Talk To Me

Chapter Eighteen

February thirteen

You never know when the light will come. Leah recalled her grandmother's words as she took in the dimly lit room. Dying felt oddly freeing.

The tight restraints on her wrists and ankles were gone, no longer biting into her skin, no longer pinning her to the cold metal bed frame. She stood, feeling weightless, unburdened—disconnected. Her gaze fell to the bed, to the bruised, lifeless body sprawled across the stained sheets.

Her body.

A slow, hollow rage coiled inside her as she turned to the man still thrusting into her corpse.

Diesel.

Without thinking, she lifted a hand and slapped the back of his bald head. The impact meant nothing, but satisfaction sparked through her anyway. It was pointless—he didn't even flinch. He couldn't feel her. He just groaned, deep and guttural, before finally pulling away, climbing off the bed with an air of irritation.

Leah watched as he fumbled with his jeans, trying to shove them back into place, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants. His hazel eyes flicked to her lifeless body, brows furrowing. Then he waved a hand in front of her open, gray eyes.

Nothing.

His chest rose sharply. Panic seeped into his sweat-drenched features. "Tiny!" he bellowed, fumbling with the buckle of his jeans. "Tiny!" He stumbled toward the door, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. "Tiny!"

A groggy voice drifted from the hallway. "What the hell do you want?" Tiny's steps were sluggish, the shuffle of his feet betraying his irritation. "I was napping."

Diesel swallowed hard, his voice coming out in a hoarse, stammering rasp. "I-I think the girl's dead." He wiped at the sweat beading along his forehead.

Tiny's bloodshot eyes widened, the drowsiness in his face vanishing in an instant. He quickened his steps, pushing past Diesel into the room. Without hesitation, he grabbed Leah's limp wrist, fingers pressing into her skin. When he found nothing, he shifted his grip, checking under her jawline.

A tense beat of silence.

"Bring me the thingy," Tiny demanded, motioning vaguely with his hand, his expression tightening.

Diesel's brow furrowed. "What thingy?"

"The thing with electricity," Tiny snapped.

Realization flickered over Diesel's face. "Oh. You mean the defibrillator?" Tiny nodded quickly.

Diesel dragged a hand down his sweat-slick face. "Yeah... I don't have that."

Tiny's head whipped up. "What the fuck do you mean you don't have it?" He stepped closer, shoulders squaring up.

Diesel straightened slightly, puffing out his chest. They were nearly the same height, but Tiny lacked Diesel's bulk. Still, the tension between them was thick, charged.

Diesel shrugged. "I left it at home."

Tiny's nostrils flared. "This is why we fucking bought it," he seethed, motioning sharply toward Leah's body.

The two men locked eyes, silent, rigid. Then, without another word, Tiny turned back to the bed and started CPR. Leah stood at the edge of the room, watching them bicker, watching their useless attempts to save her. She felt detached, observing it all with an eerie calm. A strange thought crossed her mind—was it better to stay dead? Or to return, only to be strapped to this bed again?

Tiny's palms pressed against her chest in rhythmic thrusts. Leah barely registered the force behind it. His lips sealed over hers, forcing air into lungs that no longer belonged to her. For a moment, she thought of Oliver. She remembered the way he had once told her about Mary—how he had tried to save her five years ago, how his hands had shaken, how he had begged the universe to let her live.