Page 68 of Home to the Hollow

“He’s no more powerful than you; he’s just an asshole,” Prez mutters.

Boone turns and flashes us a toothy grin. “I heard that.”

Before either of us can answer, he’s barreling through the open door like a kamikaze trench runner, and I sigh. “Well, let’s go cannon fodder. The alpha is on the hunt.”

Waking Up in Vegas

“Ican’t get her to wake up!”

I hear people talking, but it’s like they’re at the end of a tunnel, and I can’t see how long it is. I try moving, but hands press me down, causing me to panic. Every woman's secret nightmare is waking up to someone holding you down. I’m pretty sure I say something in protest, but I can't be certain if it’s out loud or in my head.

Jesus line dancing Christ, I’m a trained fighter and I can hit a flea on a dog’s ass at fifteen hundred feet, but here I am, as useless as a trapdoor on a canoe.

How in the donkey fucking hell did some asshole corner me?

My limbs feel like they’re filled with sand, and I frown as I try to wiggle out of the firm grasp again. Something isn’t right. I can’t seem to move like I should be able to. My brain feels like it’s filled with cobwebs, and when I attempt to scream, it echoes in my head like a gong in a bomb shelter.

Holy fuck, they drugged me.

Panic sets in and I struggle, forcing my eyes to open. It isn’t easy, as fear and exhaustion are weighing every part of my frame down, but I pry my lids open. Everything is blurry, and the light is so bright that I might as well be in a Siberian interrogation camp.

Son of a bitch! Did those assholes from Thailand catch up to me?

Wouldn’tthatbe an ironic way to die? Find a place I can finally call home, make genuine connections with people, and end up getting plugged because I couldn’t save some tin pot general who supported the wrong side of a revolution. Never mind that I was only there to…

Focus, Jolene. Figure out where you are and how you’re going to purge this shit from your system so you can escape.

Vomit. I’d play a fiddle of gold against the Devil if it meant I could get out of this without having to make myself puke.

“Why is she muttering about puke? O’ Flanagan, you better have answers!”

Do they have Seer, too? Fuck me with a tire iron, now I’ve got to save my sorry assandrescue a damsel. If the chimps in my head would quit playing bass drums, it would go a long way to allowing my brain to function. I close my eyes again, lifting my hand towards my face. I’m ninety percent certain I’m going to toss sidewalk pizza to get the effects of this shit to wear off. Might as well start with the old tried and true from the popular girls in high school…

“No! She’s going to choke herself. Christ, Hamilton,do something. This is your moment to shine, you feathered freeloader.”

A hand lifts from my shoulder, sliding down my arm gently to grasp my wrist. They pull my hand away from my face and I whimper pitifully. For a moment, I think all is lost, but I realize that holding my hand freed up one side of my body. I’m not fully pinioned, so if I have an opening, I might get free. I can’t feel much below my ribs, but I concentrate hard on wiggling my hips. I don’t know if it will work, but if I can get this asshole to lean in, it opens up some options.

This would be a lot easier if I had an operational brain box. I may never drink again, just so you know. Okay, that was a straight up lie, but give me a break. I’m drugged and may be a prisoner. My headspace is pretty fucked up at the moment.

“Is she crying? Fuck, I thought you were going to help her, not make her cry, Hamilton!”

The dude on top of me seems to have a friend. I keep hearing bits and pieces of conversation that I can’t process, but whatever the last bit meant spooked my captor. Fingers unwind from my wrist and move to wipe what I guess are tears off my cheeks. Now they’ve done it... I never let people see me cry. It’s a taboo subject in the Jolene handbook, and I’m well and truly pissed now.

When my captor leans in to make soothing noises, I strike. Forcing my noodle arm around his neck, I summon every bit of strength I have to push their head into my armpit. I lock that arm around their throat, creating a chokehold with my hands interlaced. Wheezing sounds echo in my head, and I’m not sure if it’s the asshole or me, but I wing a prayer to the wine god as I send a message to my leg to wrap around his back.

If I can keep this fucker in the Guillotine, I may make him pass him out. Then I’ll have to figure out how to move and find Seer.

“Holy fuck! Where did she learn Brazilian Jujitsu?”

“In Brazil, ya knob. Stop yelling; my feckin’ head feels like gremlins have a brass band in it.”

Wait, a minute. Seer doesn’t sound scared; she sounds annoyed and… maybe hungover? What in the fiddling fuck is going on?

The arms of the asshole I’ve got choked are flailing, and I can’t seem to figure out what is going on, so I ease up on the pressure. It takes a momentous effort, but I lift my head and lean in to smell the grabby dickface. When I smell the scent of my body wash, I gasp, letting go of the person on top of me. My eyes open and I squint hard, the images swimming as they float over my field of vision.

“Presley?”

“Thank Zombie Jaysus! She’s coming round, boys!”

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