Harrison’s fuming
He thinks you’re quitting
I sigh and text back quickly:
Sawyer
Tell Harrison to unclench
I’ll be back soon
I’m about to open her reply when I hear it—the screech of tires grinding into gravel.
A white pickup slams to a stop in front of me, rattling the mailbox post. My stomach flips.
Two men jump out. I recognize the tallest from the bar—last weekend, when Trouble pulled me away. They look angry.
“That’s her!” one of them shouts. “That’s his sister—get her in the truck!”
I should have heard the truck sooner. Should have noticed my surroundings before it got to this. But I’m always distracted, too worried about everything else. When his hands close around my shoulders, I don’t even get to scream before my phone hits the dirt and a burlap sack drops over my head.
I twist, try to claw at the arms pinning me.
“Let go of me!” I kick, heel catching something solid. There’s a grunt. The grip tightens, and I can’t fight it.
Bootsteps again, closer now. Two sets. Someone grabs my ankles, and I lose the ground beneath me, legs in the air. I open my mouth to scream, but I can hardly catch a breath.
“Easy now,” a hoarse voice says. “You just sit tight.”
I thrash and kick, but it’s useless. They carry me like a sack of potatoes. I hear the crunch of gravel, the creak of atruck door. Sun slashes through the burlap before I’m tossed belly-down onto a vinyl seat. My arms are twisted behind me, wrists zip-tied. The plastic bites.
What do they want with me? Where are they taking me? My chest tightens, lungs burning as panic claws its way up. Every second feels like forever, and all I can think is… I have to get out. I have to.
The door slams, and I’m caged in. All I can smell is Windex and cheap cologne. Someone else climbs in after me.
“You keep fighting, and we’ll take you back passed out,” another voice says. “Don’t make this worse.”
I spit the only word that fits. “Cowards.”
Laughter. “Says the girl who’s trussed up like a calf.” A pause. “Might want to watch that mouth, honey. You don’t know who you’re messin’ with.”
The engine starts. The floor rattles. We jolt over ruts, take a corner fast enough that my head bounces. They don’t talk much, just drive. I count the seconds, trying to memorize every curve and turn, but I lose my sense of direction after a while.
What do they want with me? What are they going to do with me? I try not to spiral more than I already am.
Finally, the truck slows. The road changes texture—gravel, then a crunch as we stop. I’m yanked upright and dragged out. My boots scuff over concrete, then wood. Inside? A barn?
A hand shoves me to my knees.
“What do you want?” I say, as steady as I can. “If you touch me?—”
“We ain’t interested in that,” one of them says. There’s something almost bored in his voice. Like he’s done this a dozen times and is already thinking about the next thing on his list. “You’re just leverage.”
“For what?” I grind out. “Who am I leverage for?”
Silence, then: “Guess your brother’s keepin’ some secrets from you.”
I freeze.My brother.What does this have to do with him?
