Page 83 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

Someone’s tethered a set of heavy chains to the ceiling and the whole of my weight is suspended by those very chains. It’s not exactly comfortable.

“Morning, Sunshine!” the man in front of me says. He gets so fucking up in my face that spittle flies from his lips right onto my cheek. Fucker.

“Cooney, don’t get too close.” I don’t see who calls out, but it’s a man’s voice that comes from somewhere at my back. “His daddy warned us that he might bite.” Too fucking late. Before he’s even finished trying to caution his friend, I’ve already reared back and slammed the top of my head into Cooney’s nose.

My wrists aren’t broken, but the weight of my own fucking body isn’t exactly giving me any winning points. They’re tingling and half numb, but my face isn’t. As my head slams into Cooney’s, blood spurts and he stumbles back, falling right on his ass. My legs shake as I try to stay on my toes, something to alleviate the agony of my wrists holding most of my weight, but they barely graze the concrete floor, giving me little to no reprieve. My muscles practically scream as I shift around, dangling side to side from the chains that keep my arms locked over my head.

“Motherfucker!” A fist slams into my jaw and my legs go flying as my body spins on the chains. My wrists drop down once more on the chains and I grit my teeth against the pain as the man yells again. “That hurt!” Another fist lands, sending me careening in the opposite direction. The whole room tilts and bile fucking threatens to spew up.

Shaking, ready to vomit, I come to a slow swinging stop as a firm hand lands on my shoulder, holding me in place. “I warned you, Cooney,” the man from earlier says. “You didn’t listen.”

“You didn’t give me a warningbeforeI woke the fucker up!” Cooney yells as he stomps away, holding his hand over his bleeding nose.

The man who stopped me from spinning further steps fully into view, releasing me as he does. He’s massive—bigger than me for sure. Broad shouldered with an ugly ass scar that runs diagonally across his face from the outer edge of one eyebrow all the way to his upper lip on the opposite side. The scar itself is long since healed, pale with age.

“What the fuck do you want?” I snap out, clenching my fists where they’re locked together.

He arches his undamaged brow and leans back on the heels of his boots. “I don’t want shit with you, kid,” he says. “I’m just here to do a job. Daddy dearest hired us to bring you here and teach you a lesson.”

“Not gonna kill me, then?” I ask.

He purses his lips. “What kinda father wants to kill his own son?” he asks in lieu of an answer.

I chuckle, yet it’s anything but amused. “You’re in the wrong profession if you don’t think there are plenty of fathers who want to kill their sons.”

“When you’re a Kincaid?” He shakes his head. “Maybe not.”

“So, what’s your fucking lesson then, huh? Beat me? Make me hurt? Fuck, that’s something he could’ve done himself. What are you really here for?” I demand.

An alarm sounds behind him, a bulb high on the wall behind the man glows red and pulses as the grated metal doors—where cars would be let into the shop—slowly begin to rise. Several more men duck down, entering the space. Coldness washes over me.

“We don’t ask a lot of questions, kid,” Scarface replies. “We just do the jobs.”

Something’s off about this. My inner warning system is going haywire. I glance around the mostly empty space. Cooney comes back with a bandage over his nose, eyes watery and red as he glares at me. A flash of metal draws my attention down to his hands. He grins as he holds up a hand axe and shakes it towards me.

“Gonna make you regret that head butt, shitstain,” he cackles.

Another of the newer guys takes one look at Cooney’s face and laughs. “Shit, he got you good, man!”

Cooney glares at the man. “Shut the fuck up, Jones, or I’ll use this fucker on you too,” he says twisting the axe through the air like he’s chopping an invisible limb off.

Jones holds up his hands and backs up. Though his smile remains, there’s an obvious nervousness in his actual expression. His eyes are wide and a little wild, jerking from Cooney to Scarface to me and then back again. “Just joking, Cooney,” he finally says.

“Ain’t no one paying you to be a comedian,” Cooney shoots back. “So keep your trap shut and just do what you’re told.”

I direct my attention back to Scarface. “What else?” I demand again. “There’s gotta be more to this than teaching me a lesson. My old man hasn’t appeared in months. Why now?”

It has to do with Micki. I know it, but I need to make sure. What does he know? What dotheyknow?

Scarface withdraws a wicked looking blade from a sheath on his belt and holds it up to the light. The serrated edge hovers in front of my face. “All we were told was to keep you busy while he handled other matters,” he says. “And the lesson he wanted us to teach you was this.” He steps forward and all of the air rushes out of my lungs as he slams the damn thing right into my stomach—a little to the side. Not close enough to damage my organs, but—shit—just enough to cause me the most fucking pain.

He leans close. A ragged breath smelling of nicotine and coffee hits me in the face. “Never let a cunt lead you here again, son.”

I cough, my breath wheezing in and out as I try to maintain my grip on the pain coursing through my side. “Cunt?” I reply. “There ain’t no cunt worth this. Pussy on the other hand…” I look up and grin at him. “Pussy can certainly lead a man astray.” And no doubt, he’s answered my question. My father knows about Micki and he knows that I’ve fucked her.

Despite what he may think, he’s not so hard to understand. There was a reason he kept her from me, a reason he stole her away from me. It wasn’t just about her but about me too. I hadn’t hidden it well enough. Our relationship, so innocent before and so fucking brand new. He never could stand letting me have anything I truly wanted.

Scarface leans back and laughs. “This is gonna be fun,” he says.

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