31. Skye
“We’ve got her and can finish what we started.”
Voices and an intense pounding in my head wake me from a vivid dream involving Rogue. Unfortunately, my eyelids seem to be filled with lead and won’t open. Groaning, I reach for the nightstand on the side of my bed for some pain reliever, but my hand never makes contact. Stale moldy air fills my nostrils, and my nose twitches. It also occurs to me that my bed isn’t this uncomfortable.
Where am I? Did I fall asleep at the clubhouse? What the fuck happened?
Every unanswered question fuels my anxiety. I try to sit up, but vomit climbs up the back of my throat. Taking a few deep breaths, I wait for my stomach to settle before attempting to move again. Images flash through my mind, and the pain increases once more.
I remember driving to go see my?—
Oh, shit! Grandma.
My memories are hazy, but I do my best to sort through them in order to make sense of what’s happening and where I am. I’d been driving on highway one fifty-nine, on my way to Mountain Springs because the nursing home had called to say Grandma was sick and asking for me. But my car overheated, and I pulled over to figure out what was going on. I remember popping the hood and getting out to look under it. I didn’t make it to the front of the vehicle though because my nose and mouth were covered from behind by something sweet-smelling.
I couldn’t breathe.
My eyes flutter open, but dark spots dance around in my vision. I rub my temples to alleviate the tension, and it helps a little. Glancing around the room, I see there’s a sketchy plastic accordion door in front of me, and a dim light filters through the flimsy barrier. The room itself is dark, but with that dim light, I’m able to see the platform bed I’m on. The mattress is lumpy, and the springs are poking up in some places.
The plastic door is ripped open, and the sound of feet shuffling across the floor breaks the silence.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
I squint in an effort to make out the newcomer, but when the light is turned on, I squeeze my eyes shut against the threatening headache. Forcing myself to open them and look my captor in the face, I’m shocked when I realize it’s someone I recognize.
“Hey, I know you,” I comment, my mouth dry as cotton.
“I’d hope so,” the man sneers. “I’ve only been a regular customer at Purgatory for two years and some change.”
As I stare at him, my brain sorts through all the information I contain until his identity clicks into place.
“You’re Jared, Waylon’s friend,” I say, my tone full of the shock I’m feeling. “You took me? But why?”
He remains near the doorway and sneers. “Didn’t have a choice. You ruined everything!”
Jared creeps closer, and without thinking, I kick him in the chest. Luckily, I’m wearing my Shitkickers, and they pack a punch. The breath whooshes out of Jared’s lungs, but it doesn’t stop him. His hand whips out and grabs my ankle to pull me to the floor. The wind is knocked out of me, but there’s no time to focus on that because in an instant, Jared is standing over me and pulling my hair to force me to look up. My already throbbing head screams in protest.
“I was going to be gentle.” he snarls as he leers at me, his eyes focused on the now undone buttons of my top. “But now I’m thinking you want me to be rough.” His insinuation is clear.
“If you touch me, I will gut you.”
With his sights focused on my chest, I slowly and carefully reach into my pocket, watching him intently for any sign that he realizes what I’m doing. I sigh with relief when I grip the familiar handle.
Thank God, he didn’t search me.
“What are you smiling about?”
“This!”
Whipping the butterfly knife open, I stab it into his thigh. Jared howls in pain and stumbles, crashing into the wall. Shuffling backward like a crab to get out of his reach, I twist to get to my hands and knees and push off the floor. Unfortunately, I’m too occupied with getting away from him that I don’t see a second person enter the room until it’s too late.
Crack!
My cheek throbs, and I sink to the floor.
“Damn it, J.”
I know that voice.
Gently rubbing my stinging flesh, I look up at my assailant. “Waylon,” I say accusingly. “Why am I not surprised? So much for the benefit of the doubt.”
“She fucking stabbed me,” Jared wails from behind us.
“I see that,” Waylon retorts. “Why didn’t you fucking search her?”
“I got her phone,” Jared whines.
“I told you she carries.”
“I was looking for a gun!”
Waylon pinches the bridge of his nose. “For such a smart guy, you’re really fucking dumb.” He reaches down, yanks me off the floor, and pushes me into a chair. Pulling a gun out of his waistband, he points it directly at my chest. “Are we gonna have any more problems?”
“No,” I grit through my teeth.
Never bring a knife to a gun show. That mantra taunts me, but I remind myself that, in this instance, at least one of my assailants is incapacitated. Waylon secures my hands tightly behind me with zip ties, practically cutting off the circulation, and repeats the process around my ankles.
Jared hobbles over to a small table that’s situated under a window. Scanning the room, I realize we’re in a trailer of some kind, possibly an RV. It’s hard to tell because my brain still isn’t firing on all cylinders. We could be anywhere, and there’s no way anyone will notice I’m missing until I don’t show up for work.
“Fuck!” Jared screams.
I shift my gaze just in time to see Waylon yank my knife out of Jared’s leg. Blood oozes out of the wound. I got him right in the fleshy part of his thigh. There won’t be too much damage, but he’ll definitely be feeling it for a long time.
Too bad I didn’t hit an artery.
“Quit yelling in my goddamn ear,” Waylon sneers. “Take off your belt. I’m gonna have to make a tourniquet.”
Jared unbuckles his belt and removes it. Before he hands it to Waylon, he whips his hand out, and the belt becomes an extension of his arm which he aims directly at me. The leather cuts into my flesh just below my eye.
“Son of a bitch!” I screech.
“Doesn’t feel so good, does it bitch?” Jared cackles like a maniac.
“Great, now her fucking face is bleeding,” Waylon mumbles as he ties the belt above the wound on Jared’s leg.
Blurriness clouds my vision, and it takes a minute for it to register that my eye is swelling shut. Liquid drips down my face, but with my hands secure, I can’t reach up and wipe it away.
Waylon steps over to the sink and turns on the water before stomping over to me with a rag. I jerk my head back, but his hand grips my neck tightly, holding me in place.
“Hold still,” he snaps. “I can’t have Rogue seeing you bleed. It’s bad enough your face is all bruised up.”
“It’s your own damn fault.” I pause. “You and dumbass over there.”
Waylon’s grip tightens around my neck, and I whimper. “You might still get out of this alive if you cooperate. I’d try to be a little nicer to us if I were you.”
“You stole the money,” I accuse.
“Not quite.” He shrugs with a smirk. “I simply provided the opportunity.”
“Why? Stealing from an MC… that’s suicide.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You forgot to factor in one thing.”
“What?”
“You.”
He’s nuts.
“Pinning it on me won’t work. The club knows the truth.”
“They know you didn’t do it, but they don’t know that I had anything to do with it.” His lip curves into a sinister smile as he continues. “You see, the trail leads back to Jared here, but guess what? He doesn’t really exist. Well, he does but only on paper which he’ll make disappear as soon as we get our score.”
“The club will find you,” I fire back.
“No, they won’t. They’ll pay the ransom for you. And when they do, we’ll either let you live to see your grandma and Rogue, or you’ll meet your maker.”
Grandma! He set this whole thing up… Mother fucker! I’ll kill him.
“You called me?”
Waylon chuckles. “Guilty.”
He steps back and pulls a cell phone out of his pocket. “There are a few ground rules. One, you only speak when I point at you. Two, if you even utter our names or give Rogue any indication that it’s us behind all this, I will drive to the nursing home and end your precious grandma myself… right after I plant a bullet in your head.” He rocks back on his heels and aims the phone’s camera at me. “That’s it. Now smile,” he instructs. “We wouldn’t want Rogue to think we’re not being gracious hosts.”
I roll my good eye. “Yeah, because my swollen eye and cheek wouldn’t make him think otherwise. Besides, he knows your voice, genius.”
“Collateral damage.” Waylon shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll understand. As for my voice, I got that covered.” He picks a device up off the table and holds it close to his mouth. “Now, let’s make a video.”
Waylon’s voice sounds distorted, and any hope I had of Rogue finding me deteriorates. My brow furrows, and I straighten my spine in determination as Waylon speaks into the voice disguiser.
One way or another, I won’t allow Rogue to pay a ransom for me. I’ll get out of this and make it right.
I’m not his cross to bear.