Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 17

Dean didn't have a destination. He just drove. He needed to put as much distance as possible between him and what he'd done in that motel room.

But distance didn't help. Ruthie's terrified eyes and color-drained face wouldn't go away, no matter how many miles he put behind him.

He pulled off the highway at a seedy dive, and flipped his jacket collar up to hide the open bite wound on the back of his neck. He drank a beer alone at the bar. A curvy blonde sidled up to him and tried to make small talk. Six months ago, he would have closed the deal in under three minutes. But not now. Not tonight. When she didn't take the hint from his gruff, monotone answers, he quit responding at all. She hit him with an angry insult he barely heard, and flounced away.

His phone rang. Sam again. He ignored it.

Sam would forgive him. Sam always did, sooner or later, whether he deserved it or not.

Dean didn't want forgiveness. Not from Sam. Not from Ruthie. He damn sure didn't want it from himself.

He wanted punishment. That's what he deserved.

He took his time finishing his beer, then turned to look around the dark, dingy room. To his right, a few small tables hosted some sad-looking drunks. To his left, a rowdier group crowded around a beat-up pool table. The blonde he'd pissed off was now giggling, tucked into the side of a very large, very tattooed man with a buzz cut and beady eyes.

Dean tossed some money on the bar and headed toward the happy couple.

"Hey, sugar," he drawled to the woman. "I changed my mind. Wanna get outta here?"

She pulled the giant's arm tighter around her shoulders. "Screw you, asshole."

The big man smirked. "You heard her, pal."

Dean stepped closer to him, and leaned up into his square face. "I wasn't talking to you, pal." Then he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and flipped through them, addressing the woman again. "Come on, sweetheart. If Buzz Cut can afford you, so can I. How much?"

Her mouth fell open; she made an inarticulate sound of fury. The huge man's bicep bulged as he swung her to the side and cocked his arm back. Dean smiled in the split second before the melon-sized fist connected with his jaw.

Pain reverberated through Dean's skull, rattling his brain and exploding black fireworks in front of his eyes before he even hit the ground. He savored the taste of blood in his mouth, and darted his tongue across his busted bottom lip. He rolled over onto all fours and spat the collecting blood onto the dirty floor. "Is that all you got, princess?" he wheezed.

A heavy boot swung into his stomach like a wrecking ball. He collapsed facedown with a grunt, and lay there choking, rocking back and forth.

Then the booted foot stomped down on his neck, grinding into the raw, gouged-out crater beneath his collar.

Fire and lightning ripped down his spine, through every nerve, into his fingertips, his toes. It blinded him, deafened him, strangled him. Ruthie's face disappeared. All conscious thought vanished. There was nothing left in the world except the barrage of agony jackhammering every single cell of his body.

After several seconds—or hours; it was impossible to tell—the pressure lifted from his neck, leaving him groaning and twitching on the grimy floor. Angry voices flew overhead. Two sets of rough hands grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him toward the door, his head dangling, the toes of his boots dragging on the floor behind him. The door swung open, the hands gave him a hard shove, and he pitched forward onto the gravel parking lot.