Page 55 of Love and Loathing

I recover fast, rising with dreadful worry. Was he okay? Please let him be okay.

I scan the yard. There are guys and motorcycles everywhere. When I eventually spot my friend, I scream while tears continue to flow. Two men are laughing while they kick their heavy boots into his abdomen. Brass's mouth is spewing blood. It was unbearable to watch. His face bruising and bloodied, and his eyes swollen.

I push through the pain and sprint toward him, but a rough arm grabs hold of my waist and prevents me from reaching him.

My stomach lurches.

Despite suffering and in anguish, Brass still tries to reach out to me.

I’m sobbing. “Stop! Don’t fucking touch him!” I propel my legs upward, trying to lose the massive weight behind me, but it’s pointless. I’m too small. Too weak in comparison.

This time, he drags me away. “Quit fucking moving.”

No. No. No.

I shout. Scream. Kick. Cry. Not just for me, but for Brass. They were going to kill him, and I couldn’t do anything to prevent it.

I'm taken into a van, the doors shutting as I see Brass's lifeless body on the ground.

I gag, then dry heave. My teeth are clattering together as if it's freezing cold.

As we drive, I cling to the wall to avoid falling over with each turn.

The driver is not the man who shot Caleb or grabbed me, and he isn’t wearing a cut. But he has a teardrop tattoo on his face.

I clasp my knees against my chest as the tears trickle down onto my legs. Going inside was a mistake I regret. If I hadn't been so stupid, none of this would be happening. Brass would still be okay, and I wouldn’t be in the back of this van.

My heart breaks for him. Brass became more than just a prospect who got assigned to keep me safe. He’s a friend, and I’m the reason he’s hurt or worse, dead.

I choke out another cry.

Who knows if I’ll ever see Throttle again? My family. My friends.

No. They’ll find me. Throttle will find me.

I wipe my fallen tears one by one. I will not die. I will not. And I refuse to be subjected to whatever they’ll do to me. I’m going to fight.

I glance at the driver again, but he doesn't acknowledge me, as if I'm invisible.

Then we slow until the van comes to a complete stop. I position myself against the wall, preparing to strike my way out.

Go for the balls.

The driver unlocks the double doors, opening them wide. “Let’s go.” He climbs in, reaches forward and I go for the kick, but it falls short.

Dammit.

Making another try, my heel lands on his thigh, just missing his genitals. But I jam him well.

“Cock sucking whore.” He violently grabs both my ankles, wrenching me forward, and my head slams to the surface with a bang. “Knew we should have tied you up.”

The stabbing pain is instant, and I’m dizzy, causing everything to spin. He persistently drags me closer to the open doors. When I’m yanked off the edge of the van, I land on my butt, and my arm gets cut from something sharp on the way down.

Damn. I can't decide which is worse, my head or my arm.

“Up! And no games.” His gloved hand grabs a fist full of my hair, pulling me to a stand.

“If you were patient, I would have gotten up myself, asshole.”