Page 113 of Half Baked

I needed to escape, and I couldn’t do it with my feet tied together. “You’re either gonna have to untie my feet or carry me inside. I probably weigh one-ninety, one ninety-five. I don’t want to hurt your back.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying. You don’t weigh that much.”

Then, just to prove me wrong, he pressed his shoulder into my stomach and lifted me up. “Don’t barf on my back.”

“No promises,” I said, trying hard not to, although it would serve him right. I glanced back at the open trunk as he carried me away, taking in the plate-sized blood stain on the carpet. I told myself not to be alarmed. Head wounds bled a lot.

Based on the blood dripping on the ground, mine was still bleeding.

I considered trying to get away from him, but I couldn’t run away with my feet and hands trussed up. If I tried, I’d likely just piss him off and get another wound for my effort. As hard as it was, I needed to cooperate for now and look for another way to escape.

Murphy was carrying me through the empty bar. Pictures of roosters were on the walls, confirming what I already knew, although I’d hoped my head wound had made me misread the sign. This definitely was Cock of the Walk.

I was in deep, deep trouble.

“Take her to the back,” a man over by the bar said. “They’re calling him right now.”

Who were they calling? Part of me wanted to ask, but my head was throbbing from hanging upside down.

“Hey, there’s blood dripping all over my clean floor!” the bartender called out.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Murphy asked with a laugh. “Your floors ain’t never clean.”

“You’re cleaning up the mess before we open at five!”

Ignoring him, Murphy headed down a hall and through a door. Then he turned down another hall and opened a door, flicking on a light. Shelves lined the walls of the small room inside, and a wide array of cans and boxes covered the shelves.

“This place doesn’t seem very hospitable,” I said, my words slurred.

He laughed. “Not up to your standards?”

“I doubt it’d be up to anyone’s standards.”

“At least it’s not the walk-in freezer.” He dropped to a crouch and unceremoniously dumped me onto the tile floor, then headed for the door. “That’s where we kept the last guy.”

I started to panic. My hands and feet were still tied. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

He shook his head. “Nope. No way.”

“If you don’t take me, I’ll pee my pants.”

“So pee your pants.”

He turned to leave, and I called out, “Can you untie me first?”

“Nope. No one said I could.”

“Please? My arms really hurt, and I presume you’re locking me in here. I can’t get out.”

He hesitated.

“Please?That way if I get sick again, I can make sure I throw up somewhere in the middle of the floor.” I winced. “I doubt you want to cleanthatup.”

Groaning, he came back inside. “Fine,” he grunted, then untied my hands. I didn’t press my luck and ask for my feet. With my hands free, I could manage that one myself.

He left me on the floor and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

I gave myself a moment to let the room stop spinning. I tentatively reached my hand to the back of my head, jumping from the pain as soon as I touched the large lump. Blood matted in my hair and coated the back of my shirt.

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