Page 7

Diesel

Dominic Rossi, the right-hand man of Victor Moretti, rains down punches upon me while wearing a sick smile on his face that grows wider with every bruising blow. Every break between blows comes with a promise that he’ll make it all stop if Hunter will just do what his boss wants and sign his brother’s trucking business over to Moretti.

Sometimes, when Hunter refuses, I get a break from the punishment while Dominic delivers a few punishing punches to my friend, until I collect my wits enough to remind Dominic that he’s uglier than any ‘before’ picture and that his gutter-rat family are all really disappointed in him.

That brings his attention back to me, exactly where it belongs.

“I like these little bonding sessions of ours,” I whisper at him as he rams his fist into my stomach. I could talk at a normal volume, but I’ve noticed it creeps him out when I whisper to him like a lover. “The physical closeness, the intimacy, just really getting to know you…”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, and smashes his elbow across my face.

I whip my head around and spit at him, landing a gob of snot and blood on his cheek.

It hardly fazes him; he’s gotten used to it by now.

Another blow — this time a punch that knocks my chair over and has me flat on my back, staring up at Dominic’s puckered-asshole mouth as he glowers at me — shuts me up.

Dominic raises his foot above me and glares at Hunter. “If you want to spare your friend, all you need to do is sign the papers and give Moretti what he wants. That’s it. Otherwise, you can watch as I stomp the life out of your buddy.”

In that moment, I see something sickening in my friend’s eyes: doubt. He’s wavering.

I can’t let that happen.

"Don't you dare, Hunter," I croak, my voice raspy from the beating. "Don't give this limp-dicked civilian shit-sucker the satisfaction."

Dominic's foot hovers above my face, his eyes darting between Hunter and me. I can see the wheels turning in his head, wondering if he's finally broken us.

But I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot.

“Remember who the fuck you are, Hunter. Fucking Hooah, motherfucker,” I snarl. “Don’t you fucking surrender, brother. Don’t even fucking think about it.”

More silence. More doubt in Hunter’s eyes. I have to do something.

"You know what, Dominic?" I manage a weak chuckle. "Your foot smells worse than your breath. And that's saying something."

Dominic’s face contorts with rage, and for a moment, I think he's going to bring his foot down. Instead, he steps back, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

"You think you're tough, don't you?" He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, gleaming object. A knife. “There’s a reason they call me ‘Butcher.’”

“Is it because you’re always looking to handle some meat?”

Dominic's eyes narrow, his knuckles whitening as he grips the knife tighter. "You won't be so mouthy when I'm done with you."

I can hear Hunter straining against his bonds, the chair creaking under his efforts. "Leave him alone, you sick bastard!” He shouts.

But Dominic's focus is solely on me now. He crouches down, bringing the blade close to my face; my bloody, beaten face stares back at me in the polished steel.

"You know," I rasp, "I've always wondered what it'd be like to get a close shave from a professional. Though I gotta say, your hand seems a little shaky there, Dom. Are you nervous?"

His response is to press the chilly edge of the blade against my cheek. I feel a thin line of warmth as it breaks the skin.

He sneers at me. "Let's see how funny you are when I carve you up."

I steel myself for what's coming, but before Dominic can make good on his threat, the thumping beats to a vaguely familiar song plays from Dom’s pocket. He freezes, indecision on his face — carve me up, or answer the phone?

Grumbling, he slips the knife away and reaches into his pocket. The phone still playing that song that tickles the edges of my memory.

“Oh, fuck, is that the ‘Backstreet Boys’? It sounds like that one song: ‘Everybody,’” I say.

“It fucking is,” Hunter says. “Good choice, Dom.”

“Shut the fuck up, or I will cut out your tongues,” he says, his eyes on the screen. Then he answers it and puts it to his ear just as he heads toward the door. I hear him say, “Yes, boss?” before the door shuts behind him.

“How you hanging in there?” Hunter says once the door closes.

I shrug, and everything hurts; my body is one large bruise held together by broken bits underneath my skin that once used to be bones, but may never heal to be bones again. I’m sure I have internal bleeding, one of my kidneys may be fucked, and there’s a throbbing in my midsection that tells me my liver is very mad at me, which means it’ll be a long time before I can safely drink alcohol again.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I can do this all night. Again.”

“Like fuck you are,” Hunter says. “This guy knows his shit.”

“This guy ain’t shit. My prom date’s dad did a worse number on me.”

“I thought you never went to prom?”

“I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a date that night. Rosa Santiago. We never left her driveway before we started fucking. Her asshole daddy interrupted us just as we got going for round three and bashed me up like I was a pinata at the mother of all quinceaneras. Truth is, I’m kind of glad about that, because I never bought us prom tickets, either.”

“You what? Really?”

I laugh. “I never told you that? Fuck, yeah, never bought tickets. Cause I knew we were fucking before we got to prom. Also knew that neither of our legs would work afterwards, so what’s the point of paying for tickets to dance when you won’t be able to even stand up?”

“Sometimes, Diesel, sometimes…”

“I amaze you with my brilliance? Yeah, I amaze myself all the fucking time. Live my life with a sense of wonder. It’s what keeps things fresh. Also makes me wonder why the fuck you’re even thinking of caving to this asshole’s piss-poor punches and threats? You going soft on me?”

Hunter sighs, the chains on his wrists rattling as he shifts in his chair. "I'm not caving, you idiot. I'm trying to buy us some time."

"Time for what? More of Dom's tender loving care?" I spit out a mouthful of blood, aiming for the floor, but mostly hitting my chest. "We've been here for days. No one's coming for us.”

"You don't know that," Hunter says, his voice low and intense. "We just need to hold out a little longer."

I laugh, wincing as the movement sends fresh waves of pain through my battered body. "Hold out for what? The cavalry? News flash, brother: we are the cavalry. Or we were, before we got our asses handed to us by a two-bit meth dealer and his goon squad."

Hunter's eyes narrow, and I can see that familiar spark of determination igniting in them. "Now I have to be the one to ask: are you giving up on me, Diesel?"

"Fuck no," I growl. "I'm just saying: if we're getting out of this, it's gonna be on us. No white knight is going to come swooping in to save our sorry asses."

As if on cue, the door swings open again, but instead of the Butcher, it’s the waitress, Samantha, who has a stunning set of tits, bewitching hazel eyes and, probably, a death wish, considering that she most definitely knows that this torture room is somewhere she should stay very far away from unless she wants to wind up in a chair beside us; she’s hot and crazy — definitely my type.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say. “Get the fuck out.”

She raises a finger to her lips and shushes me. “I’m here to help you idiots. Now stop arguing. We don’t have much time. I saw that big creepy guy storm out front and he’s in what looks like a long phone call with someone, so I came around back through the alley door. It’s unlocked, because I put tape over it earlier. Listen, I brought you both some things that might help.”

She reaches into her skimpy top and pulls out a small packet of ibuprofen. In her other hand, she’s holding a water bottle. “This should help with the pain.”

“Ibuprofen? That’s like putting a Band-Aid over a bullet wound,” I say.

“Well, I could just give you nothing and forget about you while the man in the parking lot beats you to death,” she says coolly. “How does that sound, Diesel? Would you like that?”

I blink. I’m both shocked and aroused, and feeling blood flowing to a place that definitely wasn’t swollen before. “Fair point. I’ll take the painkillers, please.” I open my mouth and she pops a couple pills into it, and then holds the bottle of water to my mouth. The pills go down in a gulp. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She rolls her eyes and then moves to give pills and water to Hunter. “Don’t flatter me. I’m just trying to do what I can for two people who clearly need some help. I wish there was more I could do,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth as she eyes Hunter and me. “I’m just… I’m really freaking terrified about what will happen to me if they find out about what I’m doing.”

“We appreciate it,” Hunter says. “Now, do you have anything else that can help us? Something that can get us out of these cuffs?”

Samantha hardly acknowledges the question; she blinks, but that’s it. There’s a deep look of fear consuming her hazel eyes. “They already suspect something, I know it. They’ve already made threats… Terrible threats.”

“Samantha, don’t worry. Hunter and I will not give Dominic the damn satisfaction of getting a single word out of us. Your secret is safe with us. Now, get out of here before…” I shrug my shoulders, intending to seem dismissive and hopefully put Samantha’s mind at ease, but the motion makes the handcuffs around my wrists rattle against the chair and I grin, because an idea’s just struck me harder than any punch that Dominic could ever hope to throw.

“What were you trying to say? You just stopped talking. Are you suffering brain damage?” She says.

“Every damn day. Listen… do you have a bobby pin on you?”

She nods and reaches into her luscious hair to pluck one free. “I do.”

“Perfect. Now, I need you to come over here and slip that into the keyhole of these cuffs. Can you do that for me? I’m going to give you a quick lesson on picking locks."

Samantha hesitates, her eyes darting nervously towards the door. "I don't know if I can. There isn’t much time."

"Listen," Hunter chimes in, his voice low and urgent. "If you want to really make a difference, this is how you do it."

She bites her lip, then nods and steps closer to me. Her hands shake as she inserts the pin into the lock.

"Now, just wiggle it around a bit," I instruct, trying to keep my voice calm for her sake. "You'll feel it catch on something inside."

“I don’t know….” she starts, then stops and shakes her head. “No. I can do this. I can. It’s just… I’m scared, Diesel.”

My name comes from her lips as fear radiates off her in waves, and her frozen fingers clutch the bobby pin like it’s a life raft in an ocean storm. Whatever Victor Moretti has threatened her with, whatever blackmail they have on her, it is beyond serious. It’s then I make a decision — I can’t put her in any more danger; this can’t turn into Brandy all over again.

“Samantha, can you look at me?” I say, voice low, gentle. “Don’t worry about the bobby pin. Just take a deep breath and look at me.”

Hunter clears his throat and speaks up, trying to be helpful, yet missing the whole damn point. “Hey, Samantha, it’s easy — just twist the bobby pin like Diesel says. Work it a little until it catches on the clasp, OK? We’ll talk you through this.”

“Keep quiet, brother. I got this,” I say. Then I look deep into Samantha’s eyes; there’s a primal terror there that I want to calm, to take away, to heal. “You’ve done enough, Samantha. More than enough. I promise. Just leave the bobby pin where it is, get out of here, and know that, whatever happens to us, you did all that anyone could do.” She blinks, opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, but I cut her off. We’ve asked too much from her as it is, put her in too much danger already. “Samantha, it’s time for you to go.”

Her mouth closes, and she gives a slight nod. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

The door closes behind her with a fatal click.

Gritting my teeth, I put my hands to work, hoping there’s enough agility left in my battered body to find my way out of these cuffs.

“You shouldn’t have let her go,” Hunter says. “We could’ve made her do it.”

“I know that. But I had to.”

“Had to?”

“If she got caught, you know they’ll do worse things to her than what they’re going to do to us. She’s innocent. A civilian. I’d rather die than risk her getting hurt.”

“You don’t even know her, brother. But you know that our chances of getting out of here took a fucking dive, right?”

“You know I’ve always loved a challenge,” I say, feeling the bobby pin prod and poke inside the lock. Twisting, gritting my teeth through the pain, I apply pressure. It’s almost there. “It’s the only way to make things fair for these fucking jokers. Now, get ready: I’m almost out.”

Something catches against the bobby pin. Something shifts, springs loose. I smile.

And, in that moment, the door to the room opens and a gigantic shadow fills the entryway.