Sure. Ask the hard questions first. I nod, my eyes tracking his every movement. There’s a mass of adrenaline at the ready but my body isn’t tipping into full-on panic mode just yet.
Despite his bulk, the man is calm. His eyes keep taking in information, updating his assessment, but he’s not anxious or worried or concerned or angry.
I try to borrow from his energy, keeping my muscles relaxed so they don’t catapult me into another excruciating cramp.
“Can I untie you?”
I nod again and he moves closer, examining the cuffs before his eyes scan the room, searching for a key. They alight upon a pile of papers, tucked onto a shelf below the television. He plucks off the paper clip and fashions it into a key.
When he sits on the mattress beside me, I fall into his side, his weight pulling me over. He makes a low rumble that might be a chuckle. It’s hard to tell. His voice is pitched half an octave lower than Caylon’s. Than anyone I’ve heard, really.
It makes tingles shoot out from the top of my spine, coating my scalp in prickles.
My hands are free in less than a minute and he rubs them between his, warming them from freezing into the low double digits.
“You’re probably better to take the tape off than I am.”
I take it as permission and pick at the edges of the tape, slowly drawing it away from my mouth. Beneath it, my lips are cracked and dry. The man hands me a bottle of water and I take a gulp, waiting to see if my stomach is settled enough to accept the gift before swallowing more.
“Thank you.”
“He’s holding you prisoner, here?”
I shake my head, wondering why anyone would be so calm when asking the question. How many times has this man stumbled across a potential abduction that he can remain so poised?
The thought leads off on such a bad tangent that I quickly snap it back to the moment.
“It’s for my protection,” I whisper, my voice cracking halfway through.
Even though my throat feels a hundred times better than yesterday, it’s still a long way from healed. Still tender when I swallow.
His eyes scan my face, flick down to the contusions on my neck, then he pulls a phone from his pocket. “This yours?”
I stare at the image, nodding when I recognise my car. The thought I should keep hold of a few secrets turns up a second too late. “Maybe,” I hedge, the lie so blatant and see-through that I blush. “Why?”
“Grab your bag or phone or whatever. You’re coming with me.”
The pronouncement shouldn’t come as a surprise. From the photo, he’s obviously searching for me, but I still try. “Caylon will be back any—”
His phone rings and the man holds up a finger before answering with a curt, “Yes.” He doesn’t speak again, just listening before he rings off. “Caylon’s not coming back. Not for a while, anyway. Grab whatever stuff you need.”
“What? What’s happened to him?” My wariness turns to terror. My breath shortening to pants. The man glares at me, enough of a response to let me know he doesn’t appreciate questions, even if that’s all I’ve got. “I have nothing to pack.”
Nausea rolls up my throat the moment I say those words, and I spin on my heel, running for the bathroom. I make it in time, but only just, the thin liquid I just swallowed coming straight back up. At least my low food intake means there isn’t much to get rid of.
When the spasms pass, I sit back on my heels, panting, sweaty, my hair sticking to my cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, then cling to the bowl and groan as another wave hits. It recedes before doing any more damage, but I feel like crying. Not even from the sickness but from the fact some strange man is standing there watching me. I know if I turn around, he’ll have the same calm expression that reassured me just minutes ago.
The same calm acceptance he’d probably demonstrate if he’d found me dead in this same bathroom, a gun in my hand.
A gun.
“Can I have some privacy?” I ask in a pleading voice, clutching my stomach as I half stand. “I just need a moment.”
He swings the door closed without question, and I wait for a moment to see if it’s a trick and he’s trying to catch me out. Once I count out a full sixty seconds, I cross to the cabinet and take out the gun, still wrapped in its handtowel. Caylon lent me a pair of his underwear since I don’t have any of my own. They’re bigger than mine. Plenty of room to shove a lethal weapon inside and the sweatpants are so baggy, no one will see.
