I'm hitting Logan, not even knowing why I am. I'm threatening them both, trying to bend him to do what I need him to do, only because it’s the only option I've got. I'm in too deep with the wrong fucking people, and Logan's a way out of that. So here we are.
I remember turning towards Quinn and just seeing the hate in her eyes; just pure fucking loathing and hatred, and for one brief second, I almost stop. There's a moment there, staring at Chelsea's oldest sister where I see the monster I've become reflected in her eyes. For one brief second, I see every mistake I ever made; every wrong turn and every poor decision that brought me right here to this very moment. I want to apologize; I want to say I'm sorry and find a way to change my ways.
And then she stabs me.
I can still remember that blade slicing into my skin and entering my damn throat; I can fucking taste it. I’m drowning then. I'm drowning in my own fucking blood, which is maybe the worst feeling in the world by the way.
And then, I die.
I'm dead, and I know it. When I’m drowning on the coppery taste of my own life-force, I know I’m dead. End of the road, Toro.
Except, she saves me.; that doctor, Chelsea's sister. She stabs me, and they could just walk away from all that, but she doesn’t. For some fucked up reason that I still don't understand, she saves my sorry ass. I will never understand that moment and what possessed her to do that, but fuck, here I am.
I snort a laugh to myself; thinking of one of the brief conversations I ever had with Chelsea's father; “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”
And I'm roasting out here.
The bartender slides a bottle of something nice-looking in front of me, breaking my thoughts; “What’s this?” I eye the golden añejo sitting in front of me, squinting at the label and realizing just how nice it really is.
“Your friends bought it for you.”
“Excuse me?” Friends? Clearly, we don't know each other, bud.
“Yeah, your friends.” He shrugs, like he doesn't really give much of a shit; “I think they headed out back for a smoke or something, but they wanted to buy you one.”
“What, a drink?”
“A bottle.” The bartender shrugs and passes me a fresh glass; “You want me to hang on to it back here?”
“Leave it.”
He nods and pours me a shot before he sets the tequila on the bar top and walks away. I bring the glass to my lips and inhale the sweet burn of it before I knock it back and let the amber fire slowly leak down my throat. I allow the burn to settle in for a second before I stand and grab the bottle.
This is a fucking real bad idea, but fuck it. I head through the bar towards the back door, knowing perfectly well now who my “friends” are. It's a shit move, walking out this door, but I knew they were going to check in on me sooner or later, and it might as well be here and now without Chelsea around. The way I figure, the more heat I can draw away from her, the quicker we can figure out what the hell we're going to do.
Hands grab and slam me up against the wall the second I step out the door. I wince and my head rings as it knocks off the bricks of the alley wall, and there's the now-familiar feel of a gun against my back as a very familiar voice rasps in my ear: “Where are we at, Toro.”
I grit my teeth and strain against the two guys holding me down, and I turn to sneer into Benson's stupid piggy little face; “Fuck you, cabron.”
“I'm not sure you're understanding me, you dumb fuck,” Benson narrows his eyes at me, the veins in his neck sticking out and throbbing; “Get Chelsea Archer for us, and I won't dump your ass back in La Muerta, comprende? It's a fair trade.”
“How 'bout I trade you for another shot at your mom’s ass?” I spit out, forcing a grin to my face.
Benson's fist crashes into my mouth and white stars flash in front of my face. Yeah, I'm not sure what other response I expected from him; grunts like him aren't exactly the witty banter type.
“I'm gonna try and impress this upon you one more time, shithead,” Benson leans closer, his face red and his eyes looking crazy as he pulls out his gun, cocks it and presses the barrel into my cheek; “Chelsea Archer, by tomorrow morning, or you're a dead ma-”
“Drop it.”
That wasn't Blackriver-
All four of us jerk our heads up to the front of the alleyway, and I can’t stop the grin that starts to spread across my face.
“I said, fucking drop it!” The gun in the newly brunette Chelsea Archer's hands is leveled right at Benson as she stands there with her feet shoulder length apart and staggered. Benson and his goons freeze, and I almost want to laugh; is this chick saving my ass?
There's a coldness in her eyes, and I’m suddenly realizing as I hear the three idiots around me chuckle that they don’t take her seriously.