The Fall(47)

I tried again, shoving my nine into the back of my jeans to get a better grip, this time successfully moving him from the bed to the floor but with still no idea how I was going to get him to the car.

“What’s going on here?” A large older guy with the shoulder width of a linebacker, a stained shirt and bad attitude poked his head into the room. “We’ve had complaints about you disturbing our guests.”

“My boyfriend just partied too much.” I hoped the panic didn’t show in my eyes as my hand patted at my waistband at the gun concealed there. “If you can help me get him to the car, we’ll be on our way.” I had no idea if he was staff or one of the men who had done this to him, but I was willing to take a chance.

He looked us over, his eyes lingering over the rope still fixed to the bed frame. “He O.D?”

“No, no. He’s fine. He just needs to sleep it off.” I nodded, going against the screaming instinct inside of me to ask him to call an ambulance and the police. “Please just help me get him into the car.”

“You people want to kill yourselves with your drugs and kinky shit, do it in your own place.” He sneered as he walked around and helped me lift Michael. “I don’t need CSI sniffing around my business. You hear me?”

“I promise we’ll leave.” I grabbed Michael’s legs and helped carry him out.

He didn’t talk, just tossed Michael into the backseat of the Chevy and held out his hand expectantly.

“All I have is a twenty.” I pulled out a crumpled bill from my jeans, my purse left back at the warehouse.

“Goddamn it.” He snatched the money from my hand and slammed the car door. “Get the hell out of here.”

I didn’t need to be told twice, my ass hitting the worn cloth seat and starting the ignition so fast, I was sure the whole neighborhood heard me leave. So much for being discreet.

“Don’t die, Michael,” I begged, trying to keep my eyes on the road while glancing at his lifeless body on the backseat. “Please. Just don’t die.”

I’d been alone for so long, I wasn’t afraid of that. But there was something deep inside; I just didn’t want him to leave me. I’d finally begun to understand him, work out why he was so cold—the trauma he’d suffered indescribable. And in spite of that, he’d kept me safe.

There was a moan, which was enough for me to know he was still breathing so I kept driving, looking for signs that someone was following us.

Everyone was a suspect, my eyes moving constantly on the road as I did my best to do the speed limit and act normal. And while I was trying to be calm, my heart was beating so hard in my chest it felt like any minute it was going to explode.

Getting him into the warehouse proved to be a challenge. Parking the car around the back, I left him on the backseat while I darted inside to look for anything that could help me transport him. I settled on a wooden pallet with a jack, rolling him out of the car onto the pallet and then transporting him inside.

It had been hours, and still he hadn’t opened his eyes.

He mumbled in his sleep but didn’t say anything I could understand, his body continuing to move on the mattress restlessly.

Clueless as to what they’d done to him, if he would ever wake up and what they’d pumped into his veins. I worried that whatever had been done, there would be no undoing.

I had no idea what to do. With basic first aid training, this was out of my depth, but calling someone was out of the question. He said trust no one and I didn’t. Using my limited resources and knowledge to keep his body going.

His breathing was so shallow I wasn’t sure he’d make it back, but thankfully his lungs didn’t stop. His pulse while weak also kept thumping, giving me some hope that he was going to pull through.

I spoke to him the whole time, not sure if he could hear me. Praying that my voice would give him an anchor, something to hold onto and pull him back into consciousness. Just words; half the time I wasn’t even sure what I was saying, my throat hoarse from hours of unreturned conversation.

“Please, God. Save him.” My head fell against my clasped hands, mentally and physically exhausted while I sat beside him. The whole time wondering if he was going to die.

There were no visible signs of trauma and that made it worse, not knowing if there was potential internal bleeding I was missing. All the good intentions would basically amount to naught if that were the case. Hospital was out of the question. So, I kept his body temperature regulated, monitored his pulse and hoped his breathing continued. And prayed that whatever it was they’d given him would eventually work its way out of his system.

It had to.

He looked so vulnerable. His big muscular body prone as it lay on the bed, his face lax with the front of his hair sweeping across his forehead. And while I knew there was man hardened by the life he’d led underneath those closed eyelids, all I could see was that little boy in those photos. His thin face, messy brown hair, and that empty defeated stare.

“Sofia.” His voice was so weak I’d almost not heard it.

“Michael?” I sat up, my hand grabbing his, so relieved he was awake I almost cried. “It’s me, Sofia.”

“I’m alive?” His voice cracked like he was surprised, his eyelid slowly rising as he tried to focus on me.

“Yes, you are. You’re safe.” I clutched his hand tighter, squeezing it to reassure him. It should have felt weird—holding his hand—but I couldn’t make myself let go, like if I did, he would slip away.