Why won’t she just fucking get this over with?
I wasn’t sure if it had been days or weeks at this point, but this little game that my faceless coward was playing with me was getting tiring. I had spent most of whatever time I was left alone in the chair trying to wriggle out of the ropes. So far, I think I had loosened them, but not enough to get fully out of the chair.
The chair. This was just too fucking ironic for words.
It all started with a plan that was thought of by the current president of Tidals & Anchors Motorcycle Club. Through my blind fumbling and following orders, I had found out that he had set me up to kill the club president of the newly formed bitch gang, Stilettos and Steele. Apparently, my mouth was getting too much for him to handle and he wanted to erase me. But much like my faceless coward, Pardon never could get his own hands dirty and would always send me to do the dirtiest work when someone was to be put down.
And now here I was, somewhat tied to the actual chair that belonged to the president of Tidals & Anchors, trying to hold on to consciousness. I had been cut a few times; some were too deep and some were superficial. Either way, the loss of blood was starting to get to me and I needed to get the fuck out of this.
I think it had been an hour since our last “session”, maybe more or less, but I was strugg
ling to stay alert and I knew that this would be the only chance I really had to make a final break for it. If I couldn’t, then I was going to die in this chair and I’d never get the chance to kick Pardon’s face in.
I looked up at the table and saw some sharp, shiny things. My favorite, I thought with a grim smile. If I could just finish getting my wrists out of these goddamn binds, I would be able to get to the table and surprise the bitch when she got back.
I took a deep breath and put the rest of my energy into getting out of the restraints, but it was no use. I had lost too much blood and I was already too tired from just sitting in this chair to do much to help myself.
My head slumped against my chest and I let my eyes close. There was no point in fighting this shit anymore. I wouldn’t be able to get myself out of this.
Pardon wins after all.
“Not yet you don’t,” the muffled voice said.
I chuckled slightly. Maybe she hadn’t left the room after all. Maybe she had been lurking in the shadows watching me struggle and maybe she was finally going to call the old bastard and let him know that it was time.
I felt something plastic and somewhat sharp being shoved against my lips. It took another couple of jabs to realize that it was a straw. I parted my lips and let her push the straw further into my mouth and started sucking down the cold water she had brought to me. Slowly, very slowly, but surely it was starting to give me a little bit of energy back.
“Feel better?” she asked, pulling the straw away when I was done. “It’s far from over, Swing. I need you to stay with me until it’s time for you to die.”
“Can’t wait,” I managed to say.
She scoffed and threw the cup across the room. It seemed that I wouldn’t be getting anymore water today for my little remark, but I had been told before that my mouth was a bit of a problem.
“What the hell?” she muttered suddenly. I heard her footsteps as she walked somewhere behind me and the whoosh of the old, ragged curtains on the window being pulled back. I never did get a chance to replace those, I thought as I closed my eyes again.
The unmistakable sound of motorcycle engines roaring closer made me smile. Maybe Pardon decided to come check on his little project. I’d be able to get in one last fuck you before I died and that would be enough to make me genuinely smile.
“Hmph,” she said quietly, as the engines finally died away.
Or maybe not.
She came back over to me and I felt her hovering for a moment before she went back to the table.
Then I heard the sound of the door as it caved under some kind of assault and heard her gasp in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in surprise.
“Sorry. But we need him alive,” a voice replied.
Those words were punctuated by one of the loudest gunshots I had ever heard in my life, and the masked assailant’s body dropping to the floor. I cracked my eyes open and saw the mask was crying tears of blood and realized she had been shot in the forehead.
“Cut him loose. We gotta get him back to Femme Fatale so I can fix him up,” the voice commanded.
Immediately, I saw a petite frame appear in the corner of my eye at the table. I watched as a knife came back toward me, disappearing behind me, and felt the movements of whoever it was cutting the ropes off.