Maybe he’s considering Charlie’s orders. Is this guy allowed to harm me? He wouldn’t let the man kill me, but Charlie’s unpredictable, and so are his orders.
“Why does he want to see me now? The deadline is not today.”
The deadline is November eighth. Four months away.
He wipes his hands on his stained jeans and with two steps is right in front of me. The scent of whiskey, beer, and something else, maybe cigarettes, hits my nose and bile threatens to rise up my throat. All of Charlie’s disciples smell like trash. But not Charlie. His dark blue suits are made of expensive-looking material and his musky scent charms the ladies.
I grab the lamp on my nightstand and swing, but the man easily catches it and tosses it to the floor.
I should have packed last night and caught an early morning train today. After last week’s events, I should have run away faster than a frightened rabbit chased by a sly fox.
“My boss been calling, texting you since last week. He sent me to get you since you’re hiding.”
Last week.I would give anything to turn back time. Back to a week ago. Back to three weeks ago. Back to the day Dad walked out on me. On us.
“Because he’s a lunatic. So you’ll just kidnap me?”
“Less talking, little girl.”
He reaches to grab my arm, but I swat his hand away. Sharp pain cuts through my cheek and my head swings to one side so hard that I lose my balance. I didn’t see it coming. I try to wobble back to my feet, but my knees give up. I fall onto my bed. He leans in to pick me up but I kick frantically, my arms flailing in all directions.
“You see what you made me do. Charlie won’t be happy,” he spits out, and a few drops of saliva fall on my bare arms, like acid burning my skin.
I’m gonna be sick.
His hand, covered with black—maybe tobacco or ink—rises and hits my head so hard that it swings to the side. Little stars and an ocean of yellow curls flash before my eyes. He grabs my hands and brings them down to my stomach. I wiggle my arms, but they are trapped in a shatterproof hold. I use my feet to kick him in the stomach and almost succeed, but my kidnapper jerks back and my feet don’t do much damage other than invite more anger. His nostrils flare.
“You’ll regret this. Now get the fuck up.”
I regret many choices I’ve made in the last few years leading me to this moment.
And last week.
He bends down and wraps his hands around my neck so fast and so firm that at first I’m not moving at all, not fully comprehending.
“Let’s get this over with. You’re riding in the trunk conscious or unconscious.”
The tight squeeze of his rigid fingers doesn’t let the gasp come out of my throat.
I hit one of his wrists with as much force I can muster. His fingers come loose but as he pulls his hand away, he scratches my neck. Sharp pain radiates from below my ear to my chest, but a scream of pain doesn’t leave my mouth. Instead, I swallow it down to where I buried my soul.
He gives me a devious grin and shows me his fingers.
“Now you’ve done it.”
My blood?My blood is on his hand. I’m one of those people who have to look away when a nurse draws blood from their veins at the doctor’s office. I can’t watch scary movies with gore everywhere. I’m about to faint at the sight of my own blood.
Ohmigod.
My stomach turns, and any energy left in me drains out of my body.
I’m fading.
The henchman snatches my shoulders so roughly that the stitches in my shoulder wound stretch and pop out.Ouch. He easily turns my body so that my face is buried in the mattress now. He holds my hands behind my back and attempts to lift me off the bed.
My body shudders uncontrollably. A few beads of sweat form on my forehead.
No. No. No. This can’t be happening. I wish I had already passed out from the sight of my own blood.
