Free Second Chance by Lawrence Kelter Page A

consciousness. He had never known pain before, not real pain, not like this. There was only one escape that he could contemplate … sleep, peaceful eternal sleep. He thought about his wounds, wounds that had been inflicted on him savagely and without conscience. He thought about the scars he’d be left with, forever to remind him of the violence and brutality he had suffered, scars that would leave him mentally disfigured for life.
    He could still see Donovan’s face, impassive as he wielded the power tools, his implements of torture. His ghastly visage would remain with Flynn forever. He would never forget the tightly pressed lips, the bulging eyes, and the scar that ran from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth.
    Please take me , Flynn prayed as he sat alone in the dark. I can’t take this any longer. The recent memory looped in his mind over and over again, becoming more vivid each time it played. He could hear the whine of the drill as its speed built to maximum RPM. He could feel the razor-sharp drill bit cut into his skin, as it pressed slowly, agonizingly deeper into his flesh. He could hear himself screaming as it cut into the bone. He kept asking himself, why? He had already told Donovan everything he knew about the policewoman named Stephanie Chalice. Why didn’t he stop? Intuitively he knew the answer. He saw it in Donovan’s expression. He didn’t stop because he didn’t want to stop. Donovan wasn’t torturing him for information; he was torturing him because he enjoyed it. He enjoyed inflicting agony and wouldn’t stop until he grew tired of it.

Chapter Seventeen
    It didn’t have a rooftop pool, but it was our haven away from the storm. Rick’s mobile home was nestled amongst tall palms. It was solid, and it was dry, and at that moment, it felt every bit as opulent as my high-priced room at the Perry Hotel. I could hear the high winds pound the exterior and the heavy rain pummel the roof.
    Rick warned me that the water wouldn’t stay hot for very long, so I was in and out of the shower in scant minutes. Rick was even faster. I was still in a robe and running a towel through my hair when he emerged from the shower, dripping wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His damp, short-cropped hair glistened with moisture. He had soft, brown doe eyes that belied his formidable skills as a soldier. He was lean and muscular. If I had ever thought of sleeping with an older guy, I’d want him to look exactly like Rick.
    He pulled open a drawer, grabbed a pair of sweats and a tee, and threw them to me. They were way too big for me, but they were worn and had been laundered so many times that they felt like cashmere.
    “I’ll hardly make a fashion statement in these.”
    “It’s those or the robe. I don’t have a clothes dryer, and it’s kind of damp to put out a laundry line. I suppose I could throw your wet things in the oven and bake them like a turkey.”
    I held up the sweat pants and smirked—I was about eye level with the crotch.
    “They’re clean,” he insisted. “Freshly laundered.”
    “No problem.” I mean it’s not like I had many choices. It was either hold the robe closed indefinitely or go commando under his velvety-soft fleece sweatpants.
    “I know you’re hungry, but I haven’t gone shopping in about a month, so you’ve got a choice of peanut butter and jelly or peanut butter and jelly.”
    “Crunchy?” I flashed a huge smile. Other than the Luna Bar, I hadn’t eaten in about twenty-four hours.
    “Of course, crunchy. What kind of wimp do you think I am?”
    “Are we talking grape jelly?”
    “Feast your eyes on this.” He opened the fridge and took out a huge jar of Welch’s Grape Jelly and an unwrapped gift set of tiny jelly jars in tropical flavors no one ever eats, like guava and papaya. “I’ve got a veritable smorgasbord of jellies to choose from.”
    “You can put away the esoteric froufrou stuff. I’ll stick with Welch’s. I’m a purist. Now