At some point, Tommy heard a thunderous machine-like sound start up outside the barn.
He vaguely recognized it as the old backhoe used for digging trenches from the days before Pop, pissed off about shrinking government subsidies on his soybean crop, decided, “Know what, Tommy? Bet we could make more on meth and dog fights.”
After the machine noise stopped, Stepan unhooked his father’s body and dragged out his rotting remains.
Now, who knew how long later, Tommy was being let down from his own chains with a promise from Stepan, “Alright, no more of this hanging stuff. You’re all done with these chains.”
All done?
He wondered if it was another hallucination.
He’d hada few of those while hanging next to his father’s body, including one where Pop apologized for ever dragging him into this shit while maggots swarmed over his face.
Maybe Tommy had died, too? Maybe this was his spirit watching what happened after death?
Tommy discovered that was definitely not the case when Stepan helped him to a stand—or at least tried to help him to a stand. Stepan must have left him up there too long this time.
Tommy fell to his knees, his body collapsing under him. Shooting pains ran up his previously numb arms and legs, and intense cramps rippled through his muscles. Hurt like a sonovabitch! Tommy could only lie on the ground, spasming.
“Yeah, it’s going to take a while for you to be able to stand and walk and all that,” Stepan said with a friendly tone that didn’t match his henchman status. “Here’s this.”
Stepan lifted Tommy’s arm with the port to plunge something that immediately flooded Tommy with warmth. “It will help with the pain. Hey, you got something you wanna eat? Mr. Rustanov’s stopping by Culver’s on the way.”
The shooting pains still hadn’t quite subsided. But the opportunity to eat anything other than IV fluids cramped Tommy’s stomach with anticipation.
“Yeah,” he wheezed past the pain. “Double ButterBurger with cheese curds, and a Mountain Dew.”
“You got it!” Stepan stood up and pulled out his phone to relay the order to Rustanov, who was apparently coming here to do something other than punch Tommy until he passed out.
Then he tossed Tommy a pair of black Cal-Mart sweats to pull on over his bruised and naked body with a curt, “Put those on.”
Tommy found himself almost grateful that Rustanov had kept his punches to the upper half of his body. His arms werebarely functional, but at least his legs, though weak, could still carry some weight. That decision—and the pain meds—meant he could shuffle to the little table Stepan had set up near the barn doors.
By the time Rustanov walked in, wearing the official Yolks’ game day charcoal tracksuit under his gold-and-white varsity jacket, Tommy was seated and almost felt like a human being.
Almost.
As Rustanov sat across from him, Tommy couldn’t help but notice how clean he looked. The hair he’d been growing out all season was slicked back neatly, his nails buffed and trimmed, his hands scrubbed spotless and unscarred—thanks to the gloves he always wore when he punched Tommy.
Even his jacket looked spotless, either freshly back from the dry cleaner or brand-new. Tommy had no idea where his own varsity jacket had gone. He vaguely remembered wearing it the night he came home to find the dog that had fought like shit gone, and Lydia Carrington’s yellow mini still parked nearby.
It hadn’t taken long to piece together what had happened. That bitch had tricked him.
Did she even know who she was messing with?
He’d grabbed the crowbar he used to “collect” money for his dad and gone ape on her tiny car, imagining how he’d do the same to her next. Just as soon as he figured out where she lived?—
That was the last thing he remembered before waking up here, strung up in his own barn next to his father, who groaned like a cow being bled for slaughter while Rustanov pummeled him, as if he had EVERLAST stamped across his beer belly.
At some earlier point during their nightmare, a detective had stopped by to investigate—but ignored their screams for help after Rustanov nodded to Stepan, who handed over a suitcase Tommy could only assume was stuffed with dirty money.
However, standing across from him, Rustanov looked and smelled as pristine as a bar of department store soap. The expensive kind they only sold in big cities like Chicago.
Tommy, on the other hand, reeked. His ammonia-stained skin clung to the black sweats.
His stomach twisted as he watched Rustanov settle into the chair across from him, for reasons that had nothing to do with his hunger for real food.
He’d give anything to be clean right now. To be dressed in his game day suit and varsity jacket. To skate onto the ice instead of limping to this table.
