Semblance

by Chris E. Saros

  Chapter 21

  DRAKE BLINKED, groaning against the pain crashing through his skull. He tried to reach up to clutch at his head, but his wrist caught against something. He pulled the other, but it too was held immobile.

  He tried to get his eyes to focus, but the light glared so bright it burned every time he managed to crack his lids. How had he gotten here? Where was here, exactly? Squinting, he tried to make out his surroundings.

  A dark shudder ran down his spine as the room started to take shape. The white room, fluorescent lights, and single menacing cabinet brought it all back to him. He remembered how he had gotten here now. Natasha. She had drugged him.

  He attempted to move his arms once more only to have them restrained again, and this time he looked down to find his wrists bound with straps that he himself had strapped to plenty. It was no use; he knew the binds could hold even the strongest man against his will. He knew because he had seen it.

  Letting out a strangled laugh, Drake winced as the pain in his head increased.

  “You’re awake. Finally.” Jacob came into view from behind Drake, his fingers fiddling with a bandage on his forearm.

  Drake followed his movement, letting a smile stretch his face. He had gotten the fucker with the pen. Good. He chuckled. “Well, if you were going to be impatient about it, you shouldn’t have hit so hard.”

  Jacob scowled. “I didn’t hit you.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Drake coughed, wincing against the bolt of lightning that flashed through his skull. “You left the heavy lifting for Natasha.”

  Jacob’s scowl deepened and he raised a fist as if he was going to lash out, but before his fist could connect, a voice from behind Drake stopped him.

  “Jacob! If you hit him again, we’ll just have to wait longer for him to wake up.”

  Natasha walked around so that Drake could see her as well. She had changed. Not much physically, but literally she had changed. Instead of her usual voluptuous outfit that emphasized her curves and accentuated her sex appeal, she was clad in tight jeans, a black T-shirt, and a formfitting leather jacket. It was different than what Drake was used to seeing too much of her in. Well, it wasn’t like that outfit didn’t scream sex; it just screamed sex and danger.

  Drake cleared his throat. Apparently being knocked out made his mouth dry. “Wow, Natasha, that’s a good look on you.”

  “You like it, Drakeybo? I didn’t think you would notice, as you aren’t as interested in me as I first thought.” She posed, showing off her perfect profile. “It’s what I wear when I have to deal with traitorous scum like you.”

  “Scum?” Drake remarked, with a cocked brow. “Really? Kind of harsh, isn’t it?”

  Jacob moved forward, smacking his hand across Drake’s face harshly. “Shut the hell up!” Drake laughed as the pounding in his head amplified. He tasted blood on his tongue as Jacob snarled at him and went to hit him again. “What are you laughing at?”

  The back of his hand almost connected again but was stopped by Natasha. This time she reached out to grab him and pulled his hand back firmly.

  “Jacob,” she said with a jab of authority. Drake raised a brow as Jacob quickly obeyed her order to stop.

  “Why don’t you send him to get a sundae while Mom and Dad talk, eh?” Drake quipped, already prepared for the next backhanded hit.

  He laughed again as his head lolled to the side from the force of the hit. He let the blood in his mouth well. The whole scene reminded him of the film Fight Club, and it only caused him to laugh harder.

  “You fucking piece of shit! Why are you laughing?” Jacob yelled.

  “At you, I’m laughing—” Drake had to stop as his head flung to the side with another fist to his face. He let the blood pool, and then while Jacob moved for the next strike, he spit. Blood splattered from his lips, landing in an arch on the center of Jacob’s face. The surprise of the liquid caused Jacob to pause momentarily before roaring madly. He lunged for Drake.

  Natasha was suddenly between them, her arms pushing Jacob back. “Jacob! If you can’t stop hitting him, then get out.”

  Wiping the spit blood from his face, smearing it along his cheek, Jacob growled at Natasha but in the end pulled himself together. He looked down at his red-streaked hand. “I’m going to go clean up.” He looked back up at Drake with a wide, evil smile. “Maybe get something that will help him talk.” Then without a second glance at Drake, he left.

  Drake closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he thought of Jacob going out and grabbing Scotty from behind the bar. Jesus fuck, he wished he had made him leave. He should have forced him to go. He didn’t want him to see this; he didn’t want him to experience this. Scotty was too good for this.

  Drake pulled against his restraints, knowing it was useless. He struggled, the straps digging into the flesh of his wrists. He pulled again, letting out a furious scream, knowing that no sounds would leave the room. It was hopeless, but he had to try.

  Natasha turned back toward Drake, her hands on her hips, lip jutted out in disapproval. “Are you quite finished?”

  Drake’s head lolled to the side, but he looked up at her. He didn’t say anything, just watched her. He was having trouble placing her in this new role. This role of power, instead of the manipulative whore he knew her to be.

  Drake licked his cracked bleeding lips. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I don’t think that you have the right to ask any questions, the condition you’re in.” Natasha tilted her hips, and that was a familiar move. Drake recognized the cocky seduction in that motion.

  Wiggling his fingers, Drake arched a pointed brow at Natasha. “I figured you wanted to have a conversation. You have your captive audience. So, go ahead and spill. Who the hell are you?”

  Natasha approached slowly and crouched down so her hand rested on the back of Drake’s chair and their eyes were level. Her usually pouty lips pulled into a tight grin. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You have no idea what you are involved in, do you?” she asked, running a long nail along the defined bone of his chin. “You were playing with matches, and now you are going to get burned.”

  Drake jerked his head away. “What are you talking about? Of course I knew what I was getting into. It’s a drug cartel not a fun day carnival. What the hell is going on?”

  “Where is it?” Natasha asked, pushing back up and away from Drake.

  That wasn’t a question Drake had been expecting. “Where is what?”

  “Oh, come on, Drakey. This could go so much easier if you just told me where it was.”

  Drake snorted in contempt. “Yeah, and I would love to share the secret location of whatever it is you are looking for, but news flash—” He leaned forward as much as he could against his bonds. “—I. Don’t. Know. What the hell you are talking about!”

  She turned her back on him to walk to the cabinet that held all the fun goodies that Drake never had the guts or the will to use on anyone he had brought into this room. He flexed against the restraints again, knowing full well that there was no give, but trying again anyway because that’s what you did. You tried to survive.

  “You know, when my father put me on detail to keep an eye on you, I thought he was crazy. I mean, you were a stupid punk kid who bought a club and then thought he could make it big by joining in with the big fish. I thought you were a waste of my time.”

  Drake blinked. Natasha had been watching him? All this time, he had thought that she was just a run-of-the-mill prostitute with a fucked-up view of the world, and instead she was another tool Boredega used to keep his people in line.

  “Your father?”

  “It wasn’t until strange things started happening, like the cops somehow being at every drop, or some of our better dealers being picked up for questioning, that I started to think that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have me running a fool’s errand.” Natasha turned back with a syringe, the green liquid standing out against her black attire. Drake swallowed as she took a step
toward him holding the syringe in front of her, showing it off. He knew that move. He had used it before to weaken the resolve of his own helpless captives.

  “You see, my daddy, well, he doesn’t like it when someone messes with his operation. It makes him angry when the people he’s paying good money go bad on him. And when he gets angry, people tend to die. Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way,” Natasha said, once again at eye level with Drake. She held the syringe up and squirted a touch of the fluid out the top. “Tell me where the money is.”

  Drake’s eyes widened. Natasha was Boredega’s daughter? All along, he’d had something that could have been his ticket to revenge right in front of him and he hadn’t known?

  “Where is it?” Natasha yelled, flecks of spittle hitting Drake right in the face.

  The money, right. He had no clue where that was; he had deleted that information practically the second he had seen it.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Drake started, but he backtracked as Natasha started to lower the point of the needle toward his arm. “Look, I know there is money missing, but I have no idea where it is! I didn’t take it.”

  Natasha sighed, looking displeased, and reached a hand up to clasp Drake’s chin. “I really don’t want to have to kill you this painfully and slowly, Drake, but I will if I have to. Just tell me where it is, and I can end this now. Quickly and painlessly.”

  “I think it’s a bit late for the painlessly,” Drake grumbled. “You should ask Jacob where the money is. I bet he has an answer for you.”

  Natasha’s expression morphed into one of rage. Her dark eyes bored into him, and Drake couldn’t help but feel some satisfaction in the fact that he was able to pull that reaction from her. He was the one tied to the chair, but he was the one messing with her.

  His satisfied smirk was short-lived, however, when a fist cracked against his jaw, wiping the smile right off. Spitting some more pooled blood on the floor, Drake arched a brow at the woman before him. “You can pack a punch.”

  Natasha’s own gratified leer was back in place. “Well, my father taught me well. Now, tell me where the money is.”

  Drake grunted, “I. Don’t. Know. Just kill me and get it over with. You aren’t going to get any information from me.”

  Natasha bent so that they were at eye level once again. Her smile still steadily in place, she used a finger to wipe away some blood from Drake’s lip, her touch soft and gentle like a caress. Drake leaned his head away, and Natasha dropped her hand back to her side.

  “Simply killing you would be too easy. I prefer to have fun with prey.” Drake didn’t even have time to respond to that new bout of interesting information before another quick punch swung his head to the side. “Where the hell is the money?”

  “I don’t know what happened to the money. Last I saw anything about it, it was from a flash drive that Jacob was hiding in my drawer.” Natasha’s eyes never wavered from Drake’s as he spoke.

  Pursing her lips into an irritated line, she pushed the needle under Drake’s skin. He hissed at the sting of the harsh metal invading his flesh and then sucked in air as suddenly the world tilted around him. Shit, that stuff worked fast.

  Blinking, he tried to focus on the room around him, but it was as if he were underwater. Nothing took a firm shape, instead moving and waving with the water flow, distorting everything. Instinctually, Drake’s body started swaying with the waves, trying to help straighten the world, but nothing changed.

  “Come on, Drake.” The words seemed to come from afar. Drake looked around, trying to see who could be talking to him from that far away. “I only gave you a little. Just tell me what I need to know and I can stop now.”

  Rolling his head forward so his chin rested on his chest, Drake tried to regain his faculties. “I could tell you,” he mumbled through loose lips. Something wet dripped from them, and he didn’t know if he was bleeding or drooling. “But then, I’d hafta kill ya.”

  “Really?” Natasha sniffed. “Do you think that I won’t do it?”

  “Imma pretty confident thatcha will but I can’t tell ya somethin’ I dunno,” Drake sang in a slur.

  “Just shoot up the bastard!” Jacob’s derisive voice demanded from behind Drake. “I can’t believe you haven’t just killed him yet.”

  Drake tried to lift his head. If Jacob was back, then he would have Scotty, but as he forced his head up, he saw that Jacob was alone. The drugs and the relief made his head heavy, so he rolled it to the side. “Jacob! Yer back! Do you know wha’ happened t’da money?”

  “You fucking….” Drake tuned out the last of the response, too busy trying to make patterns out of the colors shifting in front of his eyes. There were so many different colors out there. He had never really noticed before. Shame that now that he saw them he was about to die.

  He wondered if Scotty ever noticed all the colors. Did he appreciate the different things? Drake bet he did. Scotty had a way of looking at things in a positive light. He probably saw more sunshine and rainbows than Drake ever knew existed.

  He hoped Scotty was doing okay, that he wouldn’t be too sad when he found that Drake was gone. Drake had never wanted to hurt him.

  “—bartender was gone—”

  “—we have to get that fucking money back—”

  “—get your head out of your ass—” Drake tried to follow Natasha’s and Jacob’s rants, but the words slipped away from him, through him, over him.

  “Father….” He managed to moan. That bothered him. He hadn’t known who Natasha’s father was. He hadn’t known who Natasha was! All this time he had spent combing through the people in the cartel, and he had let some whore slip right under his nose. Some whore with an important daddy. What else had he missed? What other secrets were out there twisted so deep into the darkness that no one could see them, even when they were looking?

  Maybe Scotty had been right all along. Maybe he should have just given it to the police and let them handle it. He could be off in bed with Scotty right now, instead of chained to his deathbed.

  A hard slap on his cheek roused him back from the inside of his mind. Natasha’s face was inches from his and had both his cheeks clasped in her hand so they could meet eye to eye.

  “Last chance. Tell me where the money is and I won’t finish shoving this drug into your veins. Because trust me, after a couple of hours of intense pain, you won’t be able to keep your mouth shut anyway. Just tell me.”

  “I—” Drake tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, which was funny to him because earlier it had been dripping. His jaw worked silently, and Natasha moved her head closer, leaning in to try to hear. “…hafta kill ya,” Drake managed, smiling at his wit. He’d known he would go down with a smile on his face. Of course, he had thought the smile would be because he was taking Boredega down with him instead of muttering a last witticism, but it would have to do. As Natasha’s fingers roughly released him, he let his head fall back to his chest.

  “Do it,” she said and walked away. Do what? He couldn’t do anything. He was strapped to a chair, and he had no idea where the money was. What was he supposed to do?

  Jacob knelt down in front of him with the syringe, a huge satisfied smile twisting his lips. Oh, she hadn’t been talking to him. Drake eyed the tool warily. He could have thought of better ways to kick the bucket, but maybe if he was lucky, they would give him too much Selecure and he could just go out on one solid overdose. He could hope anyway.

  “I am going to enjoy watching this,” Jacob said with smile, pressing the hypodermic along Drake’s skin. “And after you’re dead, I am going to go out and find your boyfriend, and do the same to him.”

  Drake snarled at Jacob’s words as the needle slid in. Drake didn’t have a chance to fight back, to do anything because all he could do was tense against the hot liquid that coursed through his system. His reaction was almost instantaneous. His back arched as the fluid hit his blood stream and in one fell swoop encased his ent
ire body with inexplicable pain. Every nerve ending jarred awake with battery acid and electric shocks.

  Jerking uncontrollably from side to side. Fighting his restraints.

  Fighting to free his arms to do anything to help hold himself together.

  His body was being ripped apart.

  Each nerve ending in his body felt as if it were tearing into a million pieces. His skin felt as if it were ripping as each limb was pulled in a different direction. Even his ears throbbed as a loud and terrible sound assaulted them, crashing into his eardrums, blaring holes into the fragile fabric.

  He tried to make it stop.

  He tried to cover his ears.

  He tried to hold his arms on.

  Tried to keep his body from being torn to shreds.

  It was no use. There was no escaping the pain.

  His lungs burst into flame. He realized for the first time that the loud sound beating at his eardrums was nothing but his own screaming. His own screams, which were so strong, so filled with agony and suffering that the only thing that could make him stop was the suffocating sensation of complete lack of oxygen.

  He struggled to pull air into his lungs, but the rise of his chest only ignited new aches and torments.

  Hurt.

  Jesus Fucking Christ. Hurt. It fucking hurt!

  He had no idea how much time passed. It had felt as if it had only been seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

  This was hell.

  Pain. Agony.

  Nothing but red-hot pain.

  His entire body focused only on the pain. Nothing else mattered; nothing else existed besides its torture. All he could do was struggle against it and wish for death.

  Suddenly the world erupted into a battlefield of lights and sounds, each crash of thunder deafening to his ultrasensitive ears and each flash blinding even behind closed eyes. All he could do was cringe away from the storm, hope it passed or was merciful and engulfed him, sending him away into welcome oblivion, but none of that happened.