Blood and Lies

Chapter 2

TATUM

Either I had the worst hangover of my life, or I was on the verge of dying. Only a large amount of alcohol or death could make a person feel this bad. My head was pounding, the sound of my heartbeat hammering against my skull. Nausea churned in the pit of my stomach causing me to take small, shallow breaths. I was afraid that even breathing too fast would make me throw up—violently.

My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth and my throat felt like I swallowed sand. It was scratchy and dry and I was pretty sure my mouth had lost its ability to produce even the tiniest amount of saliva. Basically, I felt like crap.

I moved my tongue trying to get some relief from the sandpaper stuck in my mouth, and that's when I realized why I hadn't been swallowing. My mouth tasted like ass. Disgusting, vile ass that threatened to feed the already raging nausea in my gut.

I tried opening my eyes, but a sudden feeling of dread settled over me making my skin crawl. The way my body ached all over screamed that something bad happened—something real bad. For a few seconds longer I kept my eyes closed, hoping that the fear pulsing through my veins was just the remnants of a bad nightmare. But unfortunately, the second I opened my eyes and stared at the unfamiliar gray concrete wall in front of me I knew that this wasn't just a nightmare, this was reality.

Ice cold dread slowly started to move through me, all the way up my legs, my spine, until it reached the back of my neck. I was suddenly hyper aware of the feeling of unfamiliar sheets against my skin, and when I pushed myself up I stared with horror at the old, brown sheets beneath me. These were definitely not the three hundred dollar silk sheets I had on my bed back at my apartment.

I grabbed ahold of the cotton fabric and tightened my fist while I tried my best to remember what happened, how I got here—wherever here was. Then I noticed with horror what I was wearing—an old yellowed rag that seemed like it had once been a nightgown, like fifty years ago. Where were my clothes?

"Welcome to Hell..."

That voice resonated through my mind like thunder, together with the picture of dark eyes that resembled black holes of hate. And when I closed my eyes I saw the familiar smile I had missed so much the last few months. But how...

Could it be him? After all this time, could it really be him?

"Carlo," I whispered, but somehow I wasn't convinced. I remembered Carlo's smile being light and kind, not dark and wicked. It just couldn't be him.

With narrowed eyes I scanned across the room. Concrete walls decorated with nothing—not even a trace of paint—surrounded me. It felt cold and damp and empty. Besides the bed and a chair in the corner, there was nothing else in the room. It was grim and completely dismal, which did nothing to ease the panic that rapidly rose inside my chest.

My gaze darted up to the wall and what sounded like air rapidly escaping a tube came from the other side of the room. A piece of the concrete wall moved, and a hidden door opened. That door was so well hidden I never would have known that it was there if it hadn't opened right before my eyes.

Painful knots slowly started twisting inside my gut as my heart started hammering behind my ribs. The softness of the sheets felt like gravel against my skin as I moved up the bed, pushing my back against the headboard. Adrenaline started to surge through my veins as I watched the door open. It was when I saw who stood on the other side of the door that I stopped breathing.

"Carlo?"

He smiled, and for a split second hope flared inside my chest like a thousand fireworks.