Then, well, all the world had for me was darkness, a blissful oblivion that gave my mind and body a short break to pull myself together again.
I was awake before my eyes opened, giving me a long moment to try to take in as much as possible about my environment without the benefit of sight.
First, I was in a bed. It was too soft and big to be anything else. Second, there was a blanket over my body. A blanket. Like someone who had felt concerned enough about me being cold to put something over me even though I'd just shot someone. Third, I wasn't chained in any way.
Weird.
All of that was weird, right?
Shouldn't an attempted assassin be thrown in a cold, dark room somewhere, chained arms and legs to something unbreakable, and having something incredibly painful being done to them?
This reality was almost more unsettling to me, like maybe they were trying to give me a false sense of security before starting to pry off fingernails and break kneecaps.
My stomach rolled as I made the decision to open my eyes, knowing it was no use to put off the inevitable for too long.
There was a bright light streaming into the room, too bright and yellow to be anything other than the sun.
The sun.
How long had I been asleep?
The room itself was the one I'd run through in search of a place to get sick in. I hadn't taken it in before, but I let myself then.
The walls were painted a deep green that should have felt too dark and oppressive, but somehow felt oddly comforting. The dresser beside the door to the hall was stained dark. There was no TV above it, but instead a record player on it. Beside that was a record holder full of vinyl.
My gaze slid over the door to the far wall, finding a gallery wall of mismatched artwork in many different styles.
It wasn't long before my gaze landed on a green chair in the corner of the room across from the bed.
Or the man occupying it.
The same one I'd put a bullet in hours before.
He looked exhausted, like he'd been awake the whole time I'd been asleep.
He still wore the same shirt he'd had on before, the blood from his wound drying dark on the sleeve. When he shifted forward to rest his forearms on his long legs, I caught a glimpse of what looked like stitches peeking out.
"Did you—" he started, getting cut off by the words that burst out of me.
"I'm so sorry," I said, voice sounding choked and unfamiliar.
"Whoa, alright," he said when I tried to fold up. He reached out as though he was going to put a hand to my shoulder to press me flat again, but he seemed to forget about his wound for a moment, and tried to reach out that hand, letting out a loud hiss as he yanked his arm back.
"I'm so sorry," I repeated, scooting back against the headboard, pulling my knees into my chest, making myself small, unthreatening. Which was exactly what I was when I was stripped of a weapon I'd barely known how to use to begin with.
"We'll get to that," the man said, cracking his neck a bit like that action might somehow ease the sting he must have been feeling in his arm. I had no idea what it might feel like to get shot. But I did know that if I so much as nicked my fingertip when cutting up veggies that I was a big baby about it for at least twelve hours. So, yeah, I couldn't even imagine what it felt like to have something jabbed into your body at a high speed, then lodge there, then need to be yanked back out of there, and stitched closed again. "But first, did you take anything?" he asked.
"Take anything?" I repeated, brows pinching.
"Drugs," another voice said, coming from the door that I hadn't heard opening.
And there stood a tall, dirty-blond, square-jawed giant whose eyes were heavy-lidded and red, and whose every molecule seemed to be screaming with frustration.
"Drugs? No. No, I don't take drugs," I insisted. "The one time someone got me to smoke pot, I spent the next like several hours in a paranoid stupor, crying and hiding behind the couch," I admitted. "I don't touch drugs."
"Did someone drug you then?" the giant asked.
"No."
"Alright, good. Then we can get right down to it. Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my house, and pulling a gun on one of my men?" he asked, voice getting louder, booming off the walls, full of enough ferocity that I felt myself shrinking smaller on the bed.
"Easy," the man next to me said to the other who had to be the boss.
"Easy? She fucking shot you, McCoy," the giant said, raking a frustrated hand through his hair.
"Yeah, I'm aware of that fact," McCoy said, shaking his head. "But scaring the shit out of her isn't going to get us answers either, Huck"
"Wanna bet?" Huck asked, taking a threatening step forward. "Who the fuck do you work for?"
"I, uhm, Lily. And myself. You know... in my free time."
"Jesus Christ," Huck hissed. "You know what I mean. Who the fuck sent you here?"
"I don't know."
"The fuck you mean you don't know?"
"Might be more productive if you ask her to tell you the story."
"Fine. Get up, follow us downstairs, and tell us the story," Huck demanded. "I need more coffee for this shit," he added, turning and walking out of the room.
"He can be a dick when he hasn't slept," McCoy explained. "To be fair, that is usually the title I wear."
"Dick?" I clarified.
"Yeah."
"Then why are you being nice to me?" I asked, not sure if I was suspicious or confused. Or both.
"Good question," he agreed, letting out a humorless chuckle. "Honestly, fuck if I know. Just think I saw something in your eyes that I'm figuring someone else put there. A trapped animal look. And when animals are trapped, they lash out. The way I see it, I can't blame you too much if your back was up against a wall, and you felt like you didn't have a say in the matter. Come on," he said, moving to stand, then waiting for me.
Seeing no other option, I unfolded my body, and slid to the side of the bed. Everything was fine until I got to my feet, and everything went a little spinny and black, leaving me unsteady. My arms flung outward.
"Whoa," McCoy said, reaching out with his good arm, grabbing my arm, holding me upright as I waited for my head to stop spinning. "When's the last time you had something to eat?" he asked as my vision cleared.
"I was too nauseated to keep anything down," I admitted, feeling the clawing emptiness in my stomach.
"Alright. We will fix that. Come on. Take it easy," he advised, leading me out of the room, into the hall, then down to the lower level, keeping close in case I got woozy again.
We made our way into a kitchen full of men.
A few I recognized in a distant sort of way. There was Huck, the leader. Then there was the surfer-guy-hot dude with the bleached tips and lots of ink who had soft-voiced me and gotten me into the bed to calm down. There was the younger guy who'd rushed in first, another good-looking guy in a bad-boy way with his pushed back hair, black jeans, white tee, and leather cut.
Then there was Eddie, the guy who'd hit on me before I went upstairs.
Beside him was a well-dressed, tall guy with black hair, a beard, gray eyes, and lots of gray and black tattoos. He stood next to another dark-haired guy with great bone structure and tan skin.