Page 68 of Ends of Being

The tall blond guy standing closest to me smirks. “About to meet your end and still running your fucking mouth. How fitting.”

He has a fair point. I’ve never been one to push the envelope in unknown situations, but part of me acknowledges that it might be easier on myself if I push one of these yahoos into putting me down now rather than going up on the auction block to be handed over to some deviant who I’m sure has a huge grudge against me. But then, there’s the other part of me, that stubborn cunt part of me, who knows that the likelihood of me coming out of this in one piece increases significantly if I’m not barred into these four walls.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout my years in this life, it’s that, generally speaking, people are inherently stupid. Regardless of your reputation and regardless of how well you’ve presented yourself as a badass who is not to be fucked with, there’s always gonna be that one yahoo out there who thinks it’s all bullshit. That one yahoo who believes it’s all a myth and takes it as a challenge to prove it to the world. And I’m sure as fuck hoping it’s that yahoo who bids on me and takes me on.

So, I close my mouth and lay back, and close my eyes as I reply, “Fair point. Carry on.”

I feel hands on my arms, so I open my eyes and realize they’re trying to get me to sit. I haul myself upright and sit on the side, leaning heavily on my thighs as I attempt to get my bearings.

The tall, blond guy says, “Time to go. Got a whole bunch of people waiting on you. If you live to see tomorrow, you’re gonna fucking regret it.”

The whole group of men laugh at this, and I have to roll my eyes in response because I’d rather be dead than listen to another word out of their stupid fucking mouths.

Once I appear to be steady on my feet, they release me. I slowly take a few steps without the room swimming around me. They lead me out of the room and down the hallway. It turns out I’m in some kind of warehouse, which, of course, I’m not at all surprised about. Seems all of us disreputable assholes do our business in warehouses, and there are a lot of fucking warehouses in the world.

We turn the corner and enter another room with a chair set in the middle of a small stage. Three bare walls, then the far wall is a mirror. I assume that the mirror is just the one-way window where whoever may be wanting to purchase me is sitting.

Now, I’m torn between theatrics and just being tired. Do I want to go on stage as a beaten man? Or do I want to put on a little show of bravado just to tease the crowd? I attempt to walk up the stairs and stumble a bit, and by the time I fall into the chair, I have to accept there’s no bravado left in me, false or otherwise.

This doesn’t mean I’m a beaten man; this just means I’m fucking tired, but none of these assholes will know that. They’re all out there, congregated, patting themselves on the back, getting their little fucking high-fives that they finally managed to bring in the Beast.

I can’t help the little smile that forms on my lips as I stare out at the mirror, a chuckle falling from my lips as I ponder who is the most likely to pay top dollar for me.

And that’s how I remain as I wait to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dare

IfeellikeI’vebeen sitting in this room on the damn stage for days, though I’m sure it’s only been hours. Surely, it didn’t take this much time to get someone to pay a lot of cash for me as I have an extensive list of enemies, who I’m sure would be frothing at the mouth to take me home with them. So, them having me sitting up here on a pedestal awaiting someone’s retribution is hilarious.

It seems rather fitting, given how I’ve basically led my adult life with both middle fingers, and very few people have ever attempted to step up and knock me down. It’s been so long since I’ve been properly put on my ass that I’m probably due for it anyway.

I’ve been playing a little game here, trying to decide who’s gonna come through that door. The problem is there’s such a long list of possibilities that I get confused about who would be the most pissed at me that they’d pay the most money for me. There are a few people who would like nothing more than to stab me in the throat, but they’re far too proud to pay for me. They’d continue to bide their time until they could take me out properly, but that still leaves a whole slew of people who have more money than sense.

I’m just considering lying down on the stage to get a nap when I hear someone at the door. All the deadbolts slide open, and the door squeaks, and there’s fuckwad with a bunch of his shit-ass men behind him. They all walk into the room, and fuckwad stops in front of me and says, “It’s done. You’ll be moved to your new home soon.”

I can’t help but snort, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest as I reply, “And who is the happy bidder, do tell?”

He gives me a stern look. “I think you should be a little more serious about the murky situation you’re in.”

I shrug and shake my head in dismissal. “I don’t think it fucking matters either way. So, where am I going?”

Fuckwad turns away, motioning for me to follow him, and out the door we go, back down the same hallway I came down. He doesn’t say anything, which probably should make me nervous, but I honestly can’t find any fucks to give about it. He leads me out of the building to a waiting car, and he opens the door, motioning for me to get in as he says, “They’re taking you to the airfield that your buyer designated for transport. If you give anyone any trouble, I’ll make sure your girl pays.”

I give him a nod and then get in the car. I’m not going to give anyone a hard time before I know what I’m up against.

It’s a short drive to the airfield, and I’m surprised to find a spiffy little private jet rather than the cargo plane I anticipated. The idea that I’ll be riding in luxury to parts unknown kind of creeps me out. I’d much rather be getting into the back of a cargo plane because, at least then, I know what to expect.

The door opens, and I get out of the car and follow the man toward the plane. He motions for me to go up the stairs and then stops me and says, “I need your watch.”

I start, giving him an incredulous look. “I’m not giving you my fucking watch.”

The man sighs, standing his ground as he says, “I have orders to take your watch, and that’s what I’m gonna do. You already heard the boss, so let’s not cause any trouble for anyone else over a piece of jewelry.”

He’s right. I don’t want to tell him he’s right, but it’s difficult to argue when someone is making good sense. That doesn’t change the fact I really don’t want to give him my fucking watch.

He must sense my indecision on the matter because he leans a little closer to me and whispers, “Solid 80% chance you’ll get it back someday.”

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