Page 1 of Duke

1: FANCY

Well…fuck.

This sucked.

Woozy from the crowbar I’d taken to the back of the head—which of course came with a splitting headache straight from Satan’s own asshole—I was disoriented and sluggish. It was a chemical sluggishness, though, which suggested someone had either roofied me—and if it was a woman, she shouldn’t have bothered; I’d have fucked her without the drugs—or someone had tranked me. Which wasn’t the brightest idea, because I was slowly coming out of it. And what with the headache, and the fact that I was hungry, it didn’t exactly spell rousing games of charades and shuffleboard once I got my bearings and figured out who I had to hit.

I tried to blink, but that didn’t accomplish much; either it was pitch black and there wasn’t anything to see, or I was blindfolded.

I focused hard, which hurt. Then I tried to subtly flex my muscles. I tested my toes and fingers and wrists, and tried to see if I was simply bound, or drugged into paralysis. I had feeling in my limbs so I knew I wasn’t paralyzed. The bad news was that my wrists were tied; the good news was my ankles weren’t bound, and they hadn’t gagged me, either. Stupid move—I can fuck you up with just my feet, let me tell you. I learned Muai Thai in Thailand, from some seriously scary little motherfuckers, the kind of dudes who go out and kick trees just to toughen their shins.

I kept my breathing slow and steady, something I did out of long habit. I listened hard and I heard nothing that gave anything away. The floor was cold and hard underneath my shoulder, hip, and knee. I was pretty sure it was a cement floor. I was lying on my side, hands bound in front of me—another mistake.

Struggling to push past my haze, I figured I was in a room, cement of some sort. I kept listening, but there wasn’t much to hear.

Now that my faculties were returning, I could feel the blindfold around my head and it felt like a folded bunch of cloth. It would be easy enough to remove when I was ready.

Staying still and quiet I kept listening, focusing on breathing slow and steady as if I was still unconscious. The bonds around my wrists were zip-ties, and they were wrenched tight to my skin which, while painful, was actually good news. Zip-ties are plastic, which means their overall tensile strength isn’t that great. One hard wrench of my arms, or bashing them against my knee, and they’d be gone. It would take me ten seconds max, a number I quote from experience.

I was about to start the process of determining whether to play this out a bit longer or start my escape when I heard a muffled whimper. Definitely female, close by.

“Pssst,” I hissed.

“Gnnnhhh?” Definitely a chick, definitely gagged.

“Keep still. Pretend you’re still knocked out. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, keep playing possum. Got it, babe?”

“Ugh-oo, doh gah ee ay.”

I stifled a chuckle; she soundedpissed, and if I was anything like a decent translator of pissed-off, gagged females, she said something likefuck you, don’t call me babe.Better for her that she had a bit of spark. If she could cuss me out while bound and gagged, it meant she had spark, which meant spirit, which meant whatever was going on, she wasn’t as likely to flake out if shit got weird.

I tried to think back and remember; what was the last thing I remembered?

Some shitty dive bar in…Denver? Probably Denver. I remember that after Nevada, Thresh had gone to find that doctor chick he was so hung up on—which I understood because, seriously, that chica had curves for fuckingdays, and she’d pushed back at Thresh, which was the fastest way to get him horny short of reaching into his shorts. Plus, all that exotic Islander skin, and that thick fucking hair? No wonder Thresh wanted to take her for a tumble. I’d hit it, if he hadn’t had dibs. And no, we weren’t so juvenile as to call dibs out loud, but when you spent enough time hunting tail with your bro, you know when he’s interested, and you don’t go after that chick, even after he’s done.

So…I had been in a Denver dive bar, alone. I remembered that much, at least. I’d been on the prowl, going slow on the drinks, ready for any sign of my two favorite activities: fucking and fighting. I’d gotten a whiff of some kind of sweet floral perfume while exiting the head, and followed the scent to an out-of-place honey with a tight body and a serious attitude problem—in short, exactly my kinda girl.

I hadn’t really made a move, not as such, just sort of scoping her out, getting a feel for her. Hadn’t even started with the charm-and-flirt routine yet, but she wasn’t playing. Shut me down cold, even though she had no wing girls with her, no bling ring, and no sign of a guy, just sort of drinking alone.

Now, I ain’t one to buy into the gender stereotypes much, okay? I served with some chicks in the Army, and some of ’em were just as much my bros as BangBang and Gutierrez had been. I may be a shameless manwhore of the worst kind, but I take people as they are. I don’t fuck chicks with diamonds on their left hand, and no means no…except when I sniff out thatnomeanschase me, and that’s always obvious.

But there are a few clichés and stereotypes that tend to hold true. Like, if you see a dude sitting by himself in a smoky shithole dive bar, you’re better off leaving him alone, ’cause he don’t want to talk. And the other one that’s almost always true is, if you see a lady, like a real-deallady, with Louboutins and Chanel clutch purses and expensive perfume and two-carat diamond earrings, the kind of lady who wears that fancy shit like it ain’t no thing, in a LoDo dive bar, no less…well, partner, that shit there spells trouble.

What? I’ve hooked up with someladiesin my time, and I like nice shit, so I know one-percenter name brands when I see them, okay?

Anyway, she’d gotten up and gone outside to smoke. Pall Mall Lights lit with a snazzy looking fancy-ass electric flameless lighter.

You know how they say you are what you eat? And you know how they say curiosity killed the cat? Well, I eat a lot of pussy…

I was curious and went out after her. I lit my one-hitter and took a quick toke of some fine-ass herb I’d picked up—a habit I only indulge in when I’m off-duty. I opened my mouth to talk to her, and then her eyes had gone wide, surprised, but she’d been looking behind me, not at me.

Then, bam, everything went black.

And now, here I am, bound, blindfolded, and fighting a headache and a wicked chemical haze.

So, if I had to guess, that lonely fancy chick was the same person now bound and gagged behind me.

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