Chapter 16
Nash
Waking up has been the worst part of all of this.
When sleep comes, despite the wounds on my body, I’ve been able to take some solace in the fact that maybe when I close my eyes it will be the last time, maybe I won’t wake to another day of abuse and torture.
I clench my fists, my pain not as bad as it has been but still enough to tell me I’m alive.
Something’s different. The fabric at my back doesn’t make sense. Pirro was never one to offer any sort of amenities.
I can recall the doctor and the shots, him telling me he drugged me. Everything after is a blank slate. I try to open my eyes, considering that I may have been sold. As much as I’d like to think it could mean I’ve ended up in a better place, I know better. Losing my usefulness is bad news.
I cough twice, trying to scratch the itch at the back of my throat, but nothing seems capable of reaching it.
“Water?”
I jerk my head to the side, pulling my face back in an effort to avoid danger.
“Angel?”
I blink rapidly, but the man doesn’t disappear. It does help the room come into focus. I don’t know how I should feel about the sterile place. It should come as a relief. I should cry tears of happiness that, by some miracle, I’ve been rescued from the clutches of Raul Cortez’s men.
Angel lifts my hand, shoving a pink, plastic cup into it. The straw tries to dart away from my mouth, but rather than wasting time chasing it, I press my lips directly to the side of the cup and drain the entire thing.
“The doctor said you’re dehydrated, but they got you hooked up to that shit.”
I follow the point of his finger to the IV bags hanging from the pole.
“They fucked you up pretty badly.”
I scoff, as if I wasn’t aware of exactly what happened to me, but then I look down at my body, having no fucking clue what happened after I was drugged. I guess it’s easily possible with a doctor there that they took some of my fucking organs.
“Why are you looking so swollen and irritated?” I ask because I may lose my shit if he’s pissed that he’s here.
I don’t fucking need anyone to sit at the fucking bedside and make sure I’m okay.
“I’m not going to apologize if that’s what you’re after,” he says, his tone flat and unaffected, a complete contradiction to the look that was previously on his face.
“I don’t need fucking apologies. Why are you even here?”
Angel tilts his head, and I stiffen at the sight of the two men standing across the room. So much for being a fucking expert, capable of assessing a situation. I didn’t even notice the two goons.
The leather cuts are a little “look at me”, but to each their fucking own.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snap, my voice weaker than I’d like, considering these guys aren’t exactly looking like friends.
The biggest tattooed motherfucker steps forward, his chest patch reading PRESIDENT, and KINCAID right under it.
“We’re wondering the same about you,” he says, instead of answering my question.
“They’re not so sure that you weren’t part of Cortez’s group,” Angel says, his tone dry as if he’s had this conversation numerous times already.
“Have you seen what they did to me?” I snap, unwell to waste the energy jerking the covers back to reveal my wounds. I have no intention of trying to test the limits of the pain meds I’ve been given, and I don’t owe these motherfuckers anything. “I was their captive, not one of them.”
I know that I’m here because the men who had me are dead.
From what I can gather, these men, along with Angel, came into the compound where I was being held and managed to get me out.
That means people are dead. Men like Pirro and Cortez don’t just hold their hands up and allow their possessions to be taken.
I wonder what things would look like for me if Pirro had opted to give me a job after that last poker game rather than imprisoning me.
“That tattoo on the back of your neck is the only thing keeping you alive,” the tattooed president spits. “If we get word you were a part of what was going down—”
“You’ll what?” I challenge, trying not to wince as I attempt to sit up straighter in the bed.
The man shakes his head as he looks at me. “Fucking mercenaries.”
He leaves the room, the other guy on his team following him out.
A massive three-headed dog covers the leather on both of their backs, the bottom rocker reading Farmington, New Mexico, the top one declaring them the Cerberus MC.
“They’re a long way from home,” I mutter when the door finally closes.
“You don’t want to be on those fuckers’ radars,” Angel says, his body relaxing a little as he slouches in his chair.
I didn’t even notice the tension in his spine until he released it.
“They’re the fucking good guys. The mostly by the book guys. They’re allowed to break the rules on occasion but thumb their fucking noses at those doing good if they’re only doing it for a paycheck.”
I look around the bed for one of those buttons that can be pushed to administer pain meds, but come up empty.
“Where the fuck are we?”
“Monterrey,” he answered. “Tell me what happened.”
My eyes squeeze shut. Just the thought of talking about any of it makes my skin crawl.
“They drugged me. Did they take my organs?”
Silence fills the room, a wave of dread filling me as I roll my head on the pillow and look at him.
“How bad is it?”
I’m not connected to any machines other than the IV, but I’m not exactly a fucking medical professional. I don’t know what I can live without.
“The doctor didn’t mention any missing organs, just a bunch of fucking cuts and shit.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, trying to convince my hands to stop trembling, but I’m a failure at that too.
“What happened?”
I hate that the man has the fucking gall to repeat his question.
“You were their captive once. You should know what happened.”
I can’t even look him in the eyes, shame for what I did feeling like a wet blanket over my face. It’s smothering and mentally torturing. I’d take a hundred more slashes to my skin if it meant not having to do what I did.
“What happened to me, and what I walked in on with the other guys, didn’t look like what I experienced several years ago,” Angel says. “I was tortured, cut up, tattooed just like you but—” He snaps his jaw closed.
“What did you walk in on?” I ask, not exactly sure I really want to know.
“They were making a fucking movie. You were laid out on the bed, and the woman—” He swallows, his eyes darting across the room. “The doctor said you were pumped full of horse tranquilizers and Viagra.”
“Is she okay?”
He tilts his head. “What?”
“Was she blond? Blue eyes?” I lift my hand and point to the left side of my chest. “A scar right here on her breast?”
“She was riding your cock while you were unconscious when we came into the room.”
“Is she safe?” I growl.
“I killed everyone in that room.”
All the air inside of me leaves my lungs, an emotion I’m not at all familiar with making my skin grow cold.
“I would’ve fucking killed her too if those goddamned Cerberus fuckers hadn’t shown up.”
I snap my gaze back in his direction. “She’s alive?”
He clenches his jaw. “She was fucking raping you.”
“They made both of us do some seriously fucked-up things.”
“They made you—”
“You’re not a fucking therapist,” I growl. “I’m not talking about this shit with you.”
“I’m just—”
“Why don’t you go first then, motherfucker. Tell me what it was like for you.”
His cheeks swell when he grinds his teeth together, his lips firmly closed. We stare at each other for a long moment before he settles the challenge with a single nod of his head.
“Cortez wasn’t there,” he says after a long moment. “We took out a lot of his men, but he’s got fucking houses like that all over Mexico and South America. Until he’s dead…” He shakes his head, but I know it’s not disappointment in me.
The man was hopeful he was finally going to be able to kill the monster of his own nightmares. Coming up short can’t be a very good feeling.
“They’re making videos, doing live feeds with sick fucks paying to witness it, control the narrative, that kind of shit,” I tell him.
“There’s a lot of money in shit like that,” he agrees.
I’m thankful he’s not looking at me. Being analyzed right now is the very last thing I need.
“You said you killed everyone in that room. Does that include Pirro?”
Angel shrugs. “It’s not like they had fucking IDs in their pockets.”
Angel is seeking Cortez, but Pirro is the fucking monster in my story.
“Big fucker,” I say, pointing to the right side of my face. “Scar going from here to here?”
A slow smile tugs up the corners of his mouth. “I blew that scar right off his fucking face.”
I nod, a thank you of sorts, still regretting I wasn’t the one who got to kill him like I’d vowed so many times.
“And the woman?”
“You say she was forced, but it didn’t look forced. Say the word and I’ve still got one in the chamber for her ass.”
“Angel.”
He holds his hands up. “If you change your mind, I’d prefer you change it quickly.
Cerberus is hard to hit on their own turf.
Their fucking clubhouse is like a goddamned fortress.
I bet Kincaid has over two dozen members by now.
Don’t let the fact that he’s old as hell fool you.
He’s as much a badass now as I imagine he was in his prime. ”
I shake my head. “Not going to change my mind. She did nothing wrong.”
“She was riding your cock while you were unconscious, moaning like a fucking whore.”
Heat rushes through my body at the suggestion that she felt some level of pleasure while they were forcing her to do what she was doing.
“Drop it,” I mutter as I close my eyes. I don’t need this man stepping up to seek any kind of vengeance for me, especially not against her. “Let me get some fucking sleep.”
He doesn’t say a word as he stands, closing the door softly behind him.