Page 72 of Bedding Rose
“Test,” Angelo’s voice comes through his speaker—warped by the machine so that it’s low and mechanical.
“Testing,” Mint replies, his voice altered the same way so that the two of them are nearly indistinguishable.
“Test,” I reply, speaking into the miniature microphone attached to the speaker. My voice doesn’t pitch quite as low as theirs and the difference is noticeable. “I’ll try not to talk,” I offer.
“It’s fine, just stay back so they can’t hear your real voice instead of the speaker,” Angelo warns me as he lifts the duffel.
I nod. Stay back is my rule for the night. I’m allowed to be here. I’m allowed to watch. I was allowed to help him plan every detail of this event, but Angelo doesn’t want me to get close enough to touch.
“I don’t want their fingertips staining your skin,” he’d murmured last night before kissing my neck and securing my promise to adhere to his rules. I don’t ever want those fuckers touching me again, so I had no qualms about agreeing.
Mint breaks our circle first and heads over to a beat-up old door at the rear of the station. I only notice the gloves he’s wearing when he opens it for us like a bouncer and gestures for us to enter.Tonight’s exclusive club is only open for special guests.My giddy mind makes terrible, cringeworthy jokes that I swallow down as I peer inside.
A construction light on a tripod is the only thing breaking up the darkness. It shines like a spotlight on two men, torsos wrapped in rope, who dangle from massive pulleys set into the ceiling. Heads covered in hoods so they can’t see us, I hear one of them cursing quietly. The second one’s shoulders are jerking, as if he’s trying to free himself from his bindings.
Angelo’s voice comes as a shock when it cuts through the darkness, robotic and harsh. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Fuck you,” one of the hooded men shouts. So they aren’t gagged.
We’d discussed it, but Angelo said it would be better to measure their terror by their screams. Then we’d know how effective part one of the plan was.
I belong in a mental institution for being okay with this.
Angelo drops the duffel, the sound immediately making both men stiffen. “You’ve dishonored the brothers of Alpha Tau. Tonight you’ll pay for your crimes.”
Both guys immediately start spluttering out excuses, polluting the air with nonsense and making me roll my eyes.
They seriously believe their fraternity brothers would kidnap and bind them and drive them out of town? Fucking fools. But fine. All the better for us if they actually buy this bullshit.
I ignore their idiotic outbursts, following Angelo’s lead. He pays them no mind as he pulls a bat from his bag before he glances over at Mint and gives him a nod.
The big, bald man shuffles over to the light and turns it slightly to the right, revealing a fifty-pound animal feed bag strung up on a rope about ten feet to the side of the frat boys. Then he walks across the room and I see him grab the rope strung through the pulley holding up the bag. Turning his modulator to another setting, he gives a thumbs up to Angelo, who speaks.
“I’m going to number you. And then one of your brothers is going to pick a number. You’d better hope it’s not yours.” Using the end of the bat, he roughly punches the guy closest to me in the gut. “One.” The guy gives out a horrid, ragged gasp as his diaphragm contracts and he swings through the air like a limp puppet.
My boyfriend takes a step over and punches the second guy the same way, calling out, “Two.” The guy flops like a fish and ends up landing a wild kick to Angelo’s face.
I suck in a worried breath and take a step forward but Angelo and Mint both hold up their hands to keep me back, so I stop, frozen, but concerned.
Acting as if nothing happened and like the kick doesn’t even hurt, Angelo moves over to the feed bag. He shoves the bat into it, calling out, “Three!”
After that, Angelo turns to me expectantly, the lines we practiced the last few nights dancing like sugarplums in my addled, frenzied brain. Adrenaline has me staring at him, hardly able to hear as he asks the question I’m already expecting. “Brother, what number do you choose?”
“Three,” I tuck my chin in and speak carefully into the voice changer.
“Three.” Angelo slowly repeats my words, letting it sink into the guys that they haven’t been picked, waiting for their limbs to go limp in relief. As soon as they’ve calmed, he states, “Let’s find out if you have candy inside when I break you open.” Then he steps back, takes up a batting position, and whacks the feedbag with all his strength as if it’s a piñata.
Mint—voice still altered by the voice-changer but not mechanical sounding anymore—gives a screech that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Fuck, man. That’s too much. Whatever we did—that’s too much. You’re gonna kill him!” Frat boy number one calls out, his tone a panicked, nasal whine.
“You don’t even know why you’re here? You haven’t figured it out?” Angelo queries before he swings the bat again and gives the bag a solid thunk, making it swing through the air. Mint sucks in a gasping breath and gives off a pathetic moan as he expertly maneuvers the rope so that the feed bag doesn’t accidentally hit guy number two.
“None of you? No guesses as to what could ruin our frat’s reputation? Get us kicked off campus? Our name splashed all over the news?” He waits, letting the silence grow heavy and thick with expectation as the two guys try to think through the haze of their panic.
Minutes pass.
“That girl,” Number two says quietly. Finally.
