Help! My Lover's an Alien - 12. Chapter 12

Dillon woke up slowly. He shook his head trying to clear the remnants of sleep. He realized he was lying down and tried to bring his hand up to rub his eyes only to find his arms were shackled to the surface he was on. Checking the rest of his body, he found his ankles were shackled too and there was a band across his middle pinning him down completely.

He considered calling out to find out who was holding him but decided to wait and see what happened first. It wasn’t long before there was the sound of a door opening nearby.

“I see you’re awake, Mr. Stewart. I was starting to worry the guards had overdosed you.” The voice sounded formal and stiff. A man moved into Dillon’s view; he wore the white coat of a doctor and was making notes on a clipboard.

“Now, can you tell me your date of birth and current mailing address?” the doctor asked, pen poised.

“No,” Dillon stated.

The doctor frowned. “What do you mean, no? Can’t you remember?”

“Oh, I remember. You asked if I could tell you. The answer is no. My address has been classified information since I was fifteen. Ambassador Vincent didn’t want my father finding me. And as for my date of birth, that is none of your business and I refuse to tell you.”

The doctor went red in the face. “You are a detainee here. You don’t have the right to refuse to answer my questions. If you do try and refuse, you will be made to answer. Now I have your date of birth here. Please confirm it.”

Dillon recited his date of birth, deciding to pick his battles carefully until he knew where he was and why.

After answering a few more personal questions— not including his current address— the doctor was satisfied and left Dillon alone again.

The doctor returned with two guards, one of whom unlocked the shackles while the other kept a weapon trained on Dillon. Dillon’s hands were recuffed behind him and he was escorted down a corridor.

They arrived in another corridor that held cells at regular intervals. Dillon was shoved into one, and the door was slammed shut.

“Hey, what about these cuffs?” he called, but all the reply he got was laughter.

When he was sure he was alone, Dillon started working his shoulders. Not many people knew, but Dillon was actually double jointed. One of the few advantages of this condition was that he could pop his joints in and out of their sockets at will. It was painful, but bearable.

With a few moves, he popped his shoulders out of their sockets, and before the pain could get too bad, he slipped his arms under his ass and rolled on the floor to get his legs through and then brought his arms to the front of his body. He popped his shoulders back in and the pain disappeared immediately. Breathing hard, he sat down on one of three beds that were in the cell and dropped his head to his hands.

What was he going to do? He didn’t know where he was. He had no way of contacting anyone. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him.

His thoughts were scattered when he heard the cell door being opened again. He brought his knees up to cover his hands and sat back on the bed.

A guard pushed a large swearing man into the cell and slammed the door after him. The man held onto the bars and shouted a few obscenities at the retreating guard but then gave up and turned. His gaze fixed on Dillon.

“So you’re the new inmate. Pretty little thing aren’t you?” The man leered, towering over Dillon.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Dillon said more calmly than he felt. “You really don’t want to be made to look like an idiot, do you?”

The man raised an eyebrow and leaned in as though to kiss Dillon. Dillon brought his legs up and kicked the man straight in the groin. As the man folded up, Dillon kicked him in the head and the man flipped backward, whacking solidly into the floor, unconscious.

Dillon breathed a sigh of relief for the reprieve and stayed huddled on the bed watching the man for any sign that he was waking up for round two.

****

Dillon woke from a doze to hear the cell door being opened.

“Breakfast,” the guard called and shoved a tray in the room before slamming the door again.

The man on the floor stirred and sniffed as the food came to a stop near him. He glared at Dillon then pulled the entire tray over to himself. Dillon figured he was going hungry, but then he still felt nauseated, and so he really didn’t care about getting any food.

After the man had finished, he stood and Dillon tensed ready for another fight, but the man just moved to the little sink at the side of the cell.

The rest of the day was uneventful until the guard herded another man into the cell and slammed the door.

“Joe,” the new man said to the other man with a nod.

“Rob,” Joe said, returning the nod.

“This the pretty faggot that Stewart wanted dealt with?” Rob asked with a head jerk toward Dillon. “Why is he still sitting there? Why haven’t you started yet? Major Princeton said we wouldn’t have long before someone was bound to come looking for him.”

At those words, Dillon’s blood ran cold; his father was behind all this? And what was Major Princeton’s role in this? His hands were still cuffed and had actually started bleeding from where he had tried to twist his wrists free but the cuffs were too tight. He knew it wouldn’t do him any good to call out. The guards had to be in on it to have put these men in with him— by the sound of it, at Princeton’s orders.

“I tried to start but he blindsided me,” Joe said in disgust, obviously not liking that he had to admit Dillon had got the drop on him. “Watch out for his feet. The bugger is quick,” he added as they both approached Dillon warily.

Dillon was still trying to think clearly. His stomach was rumbling with both hunger and nausea. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had last eaten. He was sure whatever drugs he had been given weren’t helping how tired he was or the dizziness he was feeling.

Dillon tried to shift on the bed to get a better position, but that proved to be a mistake as his stomach cramped and his head spun. Rob was surprisingly fast and grabbed his feet before he could recover his senses. He found himself being pulled off the bed and hung upside down by his legs. Joe then started raining blows down on Dillon’s legs and groin. He was also kicking Dillon in the face and chest. Dillon tried to raise his hands to protect his face but then he saw a kick being aimed for his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him to protect his stomach. If this stomach illness he had been suffering with was more than a cold, then being kicked— and or punched— could make it ten times worse. A few moments debate with himself made the decision that he would rather his face was messed up than have a possible illness made worse and not be able to recover at all, if he— by some miracle— got away. Bruises and bones healed, internal injuries were more unknown still.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the cell and the door swung open again.

All Dillon could think was that more were coming to finished him off. All he wanted was to be back in the arms of his mate.