Page 36 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

Jax

A sharp, stabbing pain races up and down the length of my back, radiating through my shoulders and up through my neck.

My eyes scrunch as I try and fail to block out the pain coursing through me.

The back of my head is throbbing and my mouth is drier than a desert, but all that gets pushed to the side as I try to make sense of my predicament.

I go to lift my hand, aching to rub my fingers across my eyes and forehead to relieve the strain, but for some reason I can’t.

When I finally pry my aching eyes open, I realize one of my hands is restrained to the side of the bed with a padded cuff, while my free arm is nestled in a sling, a wide cloth wrapping it snugly against my torso.

Shit. How the hell did I get here? And what the hell happened that I needed to be tied to the bed?

My gaze drags across the small, bland, nondescript room.

There’s a window on the wall opposite me, but not one that’s able to be opened.

Just a solid pane of glass separating me from the world outside.

I get a glimpse of the sun high in the sky as it peeks out from behind a cloud, giving me a vague idea as to what time it may be, but that’s it.

The window offers no other clues. No sounds.

No distinguishable landmarks. Only the occasional person silently scuffing their feet as they pass by.

Where am I?

Questions barrel through my mind as I try to remember how I got here, but all progress ceases as a previous thought hits me: I can’t hear the people just on the other side of that window. And if I can’t hear them... they can’t hear me.

My heart starts to race, sweat building on my brow as my anxiety builds. At my side, my fingertips tap out a steady rhythm on my thigh.

One, two... pause.... One, two.

It’s not helping the panic surging through my mind, but I continue the tiny gesture for some reason.

One, two... pause.... One, two.

Where the fuck am I?

Someone better get here before I start tearing this place apart out of sheer madness. Fortunately, for my sanity’s sake, I don't have to wait for long.

The door handle jiggles before a younger man walks in with a clipboard in his hand.

He’s tall and thin, exhibiting a small but visible limp in his right leg as he shuffles over to my bedside.

He’s wearing the usual outfit you’d associate with a medical professional: the lab coat, stethoscope, and clipboard tying the visual together.

“Ah, good morning! Nice to see you awake,” the man says, but he neglects to introduce himself as is customary for his portrayed profession. In fact, he’s not even wearing a name badge depicting his occupation or title. The oversight instantly puts me even more on guard.

In response to his greeting, I say nothing, choosing to wait for him to give me more information before I start to make assumptions, and not the good kind.

Tilting his clipboard into the waning daylight streaming in from the window, he looks down and thumbs through the paperwork, nodding along with whatever he must see in the charts. “Looks like everything is in order. How do you feel?”

Once again, he neglects to introduce himself, stirring even more red flags in my head along with vague images I can’t seem to put my finger on.

A van?

There were people around me... but I was on the floor... and then...

My pulse quickens, breaths coming quicker as I try to make sense of it.

One, two... pause.... One, two...

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to shake myself out of my paranoia. While having no recollection as to how I found myself here, I try to rationalize my unusual circumstances, concluding that this must be some sort of medical facility and this guy’s just here to take care of me.

But as I look around, it’s not like any hospital room I’ve ever seen before.

There’s no curtain to drape around the bed.

No stash of medical instruments lying in wait in cupboards around the room.

In fact, there are no cupboards. Just me, on the bed, a chair in the corner, and this guy.

Not to mention, it smells wrong. Instead of the overwhelming chemical scents of bleach and antiseptic, it smells muted and slightly dusty.

Stale rather than sterile.

“Sir?” The man in the white lab coat regains my attention.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you describe your pain level at the moment?” He taps his pen on the clipboard as he waits for my answer, still neglecting to introduce himself or explain to me why I’m waking up, strapped to the underside of a bed with a useless piece of barely functioning BDSM gear.

My hand curls into a fist, pulling the flimsy piece of fabric at my wrists taut.

“Here’s a more pressing question, doctor .

.. Who the fuck are you?!” The tight clench of my jaw and no-bullshit attitude make him pull back, his mouth gaping at my abrupt turn.

“Better yet, where the fuck am I? If you think you’re going to tie me down and harvest my organs, I swear to God I'll find a way out of this harness, steal that fucking pen you keep tapping, and stab it right into your eye!”

His hands quickly rise in front of him, palms faced out in a placating gesture. “Sir, please, calm down.” His voice bounces with apprehension, but I’m not one to appease his concern and settle down when it’s me who’s tied to a bed while he’s hovering over me, holding all the answers I need.

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down! WHERE THE FUCK AM I?!” The roar of my demand echoes in the cramped space, aggravating my headache, but I don’t care. I want some fucking answers, and I want them now.

“Sir, you’re in the Infirmary. Our medical facility,” he replies.

I grind my teeth together, tilting my head at his belligerent bullshit.

“Yeah, I can see you want me to think that, but you, sir, are no fucking doctor. Anyone with working eyes can see that you’re nothing but a guy playing dress-up.

Now I’ll ask again.” My eyes narrow as I crack my neck, willing this asshole to tell me the truth before I rip this restraint off my wrist and beat it out of him.

“Where. The fuck. Am I?” The single wrist cuff creaks to within an inch of its existence with tension as I prepare to escape and rain down my fury.

“Please, sir, there’s no need for violence. If you give me but a moment, I’ll be happy to answer any and all of your questions in a timely manner.”

Fed up with his concessions, I yank on the restraint, tearing the fabric in two as my impatience takes over.

With the torn shreds still dangling from my wrist, my newly freed hand lifts to his throat as I push him against the nearest wall.

We’re of similar heights as we meet eye-to-eye, but I might as well be a giant to him as my rage enhances my stature.

Muscles bunching, I crowd his slim form against the wall.

A dangerous predator holding the prey in his grasp.

My voice is a thunderous cloud of wrath as I press down on his neck; the gurgling sound he gives me in response is music to my ears.

“I’ve given you more than a moment. And, frankly, your time is about to run out. ”

“Ok! Shit! Ok!” he yelps from the back of his throat, his eyes widening at my sudden attack as his palms lift again a second later.

“Just so you know,” he rasps, “there are two security guards just outside that door. If anything happens to me, they will kill you. No hesitation. No questions asked. And I don’t think you want to die today. ”

Well... shit.

I might have gotten the jump on this guy but, from the way I’m feeling, I don’t think I could go up against two more and live to tell the tale. Not when I’m still groggy as fuck, and definitely not when there are too many gaps in my memory at the moment to understand how I even got here.

The truth of the matter is, I need answers.

And the only way I’m going to get them is if I act like they think I should.

Confused and agitated, sure, but also compliant.

Willing to work with them to assess my situation and allow them to provide the care they think I need.

Or rather, the care I’ll allow them to provide.

Sun Tzu often referred to appearing weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak in his book, The Art of War.

Being the big, tough asshole is only going to get me so far.

I need to try attracting the bees with honey instead of the vinegar I’ve been spewing.

A little vulnerability can go a long way if they believe it.

Silently, I relent, my hold on his throat loosening before fully releasing as I come to terms with my situation and return to my place on the bed. The doctor , although still on edge, simply nods and gives me a sympathetic look as he limps back over to my side.

“How about we start over with some introductions? My name’s Stitch.”

I lift a suspicious eyebrow. “Really?”

He puts a hand up and chuckles uncomfortably under his breath.

“Dead serious. That’s actually been my name for a while, or at least ever since I came to find myself here.

I’m part of the medical team. In my early days, I was tasked with a lot of wound care.

Stitches , if you will.” He smiles grimly before nodding to me. “What’s yours?”

“Jax.” Plain. Simple. It’s all the information he needs to know and is all I’m going to allow him to know.

“Ah, yes. Very good.” He grins and clicks his pen as he jots down a few notes on his paperwork, lifting his gaze back to mine when he’s satisfied. “And am I to understand you have absolutely no idea how you came to be here today?”

This fucking asshole. My upper lip curls with disdain as I suck on my teeth, conjuring my best Professor Snape impression in return. “Obviously.”

“Well, I was afraid of that. Sir—”

“Ok, enough with the fucking ‘Sir’ bullshit,” I interrupt, tired of the fucking nomenclature.