Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
No response.
This one, too, hasn’t been read.
Either he’s being a dick or…
I try not to jump to drastic conclusions. That lasts all of three seconds before I try to call him. It goes straight to voicemail. My stomach churns violently.
He’s probably just still pissed.
But it’s unlike him to ignore me like this or to be completely unreachable.
I’m about to dial him again when my phone rings. The number is the same burner phone that called me earlier this evening. A chill ripples down my spine, freezing me in place. I stare at the phone, refusing to deal with this asshole. The phone stops ringing and then starts up again.
“What?” I snap in greeting.
“Does he cry when you fuck him?”
Disgust washes over me. “Go to hell.”
“We have him.”
“Liar.” My voice betrays me because it’s barely a whisper. “You’re a fucking liar.”
“We’re going to paint his pretty silver sweater red with his own blood.”
The line goes dead as I panic. My phone rings again, but this time it’s the dispatch line being forwarded to me. I barely answer before someone is chattering nervously to me.
“Slow down, young man. What is it?”
“They’re doing something to that boy,” he whispers. “They’re hurting him.”
“Where? Who?” I demand as I snag my coat and yank it on.
“He’s just a kid. They’re kicking him and trying to undress him.”
“WHERE?!”
“In the old, abandoned warehouse across from the bank! Hurry, Officer! Oh, shit, they saw me!”
“Get someplace safe,” I snarl. “I’m on my way. Stay on the line.”
The guy cries out and the line goes dead.
Fuck!
I fly out of the police station and into the snowy night. My truck is buried. It’ll take longer to unearth it than to just run up to Second Street. It’s slick out, and I nearly bust my ass on the ice as I run across the street. My heart is hammering like crazy inside my chest.
He has to be okay.
They can’t hurt him.
They. Fucking. Can’t.
I will kill them. I don’t care if it lands me in prison. If I have to destroy anyone who hurts Callan, I will.
My throat aches with emotion, and tears are stinging my eyes. I can’t tell if it’s from the bitter cold or the pain lancing through me. Maybe it’s a little of both. The ache in my throat falls to a severe burn in my lungs. The air is too cold, and I suck it in way too quickly as I run. I make it to Second Street and turn right, heading past the donut shop I’ve visited a bunch of times since Callan’s lived with me. The thought of him getting his ass beat…or worse…is almost too much to bear.
I’m coming up on the abandoned warehouse when I hear it.
Shouts. A scream. Sobs.
No.
No. No. No. No!
I race into the empty lower level of the building. No one seems to be occupying this floor, so I have to fumble through the dark, searching for the stairwell. When I find it, I charge up the steps, burning with fury.
Don’t shoot them.
You can’t shoot them.
I curl my hands into fists so I don’t do something stupid like draw my gun and fire on every last one of them. I’d much rather send each of them to fucking prison for life if at all possible so that I can stay with Callan.
The second floor is also empty.
On the third floor, though, the screams are much closer. I run through the darkness, seeking the monsters out. When I hear grunting and see the soft glows of phones, I rush them.
Someone is naked, face down as someone else rains punches down on them.
“Callan!” I scream.
I see red.
Motherfucking red.
With an inhuman roar, I shove past a guy to yank the one hurting Callan away from him. The guy grunts when I tackle him. Someone shines a light at us. As soon as I recognize Jeremy Powers’ face, I can’t hold back.
I wail on him, slamming my fists into his face. He’s not scrawny by any means and fights back, but my punches are relentless. His lip splits after one hit, and he groans. Shuffling can be heard, and my heart ratchets in fear.
“Callan!” I cry out. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Talk to me!”
“Faggot,” Jeremy snarls.
Callan and one of the other guys are gone. All that’s left are Jeremy and me. And the guy with the light.
“Where is he?” I demand.
“Who?” he taunts.
“Callan!”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You attacked me, psycho!”
I’m not playing games with this motherfucker. It takes some effort, but I manage to flip him onto his stomach. He grunts as I wrangle his arms behind him. I cuff him and rise to my feet, turning on the person with the light.
“Where is he?” I bellow.
“Not here.”
“Dad? What the fuck?”
My mind is spinning. All I can think about is Callan and where the hell they took him. Panic starts to rise up inside me, threatening to make me vomit.