Chapter 5

It wassurreal hearing someone talk about killing him. Funny enough, Zander wasn’t the first to speak so casually about Scotty’s death. Don used to talk about killing him all the time; one of the reasons Scotty had gotten out of his uncle’s house and made his way onto the streets. He knew what Don was capable of, so he’d never doubted his uncle would take his life if and when it suited him.

He didn’t doubt this guy Zander, either. There’d been a certain kind of menace that had entered his gaze the moment Zander saw the marshal—Vince—had woken up. As if Zander hated the man. But they were all three strangers, weren’t they?

None of it made sense. He wrung his hands, stomach in knots as he sat on the floor next to the couch where the injured man lay. Scotty had been the one to injure him, and he was glad Vince was okay. That he was alert and talking, even though pain lines were prominent on his face. The stiffness of his posture telegraphed the amount of pain he was in, but he didn’t make a sound. Zander had dug up a bottle of painkillers and given some to Vince, who’d gulped them down with a bottle of water. Scotty wasn’t sure how much good the pills did, though. Vince was still so pale.

Vince had sad eyes. Even lying down as he was, Scotty saw the marshal was more muscular than Zander, built solidly with short brown hair and eyes, and appeared to be at least as tall as Zander. Scotty wanted him to be okay, and a hospital would be the perfect place to ensure that happened, but he was also secretly glad that no one knew what happened. If Don ever found out…

He just might make good on all those threats. If Zander didn’t beat him to it.

Scotty dipped his head, doing his best to ignore the nausea riding him, nibbling on his fingernail. He had to get out of there. He hadn’t waited around for Don to do all the things he’d threatened to, so why would he stay while this Zander guy vowed to do the same? He was a survivor. He’d survived Don all this time, he could survive this too.

As long as he got out.

He jerked his head up and glanced around. Zander was outside in the main area, having left Scotty and Vince in the back office. And Zander had the guns. All Scotty had were his two hands that trembled when he thought about escaping. He didn’t know what Zander wanted. He didn’t know why he insisted on keeping Scotty and Vince as hostages. What did Zander get in return? And from whom? Couldn’t be Don; his uncle wouldn’t do anything to help Scotty. He’d likely offer more money to ensure Scotty met his demise.

He rocked back and forth, wincing at the sharp pain in his head.

Fuck.

He inhaled, then released the breath. He should drink some water or get a soda or something from the vending machine out there. Or some chips. They also had cookies. He licked his dry lips. But he didn’t have money. He’d have to beg Zander for something to eat.

Shit.

He hated that. Hated having to ask someone else for something as necessary as food. Don had always made him feel so ashamed when he’d ask for stuff as a kid.

Something nudged his shoulder. “Hey.”

Scotty glanced over at Vince, who was peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“You okay?”

Scotty had stopped being okay long before his tenth birthday, but he didn’t know Vince and the other man didn’t know him, so he simply nodded. Vince didn’t seem to believe that answer because he just stared at Scotty, gaze heavy, searching—and finding. Scotty wrenched his attention away, going back to glaring at the floor.

Nobody knew about the things he’d seen and endured. Don had made it so their extended family—as sparse as they were—would never believe Scotty about anything. And he didn’t have any friends. It had always been just him, even when he’d been under his uncle’s roof.

“Scotty, right?”

Apparently, Vince wasn’t done with him.

Scotty met the other man’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Scotty, you don’t look so good.” Vince frowned. “You need to eat something?”

He did. But the sick feeling in his gut was growing, making his stomach churn at the thought of food. “I’m okay,” he croaked.

Vince glanced toward the door that hung open, then back to Scotty, repeating, “You don’t look good.”

This wasn’t news; he’d never looked good a day in his life. He tried lifting a hand to wave away Vince’s concerns, but for some reason, the limb refused to cooperate. He blinked at Vince and then looked down at his hand. Even his head felt heavy when he moved it, as if it weighed a million pounds. Breath left him in gasps, his chest heaving as panic set in. His body felt foreign. In his chest, his heartbeat grew louder and louder. Faster, too, as if attempting to burst out of him. He recognized the panic attack but couldn’t do anything to stop it.

Sounds filtered to him, probably Vince speaking, but Scotty ignored him. He tried to get to his feet. It took three attempts before he was able to make it onto his knees. Vince moved then, reaching for him, maybe to help him, but the other man collapsed back onto the couch, pain twisting his features. Scotty didn’t need his help anyway; he could do this himself. He could make it. He was fine.

He managed to stand, finally, but his legs weren’t steady. They wobbled. And his vision was?—

He grabbed his stomach and doubled over, throwing up all over his shoes. All over the floor. Vince started shouting. Scotty heard the words, but he couldn’t make them out as he moaned and staggered. His head pounded and he couldn’t stop throwing up, hunched over, muscles in his stomach cramping painfully as he emptied everything onto the floor.

Zander was there suddenly, scowling, grabbing Scotty by the shoulder.

“I’m fine.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth. Shame swept over him in a wave of heat that made him perspire.

Zander thrust a bottle of water at him, then gestured to the mess on the floor. “Clean that up.”

“I will. I just—” Scotty’s head spun and he took a step, crashing to the floor as he lost consciousness.