Chumming with a Great White - Charlie Richards Page 0,24

he wanted to take his man on a trip he would appreciate. After doing a mental calculation in his head, Graham scribbled his information and the amount he would be willing to pay on a ballot slip. He folded it and dropped it into the jar.

“Oh, isn’t that nice. Trying to buy your bruiser of a lover a nice vacation. How much did you pay those guys to try to protect you?”

Slowly, Graham straightened and turned. He recognized that voice. Except, he didn’t believe it until he stared the man in the eye. “Mick? What are you doing here?”

Curling the left side of his mouth, Mick stared him down. “What do you think I’m doing here, Graham?” he hissed, easing closer. “I told you that you didn’t deserve to live, and I’ve come to make certain that happens.”

“But—”

Before Graham could finish his sentence, Mick snapped his left hand up. He stabbed something into his upper arm. The pain of the pinprick was secondary to the icy cold that seeped through his veins. Graham’s knees immediately began to buckle.

Mick swiftly wrapped his arm around his waist. Grabbing Graham’s near arm, he slung it around his own shoulders. He began urging them toward the side exit.

Graham’s mind spun.

Mick is behind the letters?

“Why?”

Oh gods. Do I really sound that slurred?

Sneering, Mick muttered, “Because Price chose you over Brice. Brice should have come back. Not you.”

Why would he care more about Brice?

“Hey, can you open that door for me, man?” Mick’s cajoling voice made Graham refocus. “My buddy had one glass too many and needs a few seconds of fresh air.”

“Here you are, sirs,” someone said.

Graham opened his mouth, intending to ask for help. Except, then they were past the man dressed in a hotel uniform. He found himself stumbling across a darkened parking lot toward a vehicle.

Damn. What the fuck did Mick spike me with?

Graham still didn’t know before he was shoved into a vehicle’s back seat, and his mind sank into unconsciousness.

The first thing Graham became aware of was whistling. The second was the smell of the ocean and the rolling of a boat underneath his cold body. Prying open his eyelids, he realized he’d been stripped to his undershirt and pants. That was too bad, because as much as he’d hated wearing the tux, he knew it must have been damn expensive.

Spotting Mick in his peripheral vision to his right, Graham allowed his eyelids to slide shut. He took a few minutes to test his strength as he assessed the scene with his other senses. His arms were strapped together at his wrists. His legs had been left unbound, which seemed odd to him.

Blood. I smell blood.

After a quick mental inspection of himself, Graham realized the scent didn’t come from him. Even though his head still hurt from whatever Mick had pumped into him and his limbs were a bit lethargic, he didn’t actually hurt anywhere.

What the hell?

Graham peeled open his eyelids again and slowly panned the area. He was definitely on a boat. Something small, like a fishing boat that stayed close to shore in good weather. He had a chill because his left cheek and body lay against the damp, carpet-like fabric that covered the wood beneath him. Every once in a while, an ocean wave splashed over the hull of the boat and hit his legs.

Turning his head just a smidge, Graham discovered the source of the blood smell. His stomach clenched, and his heart rate picked up.

Well, fuck.

Mick stood at the stern of the boat. Over and over, whistling happily, he dipped a scooper into a twenty-five-gallon bucket. Then he emptied it over the side of the boat.

Chum splashed into the water—bits of meat and plenty of blood.

Oh god.

Deciding the only thing that might help him to delay the inevitable, being tossed into chum-filled waters, was to wait and stall, Graham lay still.

That didn’t work for long... or maybe he’d been out for some time and Mick had been emptying the bucket for a while.

“I know you’re awake, Graham.” Mick straightened and sneered at him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting and dreaming and planning for this moment.”

Then Mick scooped into the bucket again. He poured it over Graham’s head, drawing a gasp and cry from him.

Mick laughed, his grinning smile maniacal. “You should have died instead of my Brice. My Brice should have come home with me, just like always.” He shook his head. “That damn vampire picked you, though.” Mick’s eyes narrowed