to do this shit?
What’s wrong with people?
Unraveling the sticky restraint from my lower half, I do my best to ignore the pounding in my skull that’s beginning to increase, knowing that it doesn’t matter.
No.
The only thing that matters right now is freeing him and finding her.
And I know we will.
She’s out there.
Alive.
There’s no fucking way she fought that fucker this long to only fight him this long.
She’d rather die than go back.
But we ain’t about to let that happen either.
She’s gonna live.
And so’s our little guy.
And I don’t give a fuck what she says.
She’s having a boy.
Finally able to move, I scurry the short distance over to my boyfriend, rip off the tape covering his mouth, and quietly inquire, “ Can you hear me, Kid? ”
His lack of response is only less terrifying thanks to the shallow breathing I can feel on the hand that’s lingering near his lips.
“ Come on, Kid… ” a gentle stroke to his cheek is delivered. “ Open your beautiful blue eyes for me. ” Another loving caress precedes me choking out the command again. “ Open those big blues for, Sir. ”
This time there’s weak fluttering of his lashes.
“ Come on, ” I encourage while lowering both of my hands to work on removing the tape from his wrists. “ Be my favorite, little, obedient fuck and open those eyes. ”
More movement.
A single lift.
“ You can do this, Kid. ” Ripping at the object grows in forcefulness.
“ You have to do this… ” Rage fuels my actions and strengthens my tone.
“ You have to wake up. ” Light sounds of the material successfully tearing revs the engine of hope all over again.
“ We have to save Rabbit. ” The instant his hands are free, I let one of mine cup his scruff covered face.
“ I need you. ” One light stroke doesn’t take long to become two. “ I can’t live without you. ”
Unlike in all of the stupid chick flicks we’ve seen over the years, his eyes don’t magically open.
Life isn’t instantly restored.
Instead, the howling wind screeches at a new octave as if laughing at me.
Mocking me.
My desperation.
Tears hastily rush to the brims of my lids and along the back of my throat causing my jaw to tremble in refusal to let them fall. Between the weight of disappointment and despondency, my head drops forward, unable to stay upright, unable to bear another ounce of dejection.
Air abandoning my lungs, grants permission for the tears in my eyes to begin their descent; however, mere seconds after they hit The Kid’s chest, the lightest tap to my arm is felt. “ You don’t have to, Sir. ”