Page 69 of Hitch
“Think real hard, Hitch. It ain’t a secret.”
My equilibrium rocks as pain surges in the back of my neck.Michael.He’s talking about my sugar daddy, Michael, isn’t he? Michael is a jerk and I don’t know why I was with him for so long, but it scares me to think that Duane is violent enough to kill him.
For me.
I blink rapidly at Duane, but not seeing anything but the violence he’s capable of. He’s not a human anymore; he’s a blood-covered monster.
How could he do this?
I back away slightly. “You’re fucking crazy,” I say. The Mortician grunts to the side, and I hold my breath, searching for an exit. There’s nowhere for us to run, and if I know Duane, there’s no chance that the Mortician is getting out of this alive.
Imay not even get out of this alive.
I search for something, anything to help me escape. There are cords. Hoses. Machines I don’t know how to operate.
But in the back, hanging against the wall, is a metal rake.
It may be my only chance to knock him out.
Duane follows my eyes, then tsks off to the side.
“You got a gun,” he says. “If you’re going to kill me, then use that.”
I shake my head slightly. I don’t want to kill Duane or the Mortician. I just want to escape. To give us some space so I can figure out how to get through to Duane. To talk some sense into him.
“Goddamn, Hitch. You knew the kind of man I was that first night we met,” he says, reading my mind. “Why are you acting like this is a big shock to you?”
I wipe my sweaty hands on my clothes, an outfit I borrowed from Duane.
What do I do?
But I need to actnow.
I race for the rake, darting around a tractor, and Duane doesn’t even follow me. Instead, he draws closer to the Mortician.
Shit!
I hold up the rake like it’s a sign of peace.
“I’m not going to kill anyone, Duane,” I say forcefully. “You need to think this through. He means nothing to me.”
“He fingered you,” Duane says. “You and I both know that you don’t let justanyonefinger you in the VIP room. He wasspecial,wasn’t he? One you hand-picked amongst the rest.”
A knot churns in my stomach. Did Todd tell him about that? Or has Duane somehow been watching me on the surveillance footage this entire time?
“And he had the nerve to disregard that privilege and threaten your life,” Duane continues. “I heard what he said about putting you in a hole. Todd texted me. You deserve more respect than that.”
In a practiced, deliberate movement, Duane presses the blade to the Mortician’s throat, and everything switches to slow motion. The Mortician’s eyes go white. A red fountain gushes from the cut on his neck. Blood covers Duane’s hands. Everything is red, and needles of fear prick every inch of my body.
Duane is a fucking monster.
Duane’s eyes impale me, monitoring my every move. I hold the rake in front of me like a shield, but it’s a weak defense; Duane has the power to rip it from my hands.
I have to run. Right fucking now.
As soon as Duane’s close enough, I swing the rake into his chest, then let it go and lunge around the tractor. I run through the barn, but trip, my knees cracking on the pavement. Fear charges through me, beads of sweat bubbling on every exposed part of my skin. I push myself up, but Duane’s arms wrap around me, covering me in blood. My muscles knot together as a tremor passes through me.
“Please,” I beg. “Don’t do this.”
