Yes!
Of course, that’s what I should be doing. I should be trying to memorize things about where I am and who has taken me. The second I’m out of here, I’ll need this information to burn this man to the ground.
I look around. I’m in a big room. It’s laid out like a studio apartment, but it’s a lot bigger than a typical studio is. There’s a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall in one of the corners. The bed has an ominous looking metal bed frame and headboard. It looks heavy. Not flimsy. Something tells me that’s no accident. Across from the bed is a stained, beige sofa pointed at a wall mounted TV. There’s a doorway between the bed and the living area that seems to lead to a bathroom. There are two windows on the adjacent wall, but both are obscured by blinds that have been drawn. There’s not a modicum of natural light in the place. The kitchenette takes up the left corner of the room and a small, dark wood table and chairs the other. The narrow hallway leading to freedom is at the end of the room.
The entire space is off-white. Cream, I guess you’d call it. I can’t tell if it was a conscious décor choice or if the look has been achieved through years’ worth of layers of smoke and grime. Either way, I can say with certainty it’s the most uninspired space I’ve ever been in.
My captor turns off the heat and the extractor fan. With the absence of background noise, the silence is notable. I can’t hear anything. Not a car, not a train, not a person.
Where the hell am I? Am I still in New York? Am I still in the States?
Fear rises up through my legs and churns in my gut. I push it down as hard as I can.
Stay calm and focus.
He walks to the table, plates in hand, and sets mine down roughly. He does it the way you might set down a dog bowl, if you were an asshole. He moves the laptop that was on the table out of the way, and he sits down, making an exaggerated gesture for me to sit, too.
“Eat,” he barks.
Despite my almost pathological hatred of being told what to do, I do as he says. I’m starving. My stomach is griping with hunger. I look down at my plate. The omelette is souffle-level fluffy and expertly folded. I cut into it and take a tentative bite. I’m almost annoyed at how good it is. He’s eating too, he’s shoveling big, no-nonsense mouthfuls into his mouth. Watching him makes me feel shaky. I become aware that my head is throbbing.
“I need coffee.” He ignores the rudeness of my tone and leaves the table to make the coffee. My head pounds as I eat. The act of chewing seems to exacerbate it. “Did you drug me?” I allow the full force of the accusation into my voice.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Fuck! The fucking idiot.
“Fuck! What were you thinking? I’m highly allergic to…”
“Relax. I didn’t give you anything containing propofol.”
What?
How the fuck does he know I’m allergic to propofol?”
“How do you know about my allergy? Have you been stalking me?”
“You’ve been under surveillance, yes.”
My mind goes blank. I reel as the shock of what’s happening hits me fully. This is no accident. This isn’t a prank or a figment of my imagination. This isn’t even the world’s worst hangover. It’s real. I’ve been mother-fucking kidnapped. I’ve been taken by a man who is obviously lawless and most likely dangerous. What’s more, I’m sitting at a table with him and eating an egg white omelette he made for me.
“This is insane,” I say, looking at him. He seems to be enjoying his meal. He chews thoughtfully. Slowly. Like he hasn’t a care in the world. That only makes me feel crazier. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
He swallows and gives a curt nod, “Yep.”
I take a breath. I hold it for several seconds and I let it out slowly. I lower my voice. I want to sound as different as possible to the way he sounded a few moments ago when he imitated me. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yep,” he says again. He takes a sip of coffee and swallows. “Damon Alexander Beckett. First of your name.” If I’m not mistaken, that seems to be an attempt at a joke. I don’t find it funny. “Eldest son of Rebecca Albrecht and the late Clyde Beckett. Brother of Emelia and Leighton. Date of birth…”
In seconds, he rattles off my birthdate, home address, work address, social security number, bank account details and enough other facts he shouldn’t know to make my head spin. I take another breath to try to collect myself but it doesn’t work. Hearing my sisters’ names out of his mouth makes me livid.
“Do you know who my family are?” I speak slowly, allowing my meaning time to sink in. It’s not the first time I’ve threatened someone using my family name, but it is by far the most serious I’ve ever been about it.
“Yep,” he presses his lips together and creases his eyes slightly. When it dawns on him I might need more than a “yep”, he adds, “The Becketts of BeckIT. Owners and creators of the most successful social media platform on the planet. Listed on Forbes 400 every year since 2002. Very,veryimportant people.”
“Do you understand what that means?” He looks at me expectantly, as if he’d welcome an explanation. I choose my words with care. “We will annihilate you. We will hunt you down. We will find you and we will prosecute you to the full extent of the law.” He looks at me, biting his bottom lip. I have an awful feeling he’s trying not to laugh, so I add with all the venom I can muster, “andasshole, Becketts always win.”
He gives the smallest of snorts, but quickly composes himself. “Look, Damon…”
