COTTON
November 16
Shiloh,
He’s dead.
Michael’s dead, and it’s my fault. It’s gotta be. They’re saying it was suicide, but...that doesn’t make any sense! I was just talking to him. He had plans to take a vacation next month, was talking about some t.v. series he was in the middle of.
But you’re probably wondering how the hell it’s my fault, because I haven’t actually told you what happened.
Short version.
I was raped. Justin raped me.
whoosh. That was me exhaling. I feel like I’ve been waiting to do that for the past couple of months.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the particulars...the long version...but simply knowing that much will help you understand. He left me when he was done, told me I should keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. Not like I had any intention of telling people anyway. My career would have been over. But I did go to Michael, just a couple of days later. I needed pain killers, and something to help with the anxiety that kept creeping up on me, and he was the only person I could trust.
I wouldn’t tell him what I needed the medication for, or why I needed it, but Michael knew. He saw the bruises. The scratches on the side of my face. He’s not stupid. Correction—he wasn’t stupid. He gave me scrips for the meds, told me to write in this fucking llama notebook, and come back to see him in a week.
He was dead the next day.
I’ll say the same thing I said when Justin started showing up everywhere. It wasn’t coincidence, Shy.
ACRACKLING SOUND DREW ME FROM SLEEP; THAT, AND AN INSISTENT PRESSURE ON MY BLADDER.Opening my eyes, I stared above me to a wood-planked roof. It was lofted and in the dim light of a flickering fire, I could make out the shadows of a large chandelier made of antlers. My dress was twisted uncomfortably around me, my legs covered with a lightweight throw blanket.
Slowly, memories of the morning began to return, fuzzy at first and vague. I remembered getting dressed, thinking that Mother would approve. A black sedan, bearing down on me. Asphalt five stories beneath me, approaching fast.
And Brodie. I remembered Brodie.
My waking in the car had been different, my physical needs taking prominence over any bewilderment at how I’d come to be in my present situation. Now, I was somewhat comfortable. Warm, on a soft bed, with my hands unbound.
I eased myself silently up on my elbows and surveyed my surroundings.
As far as prisons went, it was nice. Homey, even. The walls were formed of thick, rough-hewn logs, with a large set of floor to ceiling windows set in the far wall, covered with thick drapes. The décor was simple and appeared to have been chosen for comfort rather than any particular style. The bed I laid upon had an antique brass headboard and footboard, and the quilt beneath me was soft and pieced from variegated plaid patterns. There were two doors, one open to a shadowy room just visible beyond the threshold. It was set in a wall that was half-plaster and half-fireplace, the flames on its hearth burning low in both the bedroom and in the room beyond.
The other door was open to a bathroom. Biting my lip, I slid quietly from the bed and padded into it on bare feet, the wooden floor warm beneath my soles. I shut the door behind me, twisting and holding the knob behind me to prevent the telltale click from alerting my captor I was awake.
My captor. Where was he? A sense of urgency assailed me, and I peed and washed up in the sink quickly. How had Brodie gotten so thoroughly past Gunner and Shiloh’s radar? Past my own, if I was honest with myself. Even with my new, natural instinct for caution, I hadn’t thought there was anything to worry about with him. If my friends trusted him, I did, too.
It was obvious I had been a fool, and now, as if there wasn’t enough drama in my life, I had been abducted. I needed to figure out where I was and get the hell out of here.
The only window in the bathroom was a small stained glass one depicting a bird in flight. It didn’t open. Holding my breath, I eased the door to the bedroom open, sweeping my gaze around for Brodie. He was asleep, slouched in an armchair tucked into a dim corner of the room. He was awfully relaxed for someone who had kidnapped a person. He clearly felt certain enough that I wasn’t going anywhere to sleep rather than keep eyes on me.
Dumbass.He didn’t know Cotton Bishop—that was certain. I’d find a way out of here. If not immediately, then later. On silent feet I tiptoed to the windows on the far wall, opposite both the bathroom and Brodie. I pulled the corner of the drapery back to look outside.
“Hello, Emery.”
I dropped the curtain and whirled to face the man who had taken me. He remained slouched in the armchair, but his eyes were now open and intent upon me. He had none of the grogginess of recent sleep about him, which made me wonder if he had been awake the entire time I’d been tiptoeing around him. The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement and I crossed my arms over my chest. “Where am I?”
He remained seated. “Here.” Hoping he would see how entertained I was, I narrowed my eyes. “With me,” he added.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but don’t fuck with me, Brodie Gallagher.” I injected as much menace as I could into my words, aware of how pathetic my effort was. This man radiated menace while doing nothing more than sitting in a chair. My damn knees were jelly and I wanted to drop, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
Brodie laughed, the sound a low and grating rasp. He crossed his legs, drawing my attention to his bare feet. They were long and lean, and I had to swallow, forcing my eyes to his.They were feet. Nothing sexy about feet.
“I promise not to feck with you, Emery. But I find myself in need of some information.”
