He threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Chapter 17
Cain
The next morning, Cain woke with a start and sat up before he could stop himself. The pain knifed its way into his sides again and he let out a sharp cry.
He'd been having a nightmare about the boots pummeling his body again. He knew it was a dream as he was having it, and he kept reminding himself that the beating eventually ended in real life, and that it would here, too. Any minute now, he thought, Keith will fire his gun and these assholes will scatter.
Any minute now, he told himself.
But the gunshots didn't come, and the boots continued to kick his bones into splinters and smash his head against the pavement. And worst of all, there was a sound high above the boots, a maddening sound too high for him to reach up and silence.
Laughter. Someone was laughing at him.
Gaspar was fucking laughing.
And he knew it wasn't just in the dream. They'd already gotten away with this, and they knew he wouldn't be able to do a goddamn thing about it, not in this rotten nightmare, and not in real life, either. With every new boot-stomp, the laughter got louder and Cain felt more helpless. If they wouldn't stop kicking him, he hoped they would at least keep going until they killed him this time, instead of leaving him feeling so weak.
Then he woke up, the aches in his ribs delivering the final kicks left over from the dream.
Cain looked around, hoping Missy hadn't heard the pitiful sound he'd made when he woke up. But she wasn't in the living room, and when Cain craned his neck toward the kitchen, he couldn't see her there, either. The bedroom door was open, and she didn't seem to be inside.
Maybe she got the hint and left, Cain thought, smiling. Good.
The TV was showing an old black-and-white program from the '60s in which a freckle-faced boy with overalls was trapped down a well while his faithful dog tried to warn his parents of the danger their son was in.
Cain switched it off.
Cain's ribs throbbed again, and he reached for the pill bottles on the table. But just as he was about to pop them open and dry-swallow some, he stopped, frowning at them with disgust.
No, he thought. Fuck this. Fuck these pills, fuck this house, and fuck spending another week out of the action like some kind of worthless goddamn zombie. I'm going to get myself dressed, and then I'm going to go out to the garage, get Gooch's bike, and ride down to the Knife.
If that pisses off Hunter, well, too bad. There's no way he'd actually take my patch just because I wanted to help the club. No way. Not after everything we've been through. And once he gets over his initial anger and sees that I'm good to go, everything'll be fine. We'll figure out what to do about this Gaspar bullshit and make sure no one ever fucks with us like this again, and everything will go back to how it was.
Cain stood up, groaning. He was glad he'd at least been able to manage getting into his own jeans last night, but everything else would be tricky. He reeled over to the bathroom and looked in, trying to find his t-shirt.
It had vanished from the corner it had occupied last night. The puddle of spilled conditioner was gone too.
So she stuck around long enough to wipe up the conditioner before she left, Cain mused. Huh. Well, that was nice of her, I guess. But what did she do with my t-shirt?
He thought about it for another moment, then shrugged. Fuck the shirt, he decided. I don't need a shirt. It's not that cold outside, and I'd probably have too hard a time pulling on a shirt by myself anyway, with this cast on my arm. No, I just need my boots and my cut, and I'm all set.
Cain returned to the living room and found his boots on the floor. Rather than bend down to try to put them on, he played footsie with them, using his toes to carefully set them upright so he could shove his feet into them. It took numerous tries, and when he finally succeeded, he could feel the rough leather digging into his unprotected ankles.
Fuck socks, he thought. Socks are for pussies. Real men don't mind a few blisters. Come on, you can do this.
Next came the cut, and he knew that would be even harder. He picked it up with his good hand and slid it up over his cast, draping it on the shoulder. He spent the next ten minutes trying to contort his other arm behind him so it would slip into the cut-off sleeve of the vest. Finally, the hand found the sleeve and he shrugged the vest on with a triumphant growl.
Don't tell me I need help with this shit, Cain thought smugly. I'm a fast healer and a bad motherfucker. Something Gaspar's about to find out in a hurry.
Cain brushed his teeth, grabbed his wallet and keys, and went through the door leading to the garage. There were three bikes in various stages of disrepair, which Cain planned to sell someday when he got them working and polished up.