Did the fuckerremoveit?
It feels like where the release handle used to nestle in, but now, there’s nothing except a carved-out space with a tiny hole near the bottom where the wire used to come out of.
“What the fuck,” I hiss, angrily kicking my foot out and promptly ignoring the pain that shoots up my leg.
I go to reach for my North Star—except I took it off, and that daunting realization becomes too much. I press my trembling, balled fists against my forehead, hating myself more than anything right now. My breathing grows shallower and faster, little panicked wheezes joined by the sound of the tires against the pavement.
The overwhelming urge to cry arises, so I move the heels of my palms over my eyes, as if that alone will keep them contained. A sob rises in my throat, but I repeatedly swallow it down while attempting to calm myself once again.
It feels impossible.
Especially when I have no idea whose face I’m going to see when this trunk hatch opens.
Never in my life did I think I’d pray for it to be Dread’s. In fact, I fear I might hug him if it is.
Because if this is my father… lying in this trunk alone may be the last semblance of peace I have before he kills me.
I don’t believe for a second his intentions for reconciliation are pure. At the very least, he’ll force me to return to California. At most, he’ll make use of Dread’s unmarked grave behind Craig Matthew’s house.
Regardless of his true intentions, my life will no longer be my own, but his.
Breathe, Rev, breathe. There’s no fucking time to panic.
Despite my body heavily disagreeing, I force myself to concentrate on the matter at hand.
They’ve ensured there’s no way out of this trunk, and while I could scream and kick in the hopes someone will rescue me, the likelihood of anyone hearing me is low, and I’d rather conserve the little energy I have left. I want nothing more than to see who it is the second they open the lid, but I need to play this smart and pretend I’m still bound. That way, I can catch them off guard when I attack them and give myself the bestpossible chance of escape.
I sniff back the tears burning in my sinuses and pat around for the hood. I slip it back over my head, screaming at my brain to ignore how constricting it feels and instead focus on finding the strip of duct tape along with the zip tie left by my feet. I tuck them into my coat pocket before twining my hands behind my back, pretending they’re still constrained.
After several long moments, the brakes squeal before the car comes to a stop. It’s impossible to keep my breathing perfectly controlled, but I force myself to take deep, slow breaths so I don’t spiral again.
In a matter of minutes, I may face my father for the first time in nine years, and while subconsciously, my body is attempting to prepare me for that, I refuse to let my brain even consider it. I refuse to allow myself to even imagine his face—or what I remember of it.
The trunk lid opens, inviting in a rush of ice-cold air that instantly cools the sweat on my skin. My heart is beating hard enough to break through my rib cage, and if I don’t pass out from the terror first, I might just find something left in my stomach to spew.
Though my body trembles, I keep still as their hands grab my biceps and pull me forward to boost me over their shoulder, all the while I firmly keep my wrists pressed together as if they're still bound. All I can do is hope they don't notice the zip tie missing.
Still, they say nothing while my head races, contemplating the best time to make a move. I’ve heard enough stories to know that in situations like these, timing is absolutely everything, and acting too quickly can make the situation worse.
Snow and grass crunch beneath their feet as they walk, and within moments, the sound gives way to shoes against pavement.
While I try to make sense of where they could be taking me, I hear a set of keys jingle.
Fuck, could Lionel be taking me to a house? I suppose it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he has a connection here and is crashing at someone’s place, but the idea still seems far-fetched.
They push through the door, and we’re instantly enveloped in significantly warmer air, followed by the distinctsnicksuggesting they’ve relocked it.
A lump forms in my throat, and my muscles tense as I gear up to attack. Wherever I am, I can’t let them take me too deep inside thebuilding in case I can’t find my way out quickly enough. I need a quick escape, not to get lost and end up right back in their hands.
A door squeaks open, and the strong, familiar scent that arises doesn’t even register. My mind is blank as I lift my torso, twist, and grab for their face, intent on gouging their eyeballs out.
Again, the small details don’t register—I just attack. They thrash their head, and I lose my balance on their shoulder. All I hear is a grunt before I pitch backward into the air.
They grapple to catch me, grabbing my bicep and preventing all my weight from landing on my tailbone when it hits the rock-hard floor. Pain shoots up my spine, and though it’s enough to take my breath away, it’s not enough to stop me from ripping my arm out of their hold and tearing off the hood.
Dread.
Oh my God, it's Dread.
