Page 6 of Finders Keepers
He hitched his backpack and upped his stride to a power walk. He had no doubt they were after him. No one else seemed to be in the parking lot, and he was technically a faggot and a femme boy. His heart thudded hard. Blood rushed in his ears. If only he’d put his Dom clothes back on—maybe they wouldn’t be after him.
If he could just reach the street where his ride would be, he could avoid a confrontation. He shouldn’t have to defend his right to be who he was, especially not in a club—or the parking lot of said club—that catered to queer communities.
“Hey, you!”
Fear prickled along his spine and kept him moving, his breaths coming in sharp bursts. He just had to get to the street. Which was still too far away for his peace of mind.Please let my ride show up...
Footsteps clomped hard against the asphalt. Wesley’s heart thudded harder. He shifted from power walk to jog in a single stride.
“Where is that flash drive Clark Ramsey gave you last week, you pansy?”
Wesley’s mind—and stride—stalled for a moment.
Who the hell was Clark Ramsey?
What flash drive?
Maybe they weren’t after him, but the derogatory slurs and otherwise empty parking lot indicated otherwise. Shit. The guy was definitely talking to him. Wesley gulped some air. Hurried forward.
A set of headlights pulled to a stop at the curb on the road ahead. His ride share. His heart stopped and then whumped against his rib cage twice as hard. Hehadto get to the street. Another hundred feet, a couple hundred maybe. His guesstimating skills were non-existent.
A honk echoed. Shit. He had to get to that car. He dragged in air and ran like hell. He had no time to message the driver.Please, please be patient.
Footsteps pounded behind him.
Oh God.
He passed the next double row of parking slots.
The tug on his backpack elicited a squawk; his heart rate spiked. He dropped his shoulders, letting the bag slip from his body, keeping a death grip on his cell phone. He shoved the device into his back pocket and ran harder, faster, drawing ragged breaths to keep air in his lungs. The splat of his backpack hitting the pavement sounded behind him; the sough of his Dom “uniform” and the clatter of toiletries hitting the ground amped his adrenaline even more. He raced toward the street. His thighs and lungs burned with each step.
“Fucker. Oh no you don’t! Search that bag!”
The grip on his shoulder off-balanced him, and he staggered sideways. A yank on his arm whirled him around. The backhand to his face sent him stumbling, stars flashing in his vision as he tried to regain his balance. Pain shot through his head.
Oh fuck. This is really happening.
Meaty hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him. He blinked, right eye swelling, pain enveloping his cheekbone and eye socket.
“Where is it? Where’s that thumb drive, you gay ass mother fucker?” growled a guy with dark hair and heavy stubble. His clothes were dark colored as well. That’s all Wesley could see.There was no illumination to speak of in the parking lot. The colored lights on the brick building were pointed upward, more decorative than functional. The muted reds, blues, and greens shone from behind the guy, leaving his face in heavy shadow.
Wesley held up his hands. “Wh-what thumb drive?” he croaked, throat dry.
“It’s not in the bag,” an accented voice—Italian?—said from a few yards back.
Wesley’s belongings lay scattered across the asphalt, but they were the least of his worries.
Another honk pierced the otherwise quiet night. Oh God—he wasn’t going to catch his ride unless he could get away, but he could barely see. Pain suffused his face, his lungs heaved.
The guy grabbed the front of his shirt, hauled him close, got right in his face. “Where. Is. It?”
Wesley’s heart bobbed in his throat. He could barely swallow, much less talk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped past the knot in his windpipe.
“The fuck you don’t.” The guy released him with a shake and then punched him in the chest.
Pain radiated outward from Wesley’s solar plexus. The air whooshed from his lungs. He staggered into the rear quarter panel of a car and doubled over, eyes scrunched tight.
The guy yanked him upright and a fist connected with his left cheekbone and the corner of his eye. Agony radiated through his face.
