He recalled the feeling of furry legs prancing across his face, then down his shirt and across his chest. He had been immobilized by the sheer amount of cocaine he’d inhaled—some by his own choice, but most of it, at least nine or ten lines, with a gun to his head. A fucking gun to his head!
A perverted simulation of Russian roulette. Spin the chamber, pull the trigger. If it didn’t fire, then he had to suck in another line of llello—their Spanish slang word for blow or coke.
They were some sick motherfuckers, and not just because of their twisted games or that one fucker’s crazy fascination with tarantulas. These guys had no respect for anything, living or not. He’d been forced to watch as Tarantula Man beheaded a kitten. His comrades then joined him in a game of mini soccer, all laughing and grunting like the sick fuckers they were. Finally, Tarantula Man gave one last kick to the kitten’s head, sending it flying into a row of empty liquor bottles, some of which toppled and shattered. He then raised his veiny forearms above his head and shouted until he had no more voice. It wasn’t a scream of exuberance or happiness. It came from a dark place, where humanity didn’t exist. The freak had been consumed with the thrill of the kill.
Another breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to swallow back a potential cough. His tongue felt like worn sandpaper, and for a moment he allowed himself to visualize chugging a gallon of water, the liquid gushing all over his face.
Stop it, he told himself. He was just making it worse.
The chimes he’d heard earlier had gone silent. He had no clue where he was. His journey in the last week was as disorienting as it was mentally and physically agonizing.
***
It all started that night at the Party House. Actually, it had begun a couple of hours before that, when he and his buddies had smoked a ton of weed, then hit the island bars, pledging to each other to down three shots at each stop. At their second bar, they came out and saw the great tower—the bungee jump. And they knew they couldn’t pass up the opportunity—the thrill of a lifetime on top of the high of a lifetime.
It didn’t disappoint—so much so that his lifelong friend ever since the first grade actually barfed as he plunged downward.
He could recall everyone yelling, “Totally epic, man! Woo-hoo!”
But he couldn’t leave well enough alone that night.
He had a reputation for being a guy who wasn’t afraid to say anything to anyone, no matter the timing or the risks. He could easily see his mug shot as the first search result on Google for “Ass Hat.” And he would be happy about it.
That night, after the bungee jump, they overheard three girls talking excitedly about a party. The guys were all in, but the girls wouldn’t give up the location. They said too many important people would be there, and they didn’t want to get in trouble.
So he and his buddies said they would personally sucker-punch every dipshit who walked past them until the girls gave it up—the location that is. They’d wait until the party to focus on the real turnover, where the poontang would likely be off the charts. It took four right hooks to four unsuspecting dudes before the girls got the message and finally relinquished the location of the party. They even decided to go as couples, just to make sure they’d get past security at the gate.
Once inside, he knew they had entered another world. He’d read stories about parties at the Playboy Mansion or in the side rooms at Studio 54 in New York City. This party put all those places to shame. It was sick…in the best possible way.
There were just as many drug stations as there were tables of food or alcohol. The place reeked of sweat and weed. They’d only been there a few minutes when a man in a black shirt offered each of them the biggest doobie they had ever seen. And to their amazement, he didn’t even make them pay.
Nude women showed off their strength and flexibility around three stripper poles in one large room. Speakers as large as crates pumped out nonstop music, everything from “Relax Don’t Do It” by Frankie Goes To Hollywood to Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” The rhythmic thud was so deep and jarring that he couldn’t tell if it was coming from the inside or outside of his body.
Smoking the weed—some of the purest he’d ever inhaled—only brought out more of his brash personality. In almost every interaction with a guy or girl that night, he was full of braggadocio, on the verge of being confrontational. In other words, full of shit.
As the party wore on, he set his sights on one of the girls from the bungee jump—Norma. She had deep, brown eyes, long legs under a purple miniskirt, and a fair amount of cleavage peeking out from her white halter top. She’d been eyeing him ever since they met at the bungee jump, and she’d finally relaxed after a few puffs of her joint.
Just as he was about to make his patented move, Norma disappeared into another room. A few minutes later, she strutted out in nothing more than white boots and a thong bikini and headed straight for the stripper pole. As glittering lights bounced off her face, he could detect that her pretty eyes were painted with a dizzying glare. What had taken place in the back room?
Wrapping her legs around the pole, she seductively crawled up the pole, then slowly slid down while running her tongue along the edge. Guys were whooping and hollering like they’d never had a blow job. Maybe they hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to let his new girl live out the fantasies of a bunch of horny dudes. It just wasn’t right. Not in his world.
One middle-aged guy wearing a pinstripe suit was particularly interested in Norma. Was he one of those important suits the girls had spoken of earlier? The man with a round bald spot on the top of his head carved out his own space right in front of the pole and tossed money at her like it was a greenback ticker-tape parade. She was so out of it, she’d pick up a handful of bills and toss them into the air like she was playing in the leaves on a fall day in Virginia.
He leaned down and picked up a bill. Ben Franklin’s mug stared back at him—they were hundreds. While he’d been around money his whole life, and wasted plenty, he had never actually tossed it in the air. And he definitely didn’t like to share—his money or his girls.
He offered his hand to the girl, who probably was no more than nineteen. “Norma, let’s get out of here and go find a quiet place where we can be alone.”
She playfully bent over and spanked her bare ass, then flipped around and gave him a slow wink.
“She doesn’t want what you’re selling, so just go over to the corner and play whack-off with your frat-boy friends.” The suit lit a spliff, inhaled, and pumped donut-shaped smoke into the guy’s face. He then grabbed the girl by the hair, yanked her head down to his level, and kissed her.
She yelped and pulled away, her face suddenly void of its free-spirited smile. “This here is my bitch,” the man said, then he chuckled and tossed more cash at her. One greenback stuck to her boob. “A Ben Franklin pasty! I’ll take that,” he said, jumping on the small stage and forcing her to bump and grind on his thigh.
That only drew more hollers from the growing throng of guys surrounding the mini stage.
Kyle, a former linebacker for his high school football team, took his mitt, clutched the man’s scrawny arm, and pulled with everything he had. It was like he’d just flicked a beach towel. The suit, at least forty years old, tumbled to the floor and started moaning.
“Hey, Norma. Fuck that bastard. Let’s get out of here.”
“But I like it here. I get to play in money,” she yelled as she tossed a handful into the air. She was so wasted she’d already forgotten about the suit treating her like a rag doll.
Kyle was no saint—to girls or guys—but he didn’t think this was very funny or cool. The girl didn’t have her faculties, and with all the testosterone in this party mansion, he knew it wouldn’t take long for her to be gang-raped. If he and Norma could hook up, he was still cool with it. But over the course of just a few minutes, as he watched sex-craved, gluttonous pigs poke and prod at girls who were younger and younger looking, he felt more un
comfortable with the whole setup.
He glanced around and saw dozens of trays with mounds of white powder. People of all ages and sexes crowded the tables where the trays were resting, taking turns using razor blades to create lines that looked like white snails. He’d snorted before and, as usual, had bragged about his sexual prowess. That was the only Kyle he knew, the one who couldn’t shut his fucking trap about anything. He was always right, always smarter, and certainly, the catch of a lifetime—if for no other reason than all the money at his disposal from dear old Mom and Dad.
But at that moment, none of it mattered all that much. At least not like it had as far back as he could recall.
He looked over his shoulder for his buddies, ready to give them the signal he was about ready to grab the girl and get the hell out of Dodge—he’d buy her some clothes, take her to Denny’s, feed her a late-night breakfast, and sober her up. No sign of Trent or Ryan. They must be off hound-dogging some other wenches. Not surprising, given their nightly ritual back at UVA and certainly when on vacation at a beach.
With no wingmen, he was only slightly apprehensive. No one person scared him, even though he’d spotted three or four bouncers with more veins on their foreheads and necks than Frankenstein’s monster. He could handle them.
Kyle quickly looked around for some type of cover. He spotted a navy blue beach towel with a dolphin on it. He took three long strides and pulled it out from under a man who was mugging down with some girl on a couch. Who knew what the hell was on the towel, but he’d worry about it later, once he and Norma had safely removed themselves from the coke and sex orgy.
Just as he turned around, off to his left, one of the strippers took a swan dive off the couch and face-planted right on top of the tray. Smashing glass pierced through the thunderous music, turning everyone’s attention in that direction. People walked like zombies, lurking closer to the train wreck, but no one actually got down on the ground to see if she was okay. She moved a little bit.
It was the perfect diversion.
Kyle moved quickly over to the stage. No one noticed him helping Norma down the two steps and then wrapping her in the dolphin towel.
“Where are we going?” she asked with a tiny voice.
“I’m going to get you out of here, get you some food and clothes. Just want to make sure you’re safe.” Hearing himself say those words was…surreal. He never been anyone’s knight in shining armor, and never really thought of himself as having much integrity. He just lived to party. But tonight was different. Maybe he’d finally turned the corner and grown up a bit, just like his parents had been hoping—no, begging—for him to do for the last five or six years.
Moving quietly, the unlikely couple padded around the throng of rubberneckers…all staring at the train wreck. Then the girl on the ground pushed herself up slightly. Blood trickled off her forearms and onto the tile and shards of glass. And then she lifted her sweaty face.
It was coated with white powder.
Everyone laughed their asses off, which only aided the diversion.
Kyle made it through the main room with laughter still in the air. Through a crack in the crowd of people, he caught another quick glimpse of the girl on the floor. She was dazed and had started to lick her own face. He couldn’t imagine how much coke she was ingesting.
Just then, Norma’s legs gave out and her body became limp. Kyle dipped his shoulder and caught her before she hit the floor, which would have drawn attention. He wrapped one of her arms around his shoulder to get better leverage and hoisted her up. Her head swayed. She was wasted on coke and booze, and she seemed to be dipping in and out of consciousness.
“Just a little bit farther, Norma, and we’ll be out of here.”
“Thanks…what’s your name again?” She snorted, blowing spit on his face. He wiped it clean. The old Kyle would have dropped her like a brick and just kept walking. But tonight was different. He felt sorry for her and the predicament she’d gotten herself into. He knew that if he left her there, her life would never be the same.
Taking one step into the foyer, he glanced over his shoulder for his buddies. They were still AWOL. They were big boys and fully capable of fending for themselves. They’d regroup back at the motel and swap war stories. He could already predict their response. “When did you become such a pussy, Kyle?”
He turned and found a human wall two feet in front of him—a bouncer whose pecs would fit into a D-cup bra. His eyebrow twitched. “Where you going with her?”
“To get some fresh air. She’s out of it.”
“She’s not leaving. You can leave if you want. I don’t really know who you are anyway. But she stays.”
“Sorry, but she’s leaving with me. Now get the fuck out of my way, asshole.”
He took one step around the human wall, then felt the bouncer’s hand grab his upper arm. Kyle planted his foot and propelled his fist into the man’s jaw. He stumbled back. Kyle didn’t stop. He took a step forward and cold-cocked the fucker in the eye, then rammed his foot into the guy’s gonads—if he had any. The bouncer let out a squeal and slowly fell to the ground.
“Let’s go.”
He turned, and the barrel of a pistol jabbed into his jaw.
“You, my friend, have made a mistake of epic proportion.”
A wiry man with a thin goatee huffed through his nostrils. His breath smelled like rotten eggs.
Kyle froze, but even though Norma sagged in his arms, he didn’t let go of her.
“We just want to leave. No disrespect to anyone,” he said, trying not to move any part of his neck, where the gun barrel remained firmly pressed.
The wiry man chuckled while turning to gawk at two scantily clad women who were coming in the door behind him. Meanwhile, the human wall was back on his feet, now joined by two other Neanderthals. Kyle realized the odds were stacked against him, and he wondered where his buddies had gone.
“You shouldn’t even be here. You have committed a serious crime that must not go unpunished.”
A wave of emotions engulfed Kyle, with anger leading the race. He couldn’t wait to see how his dad would bring in the lawyers and make this asshole wish he had never crossed paths with him.
“Take him to the back, and let’s play a little game.” The man waved his gun at the bouncers.
With one arm still wrapped around Norma, Kyle released a single punch to the other side of the jaw of the same bouncer. Suddenly, Kyle’s entire body sizzled, and he crumpled to the floor.
They had tasered him. The next time he opened his eyes, he saw a skylight. The basic architecture of the room was the same, so he knew he was in some other room in the mansion. That was when the fun really began. He continued asking about Norma. They said the only way they would give him that information was if he sucked in a line of coke. He did this three times before he knew they were just screwing with him. His mind swirled, and he couldn’t say his name without slurring the words. He wondered if the coke was laced with some type of enhancer.
He couldn’t tell if he was just hearing voices in his head or people actually talking, but he was certain he heard one phrase uttered countless times: Hombre de Polvo. He must have heard that name fifty times, whenever anyone addressed the wiry man with the gun. Later, he heard it spoken in English and that’s when it made sense to him. He heard a distant voice say Powder Man.
The hallucinations only grew worse for Kyle. He had no control of his bodily functions, and words began to spill out of his mouth. It was as if he’d split into two people—his hidden self and his physical self. The former was buried deep inside his body and could hear his own violent rants, wincing at every curse word about women, Hispanics, and everyone else at that party. And his physical self, the crazy man, was yelling at the top of his lungs, out of control. All Kyle could do was try to will himself to stop, because he knew he was only pissing off all the thugs around him. How many were there? Five, six, ten, twenty? A few women in the mix, possibly, but no Norma. And that just upset hi
m more.
When the drug-induced rage had finally robbed him of all his energy, he rolled on the floor, as tears mixed with sweat and blood dripped from his nose. Echoes of what he’d said rattled his brain. For some unknown reason, he’d boasted that he was the next Tony Montana from the movie Scarface and would ruthlessly control all drug trade that filtered through Mexico and into the States. He would crush those who dared to oppose his leadership. His branding and marketing would hook kids, teens, and college kids on the new coke with promises of the greatest sustained high possible.
His furious monologue had dialed back the noise level in the room to only hushed whispers from a far corner. Minutes passed, maybe more time, he wasn’t sure. He thought about Norma and wondered what they were doing to her. He wondered where his buddies were, and he even thought about his parents. All of their influence and social status and money would do him no good. Not with this crowd, not after he’d fought back, and certainly not after his outburst.
“Vamos de prisa” he heard someone say as two bouncers lifted him off the floor.
With his shirt unbuttoned and four hairs poking from his skeletal chest, Hombre de Polvo shuffled closer to Kyle, their noses practically touching. “You are going on a little trip, my friend. And believe me, it will be a journey you will never forget. Take him away.”
The gorilla men dragged him out of the room, his feet skidding across the tile. They walked right through the main room where the music blared and the mindless partying was still in full force. He could still see the remnants of the broken table and white powder on the floor. He thought about yelling for help, hoping his boys would hear him or people would wake from their stupors and help him. But it was pointless. He had not an ounce of energy, and no one cared. He was essentially invisible.
Out the door they went. The skies were still dark. Men barked orders, and people rushed around. A trunk popped open. It was a silver Mercedes, the 500 series. They brought him around to the back. He could already smell the newness of the car. As they hoisted him upward, the clap of strong heels caught his attention. A woman marched to the car, swinging her arms with purpose. Her hourglass figure was accentuated by a gold dress that didn’t reach mid-thigh. A shining moon illuminated her straight hair that was as black as a seal’s wet fur. She wasn’t some bimbo just along for the ride. She had a powerful, don’t-fuck-with-me aura.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2) Page 7