Page 5 of Sinners Reunion

“Well, fuck,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve really stepped in it this time, Josie.”

Okay. Not a problem.

I grit my teeth and muster the strength to hop forward. This would have worked much better had my wrists been attached to chair arms, but of course this piece of shit is armless. The weight distribution is all wrong, and the chair tilts on the first hop. I try to lean backward, but that only shifts the balance again, and I land on my side.

Better than my face, I guess.

But now what? Do I just wriggle to freedom?

Actually, that’s not a bad idea.

Standing isn’t possible, but I can mildly straighten my legs enough to sort of inchworm myself toward the door. Slowly. Very, very slowly. Inch by painstaking inch, I jerk my body until I’ve moved exactly a foot closer to freedom.

This is pointless.

I tip my head to the side with a groan. My brain isn’t sleepy yet, but a thick haze surrounds my memories of last night. A bar. An accepted invitation. A dark back room.

It’s a blur. I don’t even know why I took the guy up on his offer. He wasn’t even my type. I don’t do bald guys with thick southern accents.

What am I talking about? I’m a fucking sex fiend. I’ll do damn near anyone if the mood strikes. It’s no wonder I’ve found myself in a precarious situation. If I make it out of here, I’ll be into the next bit of drama in no time. Trouble has a way of finding me.

Finding me, teaching me who I am, and then abandoning me in the rain.

I laugh to myself. No fucking way am I thinking about him at a time like this. It took almost five years to get over him, but a few months ago, I finally stopped looking for him. No more scouring the news sites for evidence of his darker dealings. No more chasing shadows. I’ve been focusing more on myself and who I want to be.

All of that is for nothing if I can’t get out of this situation.

“How’d you get down on the floor?”

I try to turn my head toward the deep southern voice, but the injection is already kicking in. My skull weighs thirty pounds, and my neck is a string bean.

“Little help,” I say.

The man kneels before me and brushes my hair out of my face. I expect to see the same man from last night—the stout southern guy with one hell of a crumb catcher above his lip—but this one is far more muscular. And he has hair. Thick golden-brown curls cover his head, but something about them isn’t quite right.

“Good golly, girl. How’d you get in this pickle?” He grips the chair and rights it with little effort. “They ain’t cut you loose yet?”

“No, but you could be a peach and help me out.” I wiggle my fingers.

He whistles, low and smooth. “Sorry. No can do. They want you trussed up tight until the others get here.”

“Me? Am I some sort of flight risk?”

“The way I heard the others tell it, you were an everything risk. Even with that injection they gave you, it was like trying to stuff a tiger into a tin can. That spit mask came in clutch.”

“So it wasn’t a pillowcase?”

He cuts on an overhead light, and I can finally see his face clearly. He looks roughly my age—late-twenties. Hazel eyes peer down at me from the manliest visage I’ve ever witnessed. I could crack open a longneck on that sharp jaw, and he has the perfect little dimple in his chin.

“There. Now we can all see just how pretty you are.” He smiles, and I’m blinded by straight white teeth. “I always did like a redhead.”

“If you can’t free me, can you at least tell me why I’m here?” I nibble my lip and bat my eyelashes. I could hazard a guess, but there are so many reasons someone might want to tie me up.

“That’s above my pay grade, I’m afraid. The boss man should be here soon, but my buddy⁠—”

An ATV speeds by outside, driven by none other than the naked duo. Flesh flies past, and the buzz of the engine garbles his friend’s name.

“Lice Pick?” I ask, hoping I misheard him. Who the fuck earns a name like Lice Pick? My scalp is already crawling just thinking about it.