Page 90 of Dean's Delinquent

“Calm down, old man,” he teases. “Just confirmed we don’t have your girl. None of my boys have even stepped foot out of Florida recently. So take a breath before you have a heart attack. I’m guessing since you’re asking me where she is, you don’t have a tracker on her.”

“Don’t worry. When I get her back, they will be all over her fucking body.”

“No need. She’s already got one in her. I’m sending the login information and password over to your email.”

“How the fuck do you have a tracker in her? I thought you didn’t know her.”

“Apparently she became good enough friends with Marnie that Preston decided he needed to keep an eye on things, just in case. That information will help you find her. Oh, and John. I want to make it very clear that after this, we are done. Me helping you will pay back my debt for you taking in Luke and keeping an eye on Sean. You’ve done well by my boy, so that earns you my gratitude. But do not call me again. Our matters are now concluded.”

“Stay the fuck out of New York, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Likewise. Stay the fuck out of Florida. You and that Russian brute. Oh. And one last act of charity before you go. When you find the Hartwell girl, be sure to pass on a message. Tell her to forget Marnie. Pretend she never existed, if that’s what she has to do. For her sake, she needs to never have contact with her again. She belongs to Preston now, and he will put a bullet between your girl’s eyes without a second thought if she pisses him off anymore.”

With that, he hangs up, leaving me in silence. Right now, I don’t give a fuck about Marnie. Though it’s nice to at least have that part of all this confirmed and concluded, my Ashleigh takes precedence. I can only hope I’m not too late and can find my girl alive and well.

ChapterThirty-Six

Ashleigh

Pain and nausea. That’s the only thing I know as I try to crack my eyes open. Why do I feel so horrible?

My gut clenches as a sliver of light comes through my slitted eyelids. All it does is make me want to squeeze them shut and never open them again. It doesn’t stop the pain, though.

The ache pounds through my skull, throbbing with each breath I force into my lungs. Soft sounds permeate my brain, making the discomfort even worse. Who knew crickets were so loud and annoying? I sure as hell didn’t.

Cool air brushes my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Great. More pain. Is Dean Anderson doing something different with me? Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel good. When is he going to give me the pleasure that helps take the edge off?

As I force my eyes to open again, a riot of colors assaults my senses. Reds, whites, golds, and blacks swim in and out of view. It’s as if they move about in some discordant circle. None of this makes sense.

I try again and almost instantly wish I hadn’t. A decrepit carousel wobbles about as it turns on gears that creak and groan with each little movement. Why is this on campus?

“Please,” a male voice whimpers nearby. “I have money. Lots of it. You can have whatever you want. Please, just let me go.”

I know that voice. What is Caldwell doing here? As if his name is the catalyst, memories pour into my mind, shattering it open until pain rips through my skull. The text. The abandoned fairground. I was hit. Someone hit me.

Glancing over to the side, I follow the voice until I see Caldwell locked in a filthy cage. His designer clothes are ripped and torn, with smatterings of blood staining the jagged edges. Did we both get jumped?

It’s agony to remain still and alert, but I do my best. I keep my breathing shallow as I take further inventory of myself. So far, the only real pain is in my head. Granted, it’s bad enough that any of the smaller pains get a bit swallowed up by it.

Closing my eyes, I turn off the nausea for a moment as I take further inventory. Toes wiggle. Fingers wiggle. That’s the far extremities. I don’t dare move any other bigger muscles for fear of alerting whoever this is that I’m awake. While they still think I’m asleep, I might have a chance.

A dull ache blossoms in my shoulders as an ungodly burn threatens to tear the fabric of my muscles. Unfortunately, I can’t look to see what’s happening to them. My arms are still attached, but that seems to be the only thing I can figure out.

As I hang there, everything twists and turns in infinitesimal movements. Am I dangling? As I try to move my toes again, they brush against the ground, but just barely. I’m hanging. Strung up by my wrists. It’s the only way to explain the agony shooting down my arms.

That is when the pain actually niggles its way through the incessant discomfort coming from my head. Thankfully, with all the blood draining down, parts of me actually feel a touch numb. It’s only when moving that it roars to life in a way that’s hard to ignore.

Tears prick the edges of my eyelids and threaten to spill down my cheeks. If this monster sees them, though, he’ll know I’m conscious. What will he do to me then? Drawing in a slow, shaking breath, I force myself to remain as still and calm as I possibly can. With any luck, I can fool him for a bit longer.

“Stop pretending,” the gruff voice barks out. “I already saw your eyes open.”

Fuck.

So much for that.

“How are you feeling?”

The voice seeps into my mind and tickles at my memories. I know this voice. I know I know it. How do I know it? Why do I know it?

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