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He lands with a thud, the dull sound absorbed by the threadbare carpet.
I take a moment to catch my breath, watching him closely. There's no sign he'll be waking soon. Good. I need him unconscious for a little while longer — long enough for me to set the stage for when he wakes up.
I retrieve one chair from my small dining table — a sturdy wooden piece that's seen better days, but will serve its purpose tonight. I position it in the center of my sparse living room and secure Dixon to it with more rope, taking care so his limp arms and legs are tightly bound but not cutting off circulation. I want him to feel everything.
Once he's bound properly, I step back and let out a long exhale. The room is silent. I glance at the empty beer cans scattered across the coffee table, remnants of nights spent planning every detail of this moment.
I take out my cell phone and send a brief message — Dad, I’ve got him.
My gaze falls back on Dixon. I smile.
This is going to be everything I hoped for.
Chapter Five
Dixon
I know I didn’t drink that much last night, especially not enough to feel the way I feel right now, where opening my eyes is like running sandpaper across the shriveled, dry orbs and my tongue is this swollen, parched lump in the Sahara Desert of my mouth. I’d have to drink like a fucking eighteen-year-old after breaking into his dad’s liquor cabinet to feel like this. I know, because I was that dumb kid at one point in my life.
Not anymore, though.
Mainly because I’m older.
Still dumb, just older.
I blink again. It fucking hurts.
Where the fuck am I?
When focus comes into my dry eyeballs, I see that I’m in a messy room where every square inch of wall space, and much of the floor and ceiling, is covered in some type of insulating foam.
Am I dead?
“Hey, you’re awake.”
That sound makes me wince. It’s like someone jabbed a screwdriver into my brain.
I recognize that chipper voice, though.
Groaning, I turn my head and see the bartender from the night before watching me from her kitchen. She has a cup of steaming coffee in her hand and a smile on her face.
“What the fuck is happening?”
“I drugged you.”
“OK, that makes sense, considering I feel like shit. But why?” I try to stand, and all that happens is I wobble the chair I’m in. It’s then I notice that I’m tied and handcuffed to the damn thing. Damn it, I can barely feel my arms and legs.
“So I could bring you here without you fighting back. Duh.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“What? Are you so stupid that you want me to grow a mustache and stand here, twirling it, while I narrate to you all the details of what I’m going to do to you? This isn’t a fucking cartoon.”
“It’d be the polite thing to do.”
“I think we’re beyond the point of politeness.”
“Well, for the record, I think you’d actually look good with a mustache.”
