Page 156 of Naughty Dreams
“I’m sorry, Dorian, but I won’t tolerate you pretending with me.” Paul withdrew a Taser from one of those pockets and pressed it to DJ’s chest.
Holy God.He hit the floor like a doll flung down by a pissed-off child, every muscle in his body seizing. Thank fuck Paul didn’t follow him with it, but he did lean over to study DJ’s distorted face. His eyes darkened at the odd moaning noise DJ was making. It pissed DJ off that tears were seeping from his eyes. Paul wiped them away for him, carefully.
“Youwillbehave with me. Which means you’ll tell me the truth, and mind your manners. I can care for you better that way. Nod if you understand.”
Nodding hurt like hell, but he managed it.
“I would like it if you said “Yes, Sir.”
DJ was pretty sure he was going to throw up. The avid way the man looked at him said he had a whole daddy-son thing going on, with a sexual component that made it all the more nauseating.
“Kiss my ass.”
He didn’t want him pretending; fine, he wouldn’t pretend. Paul’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t retaliate. Instead, he hefted DJ like a rolled-up rug again and dumped him into a cart, like what a housecleaning staff used for linens. It told DJ the choice of closet hadn’t been random. A dark blanket landed over him, then was piled with things that felt like equipment and props that got transported wherever needed for the events. Cables, boxes, but nothing so heavy it was uncomfortable. Just concealing.
“Take a nap. You’ve already noticed that drug has a paralytic agent that affects your coordination and how loudly you can talk. It’s not permanent, I promise. We’ll talk when we get to your new home.” A touch of excitement came through Paul’s voice, muffled though it was, making DJ’s stomach heave again. “I can’t wait to show you how I’ve set up your room.”
A vision of cages and restraints, not the good kind, went through his head. DJ wasn’t going to let fear take over. He wasn’t a little kid anymore, and he had a brain. He also had a formidable weapon in his arsenal to keep him calm.
Utter and absolute faith in Roy.
He wouldn’t disrespect his Master by allowing even a hint of fear through. He was never going to see that room, it was never going to become part of his nightmares. Roy was going to find him.
The cart bounced along the hallway. He heard screaming, more pounding feet, as Paul took the cart near more populated exits. DJ pushed his thumb into the wound in his hand, the resulting pain electrifying his nervous system. But he foundPaul was right. A rasping whisper or whimpering moan was his current vocal range.
Wait.He fumbled in his pocket and found the wire cutters he used for his guitar strings. They were foldable, so they didn’t take up much room. Paul had dumped him into the cart headfirst, so DJ thought he was closer to the front of it. Pushing from the back, Paul couldn’t see that angle, and the cart had canvas sides.
DJ fought the drug by stabbing his hand with the cutters this time. When he thought he was planted on a narrow ledge of clarity, at least for the next few moments, he started to grind and jab the cutters against the canvas. When they punched through, his vision wavered from the jolt, like a TV with a bad signal.
No. You will not pass out. You will not.
He did, but just for a few seconds. When he roused, the cutters were no longer in his hand. He’d dropped them. He pushed away the frustration and surge of panic, and felt around. Most of his body felt numb.
The noise of people was all around him and he didn’t have the strength to struggle out from under the blanket. He still couldn’t get more than a rasp past his lips, and there was too much noise going on—sirens, yelling—for anyone to hear him. Goddamn it. He’d barely been able to wheeze out that “kiss my ass” earlier. But Paul had said it was temporary.
Paul spoke to a cop, telling him he was taking the equipment to an exit, to get it outside. The cop gave him a brief, terse lecture on why his life was more important than anything in the building, but the cart moved forward, so he was letting Paul take it with him.
The hole. Get your damn fingers out the hole.If he could just find it. DJ slid both hands over the canvas, trying to be methodical about it, not racing in circles like a panicked camper in the woods.There.He got a finger through, then two, andhe started wiggling them. It might be the world’s most pitiful attempt to be noticed, but maybe someone would see it.
Someone running to get out of the building? A cop or firefighter?
No, they’d be trying to get people out. No one would be looking for something as subtle as that.
Except for the person who’d be looking for DJ like a rabid bloodhound, having his people watch all exits, watching for any out of place detail. The smoke smell was still there, and it was getting stronger, so Paul had to be heading for an exit.
Or not. Shit, they were back in a quiet area. The cart stopped with a jerk.
“I told you, Dorian,” Paul said reasonably. “I’m sorry for this.”
Abruptly, Paul’s hand clamped around DJ’s two exposed fingers. He snapped the bones with an efficient, way-too- knowledgeable twist. DJ screamed, a harsh sound. He couldn’t pull enough breath into his lungs and choked.
“If you behave, I might set those for you. If you don’t, I might wait a few days.” A note of menace crept into the creepily reasonable flow of words. Paul had taken the Kathy Bates’Miseryplaybook to heart. “Try to signal anyone again, DJ, and I will kill them. They don’t mean anything to me. A fourteen-year-old girl crushing on you. A cop. A fireman. Anyone.”
Shit.DJ threw up from the pain. He was strangling, too disoriented from the meds and the pain to know which way to turn his head.
Please don’t let me die choking on my own vomit.
A rockstar had to have priorities, after all.
