Talk To Me

Chapter Nineteen

Present

Moonlight filtered through the grimy trailer windows, casting weak, silvery beams over the cluttered clearing. Oliver crouched lower, peering through the tangled branches of a freshly sprouted bush. His breath was steady, but his pulse pounded in his ears. Leah hadn't told them the whole truth—he was sure of it.

The man standing outside the trailer wasn't just tall and heavy. He was a fucking giant.

From Oliver's vantage point, the man had to be at least six foot three, with a belly so massive it strained against his dirty brown shirt. The guy was easily two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more. His broad shoulders sloped forward, and even from this distance, Oliver could hear the lazy tune he was whistling.

Then, movement. A shadow peeled away from their hiding spot, slipping through the underbrush. Oliver barely had time to register it before he realized—Mark had left him.

His best friend was already charging forward, baseball bat in hand.

"Mark—" Oliver barely got the name out before the bat whistled through the air.

A sickening crack followed as the wooden bat collided with the back of the man's bald head. The whistling stopped. The guy went down like a felled tree, crumpling onto the moss-covered ground with a heavy thud.

"What the fuck?!" Oliver hissed, breaking into a sprint as he reached the clearing. "You should've waited for me, Mark."

"It's done." Mark nudged the unmoving body with his foot, gripping the bat loosely in his left hand.

"Did you kill him?" Oliver demanded, crouching beside the man.

Mark shrugged. "I don't know."

Oliver exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his dark hair. "Let's just find the girl."

Mark trailed after him, still holding the bat, but before Oliver could take another step, Leah appeared in front of him—her translucent form flickering like a mirage. He sucked in a sharp breath, coming to an abrupt halt.

Mark, who had been glancing over his shoulder at the unconscious man, walked straight into Oliver's back.

"Oli, what the fuck?" Mark muttered, but Oliver wasn't listening.

Leah's voice cut through the night, urgent and forceful. "You need to get the keys from that guy!" she shouted.

Oliver's brows knit together. "Keys?"

"They handcuffed her to the bathtub." Leah pointed to the heap of unconscious flesh on the ground. "He put the keys in his pants."

Mark made a face. "What keys?"

"Apparently," Oliver muttered, "we need to get the keys from his pocket—"

"I'm not touching him," Mark cut in, raising a hand as if Oliver had suggested he eat raw sewage. "I'm all for the rescue, Oli, but the guy's dick is out. I don't wanna touch it by accident."

Oliver shot him a sharp look. "Are you a fucking child, Mark?"

Mark's lips pressed into a tight line. "No. Just a guy with boundaries."

Oliver huffed and turned back to Diesel's prone form. The man lay on his right side, legs slightly spread, hands curled near his stomach. His eyes were closed, and no obvious wounds marred his skin—just the ugly sight of his half-zipped pants and the unfortunate peek of flesh beneath them.

Oliver grimaced. This was not the hero moment he had envisioned. Breathing through his mouth, he bent down, forcing himself to focus. His fingers brushed against the fabric of Diesel's pants, searching. His hand slipped into the pocket, and cold metal met his fingertips.