Chapter 22 #2
The man opened a maintenance closet, stepped in and locked the door behind them. As he put DJ on the ground and squatted next to him, DJ did his most credible panic slash asthma attack ever, hacking from the smoke that was swirling through the hallways.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just breathe, Dorian.”
DJ blinked at him blearily. “You risked your life to get me out of there. Thanks. And thanks for helping get people onto the stage.”
He hadn’t done that for any reason other than having access to DJ, but that didn’t matter to the people he’d helped.
Stalker Guy stared at him. His face was blurry.
DJ strained to bring it in focus. Would he buy that DJ hadn’t figured it out, that the drug had made him forget the guy had kicked him in the stomach?
DJ making it more difficult to get down the hall could be a disorientation thing, not active resistance.
“Hell, my head feels like it’s about to fall off.
When they say smoke can kill you, they mean it. We need to get out of here.”
“Yeah,” the man said. His voice was bland, no accent. Not high, but not deep. Forgettable. “I know the way. Lean on me, Dorian. I’ll get you to an exit.”
“Okay.” DJ bent over, wheezing, and felt the guy’s touch on his back. He put out his own hand to clasp the stalker’s helping one, and received an encouraging look, one laced with deep gratitude.
He was helping Dorian James. Saving Dorian James.
Feed the guy’s illusions. It had been one of Roy’s most emphatic instructions if he got DJ alone. That, and, do everything you can not to be taken to a different location.
Not leaving the building wasn’t an option if it was on fire, but DJ would figure it out when he got to the street. Except he had a bad feeling the drug was going to make him pass out before long. Once that happened, he wouldn’t be able to track where he was being taken.
He needed to do something to counter his impaired coordination.
The solution wasn’t something he looked forward to doing, but DJ took account of his surroundings.
When he reached for a nearby shelf, presumably to help his balance, he staggered, letting one foot go out from under him.
A sharp edge from machinery stored on the shelf sliced across his palm.
He cried out at the pain, but triumph came with the flood of adrenaline.
Good as an epi pen, at least for a few moments.
“What did you do?” The man snatched it. “Christ, Dorian. You need someone to watch over you every minute.”
“That’s what they tell me.” DJ put his sleepy sweetness into the half smile that Roy said made him almost irresistible.
Who was Roy kidding? It made him completely irresistible.
His stalker, aka rescuer aka nutjob, was a decent-looking guy in his forties, the attractive quality mainly because of the physique.
Some acne scarring made him look tougher.
Blue eyes, brown hair, cut short. He had on a roadie ballcap.
That and the coveralls made him look like a maintenance man, but also gave him pockets to hide the things he needed.
Like whatever the hell drug he’d injected into DJ’s system.
He was wearing thick-soled rubber shoes.
He’d found a utility sink and pulled DJ over to it, putting his hand under the flow of water. There were several possible options here, but DJ, fuzzy as he was, discarded them. He couldn’t beat the guy toe-to-toe. His best advantage was him thinking DJ didn’t know who he was.
“Gotta…write it down.” DJ fumbled at his jeans pocket. “Lyric, in my head.”
“What? Now?”
“What better time to write…song, than in an emergency?” DJ laughed and shoved at the guy.
“We’re partners, man. Partners in the chaos.
What’s name. What is your name?” He had to work to enunciate.
“What the hell is wrong with me? Must be the smoke. Or something I smoked, before the show.” He laughed again. “Name…dude.”
“Paul.”
“Nice…meet you. I think I’m going to pass out.”
“You might. But it doesn’t last very long.”
“What…the effect of the smoke?”
“I’m sorry, Dorian, but I won’t tolerate you pretending with me.” Paul withdrew a Taser from one of those pockets and pressed it to DJ’s chest.
Holy God. He hit the floor like a doll flung down by a pissed-off child, every muscle in his body seizing.
Thank fuck Paul didn’t follow him with it, but he did lean over to study DJ’s distorted face.
His eyes darkened at the odd moaning noise DJ was making.
It pissed DJ off that tears were seeping from his eyes.
Paul wiped them away for him, carefully.
“You will behave with me. Which means you’ll tell me the truth, and mind your manners. I can care for you better that way. Nod if you understand.”
Nodding hurt like hell, but he managed it.
“I would like it if you said “Yes, Sir.”
DJ was pretty sure he was going to throw up. The avid way the man looked at him said he had a whole daddy-son thing going on, with a sexual component that made it all the more nauseating.
“Kiss my ass.”
He didn’t want him pretending; fine, he wouldn’t pretend.
Paul’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t retaliate.
Instead, he hefted DJ like a rolled-up rug again and dumped him into a cart, like what a housecleaning staff used for linens.
It told DJ the choice of closet hadn’t been random.
A dark blanket landed over him, then was piled with things that felt like equipment and props that got transported wherever needed for the events.
Cables, boxes, but nothing so heavy it was uncomfortable. Just concealing.
“Take a nap. You’ve already noticed that drug has a paralytic agent that affects your coordination and how loudly you can talk.
It’s not permanent, I promise. We’ll talk when we get to your new home.
” A touch of excitement came through Paul’s voice, muffled though it was, making DJ’s stomach heave again.
“I can’t wait to show you how I’ve set up your room. ”
A vision of cages and restraints, not the good kind, went through his head. DJ wasn’t going to let fear take over. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, and he had a brain. He also had a formidable weapon in his arsenal to keep him calm.
Utter and absolute faith in Roy.
He wouldn’t disrespect his Master by allowing even a hint of fear through. He was never going to see that room, it was never going to become part of his nightmares. Roy was going to find him.
The cart bounced along the hallway. He heard screaming, more pounding feet, as Paul took the cart near more populated exits.
DJ pushed his thumb into the wound in his hand, the resulting pain electrifying his nervous system.
But he found Paul was right. A rasping whisper or whimpering moan was his current vocal range.
Wait. He fumbled in his pocket and found the wire cutters he used for his guitar strings.
They were foldable, so they didn’t take up much room.
Paul had dumped him into the cart headfirst, so DJ thought he was closer to the front of it.
Pushing from the back, Paul couldn’t see that angle, and the cart had canvas sides.
DJ fought the drug by stabbing his hand with the cutters this time.
When he thought he was planted on a narrow ledge of clarity, at least for the next few moments, he started to grind and jab the cutters against the canvas.
When they punched through, his vision wavered from the jolt, like a TV with a bad signal.
No. You will not pass out. You will not.
He did, but just for a few seconds. When he roused, the cutters were no longer in his hand. He’d dropped them. He pushed away the frustration and surge of panic, and felt around. Most of his body felt numb.
The noise of people was all around him and he didn’t have the strength to struggle out from under the blanket.
He still couldn’t get more than a rasp past his lips, and there was too much noise going on—sirens, yelling—for anyone to hear him.
Goddamn it. He’d barely been able to wheeze out that “kiss my ass” earlier. But Paul had said it was temporary.
Paul spoke to a cop, telling him he was taking the equipment to an exit, to get it outside. The cop gave him a brief, terse lecture on why his life was more important than anything in the building, but the cart moved forward, so he was letting Paul take it with him.
The hole. Get your damn fingers out the hole.
If he could just find it. DJ slid both hands over the canvas, trying to be methodical about it, not racing in circles like a panicked camper in the woods.
There. He got a finger through, then two, and he started wiggling them.
It might be the world’s most pitiful attempt to be noticed, but maybe someone would see it.
Someone running to get out of the building? A cop or firefighter?
No, they’d be trying to get people out. No one would be looking for something as subtle as that.
Except for the person who’d be looking for DJ like a rabid bloodhound, having his people watch all exits, watching for any out of place detail. The smoke smell was still there, and it was getting stronger, so Paul had to be heading for an exit.
Or not. Shit, they were back in a quiet area. The cart stopped with a jerk.
“I told you, Dorian,” Paul said reasonably. “I’m sorry for this.”
Abruptly, Paul’s hand clamped around DJ’s two exposed fingers. He snapped the bones with an efficient, way-too- knowledgeable twist. DJ screamed, a harsh sound. He couldn’t pull enough breath into his lungs and choked.
“If you behave, I might set those for you. If you don’t, I might wait a few days.
” A note of menace crept into the creepily reasonable flow of words.
Paul had taken the Kathy Bates’ Misery playbook to heart.
“Try to signal anyone again, DJ, and I will kill them. They don’t mean anything to me.
A fourteen-year-old girl crushing on you. A cop. A fireman. Anyone.”