Sunshine flooded in the room. Josh opened his swollen eyes and tried to look around. Where the Hell was he? What time was it? Why did his shoulders hurt? Why couldn’t he move his arms. What was he wearing on his wrists?
He was in a vaguely-familiar room with old furniture and mildewed wallpaper that might’ve once been green or brown. It was eight a.m. His shoulders were locked in an awkward crucified position perpendicular to his body and he’d spent the whole night in that position. He was wearing two pairs of handcuffs, attached to the bedposts.
He lifted his head and looked around. His throat felt tight and his mouth felt like it was stuffed with gauze pads like he’d been to the dentist and never taken them out. He jerked his arms and his shoulders roared. He tried to push himself into a sitting position with his legs and only managed to kick all the sheets down to the far end of the mattress.
Where were his clothes? Where was the girl?
Jesus H. Christ, he’d been rolled hadn’t he?