Chapter Twenty-Four
A low growl woke him.
Ricky rolled over in bed. The room spun.
What the hell?
He should’ve never drunk that tequila.
Damn.
He licked his lips. Scowled at the bad taste in his mouth.
“Satan!” He waited, listened. The dog didn’t come. “Shit.” Ricky sat up. The taste of tequila and bile rushed up into his throat. He had to hold his head. Felt like it was going to bust wide open.
Wood flopped against wood, telling him Satan had lunged out the dog flap he’d installed in the back door. He must’ve heard or smelled something outside.
Ricky gave it another minute in hopes that the room would stop spinning. Then he staggered to his feet.
“Whoa. Hell.” He hadn’t gotten this wasted in a long time.
It was her fault. That crazy bitch was asking questions.
Two of his hos had come to him tonight. They’d been scared to death that the new doctor was trying to get in Ricky’s shit by using them.
He’d bellowed and pushed the hos around a little, just to keep them scared and knowing who was boss.
Then he’d threatened to let Satan loose on ’em if they went to that clinic again when CJ was there.
Wouldn’t be no more of that business.
Tomorrow he was going to show CJ Patterson what she got for screwing with his hos. He’d start with her rental car. He owed it to her, anyway. She and her sister had screwed up his Camaro that time. He never had gotten his payback for that.
Then maybe he’d burn her damn house down with her in it.
She wouldn’t give him no more trouble then.
Dumb bitch.
He dragged on his jeans, stumbled around getting them up.
Satan was outside raising all kinds of hell.
Ricky hadn’t fed the dog in two days except that one piece of meat.
Maybe he’d eat his fill of whoever was messing around outside.
He grabbed the Glock from under his pillow and shoved it into his waistband.
People knew better than to come around his place.
If it was that bitch Patterson, he hoped Satan ripped out her holier-than-thou heart. Serve her right, coming back here acting like she was better. She’d cut her teeth in this hellhole just like him.
He didn’t have no real beef with CJ. But she’d gone too far now. Asking questions, getting in his business.
He wasn’t about to let her get him killed.
Tyrone would only stand for so much bullshit, then he would make them both sorry.
Hardheaded bitch. He’d warned her.
He padded barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen. Drawing back the shitty curtain his aunt had had for a hundred years, he squinted to see what the hell Satan was after. The dog was jumping and barking at something in that big old pecan tree.
What the hell was hanging from that branch?
Looked like . . .
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Ricky whirled around. Reached for his weapon.
He felt two tiny pings on his chest.
What the hell?
An electrical charge ripped through him. His muscles jerked, twitched.
He hit the floor.
He wanted to scream . . . couldn’t.
Wanted to fight back . . . couldn’t.
Electricity roared through his body.
Every part of him twitched and jerked.
He bit his tongue, tasted the blood.
Lights exploded behind his eyes.
Ricky roused. He licked his lips. Tasted metal.
Smelled something nasty . . . had he shit himself?
He told his eyes to open. Couldn’t make it happen.
His body felt heavy. He wanted to move. Couldn’t do it for nothing.
He could hear Satan growling and snarling. He wanted to call out to the dog . . . couldn’t do that either.
Slowly, he managed to make his lids slide upward.
The stained ceiling confirmed that he was in his house.
On the floor. Kitchen. The battered linoleum felt cool beneath his back.
What the hell happened to him?
He tried to lift his right arm again.
Too heavy . . . or maybe something held it down.
He concentrated hard on turning his head to the right. Finally it rolled in that direction. His arm was stretched out, his palm up. What the hell was in his hand? He tried to lift it, pain shot up his arm.
He worked at moving his other arm. Rolled his head that way to see. His left arm was extended away from his body, palm up, just like his right. Something in that hand too.
He lifted his head, stared at his legs. His legs were spread apart. He was naked. There was something around his ankles, pinning him to the floor. He couldn’t move them; when he tried, it hurt like hell.
Wait. He dragged his gaze back up to his hips. What was that stuff all over his pelvis? Dark . . . reddish.
Blood?
Had he been bleeding?
Shit! Had someone cut off his dick?
He wiggled, tried to get free.
A scream echoed in the room.
Pain exploded in his hands and arms, his feet and legs. That was when he realized the screaming was coming from him.
He coughed. Almost choked on his own spit.
He raised his head again, tried to see. Was his dick still there?
There was something sticky on his chest. When he looked down, his chin touched his chest and he could feel it. He struggled to focus his blurry gaze. More blood.
Shit!
He tried wiggling again. But his body was so heavy.
Drugs. Somebody had drugged him. Wait. He remembered his body convulsing, the shock . . . like electricity zapping him hard.
Taser. Somebody had Tasered him.
Son of a bitch.
He tried to look around the room. Couldn’t see anybody. The light over the stove was on . . . it was dim but he could see a little. Somebody had to be here.
“I will kill you!” he warned. “You’ve messed with the wrong guy.”
Satan was scratching at the front door.
“That’s right, boy,” Ricky shouted to his dog, “come on in here. Satan will eat your ass up!” he told whoever was listening. “Yeah, you hide, assholes, you’re dead anyway.”
Ricky tried to look back toward the living room. He couldn’t tilt his head back far enough to see.
“Come on, boy!”
Why didn’t the stupid mutt come through the dog flap? He had to have gotten out that way. He knew how to get back in.
And where the hell were Tyrone’s zombie soldiers? Ricky knew who had done this. Tyrone wanted to show him who was in control. Twisted bastard. Just wait. When Ricky got his hands on that—
The tv suddenly blared to life, the volume loud.
“Hey!” Ricky shouted.
The front door opened.
He stilled.
The screen door slammed, the wood-against-wood sound echoing above the television.
Then all the pieces fell into place for Ricky.
Satan bounded into the room, growling, snarling.
“Still!” Ricky shouted.
The dog didn’t listen. He was in a frenzy.
“Still!” Ricky squeaked as the dog circled him.
He should’ve fed that damned dog before he went to bed.
“Satan! Still!”
The dog sniffed the blood. Lapped at it.
Ricky’s body started to quiver.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Still!”
The wide tongue lapped faster.
Ricky struggled. Tried to jerk his hands free. Pain speared through his palms.
“Still!”
Teeth sank into Ricky’s skin. He screamed. The harder he fought, the more vicious the attack.
He turned his face away. Satan’s huge mouth clamped down on Ricky’s throat. He screamed; the sound was weak. He tried to get away. His skin ripped—blood spurted in the dog’s face, across Ricky’s chest.
Ricky went limp. He could feel the blood gushing from his body, Satan’s teeth tearing out plugs of flesh.
The blackness closed in on him until all he could see was that stain on the kitchen ceiling.
His lips formed the word still.
But he never heard the sound.