Chapter Twenty-Six

 

RYAN

 

It takes a long time before they finally let me out. Long enough that my body's started to realize that it's not supposed to hurt all the time, and it's decided to lodge a formal protest.

I force myself to move again. The blood moving back into my limbs hurts, like a fire burning at my fingers and toes. I try to rub the pain out of them as best I can, but I have to be honest with myself and admit that it's not going to stop hurting any time soon.

They've got my number. They told me so, more than once. I slip my phone out of my pocket. I know I wasn't wearing these pants when they'd hung me up for the beatings that I took, so I don't need to wonder whether or not they've gone through the phone.

I can safely assume that they have. I run through to see if there's anything obvious. There isn't. They turned the phone off, and as it boots back up I slip it back into my pocket. No clues here.

I slip my leg over the bike's seat and kick it to life. It doesn't complain. She never complains, not any more. I like to think that the old girl knows how much work I put into her, and doesn't want to come off as pushy after all these years.

She hums happily beneath me as I ride back out of the industrial park, and get on the road back to my apartment. It's not a long drive, but my entire body hurts, and I can barely see straight.

The drive takes twice as long as it needs to because I'm too afraid to fall off the son of a bitch, or let some crazy fuck hit me, so I go slower than I should.

I pull up in front of the house and try to get myself off the back of the bike. My foot doesn't raise high enough, and my toe catches, sending me falling hard to the concrete.

I push myself up. Nothing worse than I dealt with the rest of the day. It's almost over. I take a deep breath. Almost over. Then I'll be able to start trying to recover. I can only hope that it helps, because the way the day's been going so far, I need something to be going for me.

The door comes unlocked nice and smooth. It had better do, the lock is new. Had to replace it only a week ago, for the tenth time this year already. Some part of me considers moving in near Logan. He's always talked about how much nicer his neighborhood is.

Another part of me doesn't want to. More than that, with the question of leaks. I don't want to be close enough to be able to confirm my suspicions.

I slump down into the sofa. It's a good sofa, I think. Good for naps. Just long enough to lay out flat, with my head on the armrest. Just the right height for it. I close my eyes and try to relax.

Sleeping on a bed, I figure, would just hurt more at this point, as my body tries to find the most comfortable position, and in-so-doing, finds and catalogs every hurt bone in the whole thing.

A voice in the back of my head tells me I should go to a hospital. That's not going to happen, though. Hospitals ask a lot of questions, and whether they get their answers or not, whether I give them their answers or not, they're not shy about sharing their thoughts with the cops.

No, I need to be able to stay as free and clear as possible, and if things are going the way that Davis says they're going, then I can be sure that if things go bad, I can always get the cops to take me on Monday.

They'll have to, won't they?

I quiet the thoughts in my head. Eyes closed. The room is dark all around me. No light to set me off. My head's comfortable. The sofa's got soft arms. Not as soft as a pillow, but good enough to lay my head down.

My body feels like it's floating. Every inch of it is covered in pins and needles, and I can't stop hurting, but I can let myself slip easily, comfortably into sleep.

I can almost feel myself drifting off. My mind starts to wander. To happier places, to happier memories. To this morning. I can feel myself growing hard at the thought of how I spent last night.

Even still, my mind wanders, further and further afield, until—a noise wakes me up. I don't know if I've been asleep long, but it's still dark outside. The digital clock on the wall is hard to read in the darkness, but I can almost make out where it reads '4:15'.

I lay my head back down. Houses make noise, I remind myself. Nothing to get worried or upset over. It's nothing.

The noise comes again. Someone's outside, I realize. I suck in a deep breath and push myself up. I have to stifle a pained groan as I turn over.

There's a pistol in a drawer over by the wall. I get it out, nice and easy. Someone's outside, and they're fiddling with locks. I can hear it, clear as day.

The light outside never turns off, so I'll have a better angle on whoever is out there, than they have on me. I sidle up to the back window and look out. Nobody there. Whoever is coming in, they're only at the front.

That doesn't sound like cops. I move up to the front windows and check the street anyways. A car. One I recognize.

I don't let Davis in. If she wanted in, then she'd knock, or she'd call. Whoever is out there, they're driving Davis's car. She might even be with them. But she's not in control of the situation.

I work the slide on the pistol and flip off the safety. Then I get myself in a good, protected position, and I wait. I don't have to wait long.

The whole thing might have taken sixty seconds, which is slow for anyone, but then again I've been robbed enough times that I splurged on a better lock. That they get in at all means I should get my money back.

The first one in is Davis. She's got her gun drawn, but she keeps it low. Off-line. If she was trying to kill me, then she'd have come in hot. Next is the big guy. The bruiser.

He's got his gun up. They might have talked, but they haven't come to an understanding on whether or not they're shooting to kill. I don't have the luxury of questioning it.

Davis can't bring her pistol up fast enough to tag me as I move across the doorway, but she can say something. She doesn't see me, or she keeps her mouth shut.

I can thank her later for the fact that her friend hasn't heard me come in. With the light shining down on them, neither one has night-vision, but I can barely handle the dim light shining into the room from the porch light.

It means that when I catch the big guy in the gut with my shoulder, he doesn't see it coming until it's too late, and by then he's on the ground.