Page 38 of Burn this City

Sal chose the more comfortable option. Barsanti ended up lying on his side, tied hands fairly close to his chest, and the ties connected to the leg of the bed. It wasn’t foolproof—but enough to ensure Barsanti couldn’t escape in his present condition. As long as they checked on him regularly.

Sal sat next to Barsanti, noticed how the man seemed too exhausted to even try scooting away, though the restraints limited how far he’d be able to get. “Do you need anything else?” He surprised himself with that question, which would be more fitting in a wholly different context. Despite himself, though, he’d begun to respect Barsanti, and he’d decided to set Barsanti at ease for now while he took the time to think through his other options. But even though on a certain level it felt like a twisted kind of aftercare following rough play that had blown past the limits, it definitely wasn’t a peace offering.

Barsanti closed his eyes. “No, just sleep.”

Sal lingered, but Barsanti was shutting down while he watched. He cleared his throat or coughed a few times, but then his breath came easier and deepened, so Sal stood and left the master bedroom fetched his discarded wet clothes from upstairs, then dumped everything into the dryer before he joined the others in the kitchen.

The men sat at the breakfast bar, polishing off bowls of what looked like fresh tortelloni with green pesto.

“I hope you’ve left me some,” Sal groused.

Enzo put his fork down and went back to the stovetop to pour more steaming tortelloni into a third bowl, then placed it before Sal along with a fork. Sal pushed himself onto one of the stools and focused on eating.

“How’s the patient?” Enzo asked.

“Tied to the bed and sleeping. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“This whole thing have anything to do with that masterplan of yours?” the doc asked.

Sal glanced up and then back onto his pasta. “First step. Trying to limit how much work you’ll have to do. Avoid you having to do triage when things get hot.”

“And what was that about restraints?”

“Recreational use.” Sal grinned and reached for the large glass of water that Enzo had poured. “Give me a good length of rope and I’ll wrap you up nicely for Christmas.”

The doc chuckled but raised his hands as if in defense. “Not my scene.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not recruiting.” Sal took several large gulps of water. “I thought we’d lost him for good. Army trained you well.”

The doc gestured in a kind of circular motion. “These things can spin out of control. Had a hazing incident at the base where … somebody got damaged more than was intended.” He relayed it as a matter of fact.

“You involved?”

“No. Heard the rumors, though.” The doc sighed deeply.

Sal left it at that. Everybody around this table and in this house had their secrets. He concentrated on his tortelloni and then placed the bowl in the sink. The combination of whiskey and carbs was already taking the edge off.

“I’ll go check on him.”

“Coffee, boss?”

“Later.” He returned to Barsanti’s bedroom, where he settled in a corner on one of those designer chairs. The room darkened around him while he thought and waited. He shouldn’t have worried about Barsanti, either. The man was out like a light. And for a while, all he did was listen to the man’s raspy breathing. He’d never have thought that he’d pay this much attention to a sleeper’s every inhale, every twitch of discomfort, every exhale, and then the moment of stillness that allowed doubt about the cycle continuing to creep in—this stillness could feel like the smallest of deaths, before the next gasping breath returned the sleeper to life.

21

Pure exhaustion pulled Jack under like a heavy, warm wave of nothing. He didn’t, as a rule, remember his dreams. When he did, they were anxiety laden and all about having to be somewhere, but nobody had told him where, and the geography around him kept shifting until nothing made sense anymore. If it had been that dream again, that would have made sense, since that had bizarrely become his reality. But no.

Instead, his subconsciousness served up a gallery of hazy erotic scenes, and all the particulars evaporated when Jack awoke with a start, convinced he heard water sloshing around him. Being awake and aware meant being in pain again—his lungs felt as if they’d been scoured with barbed wire, and his chest and throat ached as though he’d been punched multiple times.

Rausa sat by the side of the bed and looked like he’d been there for a while, which gave Jack goosebumps. He tried to move his hands, but the ties were too short to do anything useful with them, so he rubbed his face. It was dark outside, the house calm and gloomy. The only illumination from the lamp on the far nightstand, and some golden light pouring in from the living room.

When he stayed here, Jack did his best to sleep in the middle of the bed, but the previous owners had liked their space—or maybe their orgies—and it was simply impossible to fill out a king size all by himself, especially since the bed he used most in town was a normal double. If felt like there was too much space that he had never claimed and didn’t know how to. Not a problem he’d continue to have, though.

“If I let you make a phone call, who would you call? Beth?”

Jack tensed—had she called? Rausa shouldn’t have been able to answer it without a password, but maybe he’d figured out a way into his phone. Maybe he’d somehow accessed the voicemail. Shit, maybe he’d called her? How much did he know?

“She’s a friend. And she isn’t part of any of this. She’s just a friend.” Shit, he was babbling. But seeing Rausa’s face so close, and almost feeling the heat from his body, maybe babbling was natural. He should just have mercy on his vocal cords and shut up.

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