Laughing again, the sound warbling like a strobe light, Mitty caught him and held him upright.
“Pathetic,” he heard Gene mutter.
Then Carver’s breath was on his jaw. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Too close, crowding against him. He tried to push away, but got pushed back. As if from a distance, he again heard the laughter. He couldn’t seem to draw his thoughts together enough to figure out why the earth kept moving or why his tongue felt so thick. He reached out, and his hand connected awkwardly with the truck, busting his knuckles. It hurt.
“Take it easy, friend.”
Carver again.
A hand steered him and he found himself hefted into the truck bed, then reclining. He opened his eyes and stared up at the sky. So black. So endless. “I need to get home,” he thought, then realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Yeah, sure,” Carver said. “We’ll take you. Where is home?”
His brows squeezed down. He didn’t want to tell them but he couldn’t figure out why.
When he felt a hand in his jeans, he panicked. Real, sick, twisting panic. He reared up, lashing out until he heard a curse.
Mitty shoved him back so hard that his head collided with the rusted truck bed. “Asshole.”
Blinding pain exploded through his skull.
Carver said, “Relax, dude. Just getting your wallet so we can figure out where to take you.”
Shit. Going lax, Leese closed his eyes and drew a slow breath that still didn’t give him enough oxygen.
“Got it.” Carver spoke low to someone, truck doors opened and closed, the world moved—this time for real.
He realized Carver was still beside him when he nudged him with his boot. “You with me, buddy?”
Leese groaned as the truck hit a bump. “Yeah.”
“You need to stay awake.”
Distrust was a live thing inside him, screaming a warning that he couldn’t quite heed. “Yeah.”
“There you go. So let’s talk.”
He wasn’t sure if he could. But Carver was insistent, and the wind blowing over Leese, the sounds of traffic around him, revived him enough to clear some of the ever-growing cobwebs.
The boot hit him again, this time in his biceps. “Stay with me, damn it. You won’t like it if I have to keep getting your attention.”
Leese concentrated, but that just made his brain pulse.
“Where does she live?”
“Who?”
“Cherry.” And he sneered, “My sweet baby sister.”
Oh no, he didn’t want them going after Cherry—not that he knew where she lived anyway. Cherry had been friendly, willing to share a fast dance and a few smiles, but nothing more.
Leese got several more kicks before he recalled that Cannon Colter and Denver Lewis were her friends, and Cherry was seeing Lewis. That meant they were probably from Warfield, Ohio. Yeah, Warfield. That sounded right.
“Good, that’s good,” Carver said. “What else can you tell me?”
So he’d spoken aloud once more?
This time the boot heel caught him in the ribs, then the hip. “Yes, you’re talking, you idiot. Now answer my question.”
Instinctively Leese rolled away, but that just left his spine exposed, his kidneys. Fuck. Between the jostling of the old rat-trap truck and the sporadic kicks to his body, he couldn’t get his bearings.
He needed to fight back, but his arms didn’t respond right to his brain’s commands, too sluggish to do more than fan the air. Getting his legs under him was a no-go, too. He crawled up to his knees, and took a kick to the nuts that had him collapsing hard on his face.
While pain dug into his consciousness, he tried to understand. He was good in the cage. Why the hell couldn’t he fight now?
“Because you stupidly drank what I gave you, you trusting, pathetic ass.” Thump. “Now stop wasting my time. You said something about a gym. Where is it?” Thump. “Who runs it?” Thump.
Curling in on himself, Leese accepted his own weakness. If he could, he’d go down fighting.
But he couldn’t fight.
Still, he tried to keep silent, to deny them the answers they wanted, but whatever they’d given him left him babbling. Carver kept prodding him, and with each reply his apprehension grew. It didn’t take this long to make it to his apartment, damn it. Or did it?
Finally they stopped and he awkwardly, with Carver’s help, sat up.
“This is it. Time for you to go.” Mitty hauled him out with a complaint. “Jesus, he’s a heavy fucker.”