Semblance

by Chris E. Saros

  Instead, a sharp searing pain pierced his gut, proof that even the most horrid pain could still get worse.

  Nothing could stop his screaming now. Pain, fucking pain.

  God, he hurt. His burning lungs held nothing compared to the excruciating agony in his abdomen. He fought and struggled against his bonds, and then suddenly one arm was free, and then another, and he was falling to the ground in a mutilated heap.

  Hands were on him, moving along him, making him writhe and instinctually recoil, but he couldn’t get away.

  He couldn’t escape. His bindings were gone, but he was still captured in the torment.

  Searing pain. Agony.

  Red. Red. Red.

  Shouting around the room filled his ears, but he couldn’t make any sense of it. He screamed as a new torment exploded in overstimulated nerve endings as a hand pressed firmly onto the fire burning a hole through his stomach.

  Too much.

  It was all too much.

  Pain. Hurt. So much pain.

  Death. The only thing that could help was death.

  His brain in sensory overload did the only thing it could do to ease its burden. He slowly fell into a welcome darkness. But even as the black enveloped him, a small morsel of light vied for his attention. As he sank deeper into the abyss, he could have sworn he heard Scotty’s voice above him, begging him to open his eyes, pleading for him not to leave. Drake tried to listen, tried to grab on to that light but in the end, the darkness won.

  Chapter 22

  AN ANNOYING beep drifted into his consciousness, each small sound triggering a sharp throb through his head. Drake tried to shift away from it, but the slight movement left him gasping as pain wracked through him. He tried to draw his arm in to his chest, tried to wrap into a comforting fetal position, but something held him back.

  Drake blinked, letting the room come into focus. White, everything was white. He would have thought he had died and was now in a blissful heaven, except for the pain. He refused to believe that pain would follow you into death, and he doubted he would ever be able to witness the purity of heaven.

  Using his eyes to look around the room, keeping his head as still as possible, Drake took in his surroundings. A machine directly to the side of him showed a series of graphs and numbers, keeping track of his heart rate and blood pressure.

  A hospital. That answered one question anyway. Now he knew where he was, but how had he gotten here? And why couldn’t he move?

  Shifting his eyes down, he eyed the restraints around his wrists. They weren’t incredibly tight, and they were the hospital cuffs lined in fabric, but it was enough to keep him from moving.

  Great. So he had gone from one hostage situation to another.

  A small cough startled him, and without thinking, Drake turned his head toward the sound. He bit back a groan, regretting the thoughtless motion as severe agony cascaded through his limbs. Once he was able to even think about opening his eyes again, he blinked into focus a very concerned, very tired-looking Scotty.

  Standing at his bedside, Scotty put his hands on the rail and gripped it tight. Drake eyed his knuckles as they whitened, and he also eyed the gun strapped to Scotty’s waist.

  That was new.

  Drake licked his dry lips, his eyes darting up to meet Scotty’s, “You trying to kill me too?” His voice sounded like gravel, his larynx overused from what he could only assume was his screaming.

  Scotty smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He put a hand on Drake’s forehead, brushing back his hair.

  “I’m not trying to kill you.” The corner of his mouth tilted to a smirk. “You’ve been through a lot. Go back to sleep. We can talk later.”

  “I’m cuffed to the bed.”

  “Shh, I know. It’s okay. No one wanted you to hurt yourself.”

  “What happened?”

  Scotty shushed him, putting a straw between his lips. “We can talk all about it later.”

  Sipping slowly, Drake winced as the first drops slid down his raw throat, the cool wetness being both a blessing and a torture. His dry tongue and mouth quickly absorbed the liquid, but the pain of swallowing it almost made it not worth it.

  Turning his head slowly and carefully to the side, Drake released the straw. Scotty put the cup on the table by the bedside.

  “Scotty?”

  Using his thumb to brush his fingers back and forth over Drake’s forehead, Scotty gave another sad smile. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  “Don’t leave.” Drake’s eyes started to drift closed and he snapped them open, scared that if he closed them Scotty would disappear and he would be back in that room, tied to the chair.

  “Shh, it’s okay. Go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Drake kept his eyes on Scotty’s for another series of moments. He didn’t understand what was going on, and truthfully, he was too exhausted to try to figure it out now. Blinking once as a sign of agreement, Drake let his eyes close. The darkness consumed him again.

  Drifting back to consciousness, Drake eyed the plain white ceiling, uncertain of how much time had passed. What was it with hospitals and everything being stark white? Didn’t they think people would want to see something a little more soothing when they woke up? Instead, it was all sanitary white and maddening noises. The heart monitor sound had been turned off in his room at least, so that helped.

  Biting back a moan, Drake slowly, very carefully, attempted to move his limbs. Flexing and unflexing his fingers, he let out a breath of relief when there was only an echo of pain remaining. He took a deep breath and lifted his arm off the bed as far as it could go attached to the cuff. His arm successfully in the air, he curled his fingers into a fist, then let it drop back down to the side of the bed.

  Feeling more confident, Drake did the same with the other hand and snorted when he saw that his other wrist was wrapped in a cuff as well. He had a way of jumping from the frying pan and into the fire. Sure, he wasn’t in serious agony anymore, but technically he was still a prisoner.

  A prisoner with both hands restrained and an itchy nose. Great.

  “Feeling better?” The voice startled Drake and he jumped, gasping as a burning pain seared through his lower abdomen.

  “Aw, shit, sorry,” Scotty said, moving to the side of the bed so Drake didn’t have to twist to see him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Drake swallowed against his pain but didn’t say anything. He looked Scotty up and down, and his already dry mouth miraculously went more dry. The man didn’t look anything like he usually did. He was changed somehow, and Drake couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.

  Drake wasn’t sure if he had seen Scotty in anything but what he had worn to work behind the bar. It had always been the tight button-down and the tight slacks or dark jeans. Now, he was dressed in a suit. But what really was eye-catching was the gun in a holster at his hip. His suit jacket mostly covered it, but Drake could see it.

  Working his mouth to try and get some moisture, Drake let his head fall back so Scotty could see his shocked expression.

  “No,” Drake said with a slight shake of his head. “No way. It’s not possible.” Frustrated tears gathered in his eyes, and he was too exhausted to try to hold them in or hide them, the wet trails on his cheeks evidence of his sense of betrayal.

  Closing his eyes, Scotty let his body collapse into the chair at Drake’s bedside. He rubbed his face with his palms, then dropped his hands between his knees and looked back up at Drake.

  Their eyes met and Drake didn’t allow his own gaze to falter. The wet streams were still there, but he refused to look away. Scotty hitched in a breath and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it and looked away.

  “So, what do I call you?” Drake rasped. “Officer Scotty?”

  Scotty closed his eyes again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Opening his eyes, he met Drake’s straight on. “Agent, Special Agent Graft.” He paused before adding,
“Adam.”

  Drake let out a choked laugh, diverting his eyes. “Adam.” The name felt heavy on his lips.

  “I’m sor—” Scotty/Adam began but stopped abruptly when Drake made a guttural sound in the back of his throat and turned his head away.

  He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything Scotty… er… Adam had to say. There was nothing that could be said that would make anything better right now. Nothing that could fix the damage that had been done.

  So, the silence grew between them, becoming palpable. Scot-Adam cleared his throat, but Drake couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He didn’t know what Scot-Adam could look at. He hoped he was having as much trouble as he was.

  “I’m going to get the doctor,” Adam finally said, breaking the silence. He stepped away from the bed, and Drake automatically felt his absence.

  As much as he didn’t want to, and as much as he needed to be angry and needed to feel rage at the blatant betrayal, Drake felt panic at Scotty’s retreating back. An internal struggle broke out in his mind, but as angry and confused as he was, Drake couldn’t let him go.

  “Wait!” Adam turned around hesitantly, as if afraid of what he might find when he looked. “Don’t… don’t go yet.” Drake hated the way his voice trembled, just like he had hated his tears earlier, but he didn’t have the strength to control himself yet. So he let it all show. He let his anger and confusion, his hurt and his betrayal, and his need and his fear clearly broadcast across his face.

  Adam searched his face, taking in each reeling emotion before returning to his bedside, his own face a twisting mask of emotions. He reached down and took Drake’s hand into his own. He squeezed his fingers.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Drake looked at their joined hands and then back up at Adam. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

  Adam’s breath hitched. “I know. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but….”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Drake felt new tears in his eyes, and he sniffed, trying to stop himself from becoming a blubbering mess. Jesus, he was better than this. He had infiltrated a dangerous drug cartel! He shouldn’t be crying because Scotty lied to him. Drake had lied to everyone. He should be used to lies. Except…

  Drake had lied to everyone except for Scotty. Scotty was the only one who Drake had ever told the truth. He was the only person Drake had trusted enough to tell his secret. He had told Scotty everything and Scotty hadn’t run, he hadn’t judged him, he had stayed and told him he loved him. Scotty had said he loved him! But that couldn’t possibly be the truth because Scotty wasn’t even his real fucking name. Scotty couldn’t love anyone because Scotty didn’t fucking exist!

  He had been using him. He had been using him, and all the while Drake had foolishly trusted him.

  “I trusted you!” Drake couldn’t control his anger and hurt any longer. He wrenched his hand away from Adam’s, unable to move too far because of the cuffs, but Adam backed off as Drake thrashed. Drake fought at his restraints, words flying out of his mouth. “I trusted you. I told you everything, everything! I let you in, when I couldn’t let anyone in. I let you see me, not Drake Clane, not the dumbass club owner who was in too deep with a cartel, but me! But you were just using me. Using me! No wonder you didn’t run away when you realized what a train wreck my life was. You needed to get closer to me! You fucking asshole! You fucked me!”

  Adam tried to calm him down, tried to keep him from thrashing on the bed, from opening his wound, which he could feel tearing on his abdomen. He used his hands to restrain Drake’s shoulders, but he bucked, trying desperately to get Adam off.

  “I’m sorry, Drake. Stop! You’re going to hurt yourself! Stop! I’m sorry. I am so sorry! Please stop!”

  Suddenly the room was full of shouting people. Hands were holding him down, trying to shush him, but Drake couldn’t stop. His whole body pumped with adrenaline and he had no way to release it, so he did what he could and struggled against the hands.

  “Administer midazolam, one milligram,” a voice called, and more hands came to hold him down. Drake fought with all his might, ignoring the pain.

  “You fucked me, and then you fucked me! I trusted you! I fucking loved you.”

  The room spun, catching Drake off guard, and he had to close his eyes, but as soon as his lids closed he had to struggle to open them again. His thrashing limbs slowed, too heavy to lift.

  “Trusted you. I… loved you.”

  He felt as if he were sinking into the mattress, as if it were swallowing him up. Darkness swarmed around the edges of his vision, pushing farther in until there was hardly any light left. All he could see was Scotty’s face, wet from tears, and then that too was cloaked by the darkness. Then all that was left was despondent whispering: “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry.” And then nothing.

  Chapter 23

  THE FUCKING ceiling. If Drake never saw a plain white ceiling again, he could die fucking happy. Who was he kidding? No he wouldn’t. He would die miserable and alone. He had always known that he would, except now he felt the loneliness. Never knew what you had until you lost it, isn’t that what the people said? Well, he wasn’t sure if he’d had it or not; he didn’t know what you classify something as “had” when everything about it was fiction. But after having it, real or not, the ache of losing it still hurt.

  Deep breathing from the chair beside the bed garnered his attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to look over. If it was Scotty, or Adam, or whoever the fuck he was, Drake wasn’t sure if he could handle it. Their last interaction hadn’t ended well. He still had fuzzy brain to back up that claim. But he could still hear Adam’s anguished whispers, could still feel his fingers caressing along his face as he fell into darkness.

  Whatever the hell any of that meant.

  Drake shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the bed. His body felt as if it had been stuck in a single position for far too long. He needed to fucking move. He tried to pull his body up so he could get into a sitting position but stopped when pain in his lower abdomen screamed. He went to put his hand on it, try to stop whatever was making it hurt, but his arm snagged on the cuff.

  He eyed the cuff angrily. Glaring at the unyielding fabric, Drake jerked his wrists back and forth roughly. He knew it would only hurt him and do absolutely nothing else but, dammit, he was pissed! He had been drugged, tied up, tortured, shot, tied up, lied to, and drugged again, and he was sick and tired of being held captive.

  “You’re awake.” The deep voice surprised Drake. Even though he didn’t want to see Scotty or Adam or whomever, he had thought it was him waiting at his bedside.

  Drake turned to face the strange voice, and his eyes widened in recognition. “Well, hello there. Isn’t this a fun reunion?”

  The man sat up in the chair with a smirk. “Yeah, something like that.”

  Drake snorted. “Something like that. Yeah, sure. Craig, wasn’t it? I mean, if that is your real name.”

  “Special Agent Craig Donnelly,” Craig said, rubbing tired eyes.

  Drake snickered. “Oh, so it really is Craig. How nice to have a little bit of truth. I would say sorry about before in the parking lot, but ya know, I’m kinda glad I did it.”

  “Yeah, well, now I know what you can do, you won’t get the drop on me again.”

  Drake lifted both his wrists and jiggled his arms, straining against the bonds. “Well, at this point, it’s kind of impossible.” He dropped his wrists back down at his sides. “Am I under arrest?”

  Special Agent Craig Donnelly shifted and stood. Drake took in his domineering form as it approached. He had forgotten how big the man was. He silently congratulated himself on the takedown in the parking lot. The man was huge.

  “As of right now, no, you aren’t under arrest, but you are in protective custody. The local PD has a warrant for you, but as of right now you aren’t under their jurisdiction.”


  “Protective custody, right,” Drake mumbled. “Isn’t that just like glorified imprisonment?”

  Craig shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess. It can be like imprisonment, or it could be the only thing standing between you and an angry cartel eager to string you up.”

  Drake shook his head with a cynical sniff. “Obviously, you don’t know what you are up against because men like Boredega don’t let simple things like ‘protective custody’ stop them from taking out their targets. Seriously, I would probably be better off not in custody, where I am just waiting for them like a sitting duck.”

  “We’ve kept you alive so far.”

  Drake just closed his eyes and laid his head back on his pillow. “I don’t even know who you people are. What agency are you from?”

  “DEA,” Craig said, and Drake opened his eyes to watch him as he took Drake’s wrist into his hand. His large fingers fumbled with the buckle on the cuff, but finally the restraint loosened and slid off. “We had to cuff you to keep you from hurting yourself and the hospital staff, even before your little outburst.”

  As soon as the cuff left his skin, Drake stretched and then flexed his arm, letting the blood flow freely once again. Then as soon as the stretch relaxed his muscles, he scratched his nose with a relieved sigh. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to do that.”

  The snort Craig exhaled belied his stern expression. “I can only undo one for now. I want the nurses to do the other. Don’t make me regret taking it off.”

  Enjoying the freedom of his limb more than he thought could be possible, Drake itched along his body, then found his bandaged stomach and used his fingers to inspect the damage. He cringed at the pain just a small amount of pressure caused and decided it was probably best not to mess with it. He wondered who shot him. It probably was one of the agents. It would just be like him to get stuck in the crossfire.

  “Sorry ’bout that. We hadn’t intended to have a shootout in that small room. It probably hurts like a son of a bitch, but luckily it didn’t hit anything the doctors couldn’t fix.”