I sit up, feeling the pull in my stomach, but it doesn’t feel like my insides are slipping around, so I’ll take that as a win.
My feet soundlessly touch the cool floor, and I rise. I give myself a few seconds before creeping over to the door I can now see is still open. I barely breathe as I drag my feet into the living room.
I squint as I peer at the furniture, trying to gauge if I see any body-shaped lumps, but it looks like the coast is clear. There’s no way it’s going to be this easy.I sneak past the door to the other room, not even taking the time to glance into the darkness before I inch closer to the main door.
My heart thunders in my chest, and the ache in my stomach echoes the throb. With shaky hands, I reach for the door. I honestly can’t remember if there’s a dead bolt, but I’m assuming there is as I run my hand down the wood.
A scream tears from my mouth when a palm slams against the door over my head. Sheer frustration and too much emotion has tears pricking my eyes as I drop my forehead to the door. “If you let me go, you’ll never see me again.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” he says close to my neck. If there was ever a time when I should fear someone, it would be now, but the terror that usually grips me when a man is close eludes me. My body’s responses are all out of whack, and I have nothing but the pills and pain to blame it on.
“Go back to your room, Max,” Winger demands without moving an inch. He’s been careful not to touch me, which is pretty fucking nice actually, but nice is not helping me get out of here.
I take in a deep breath, preparing myself for the pain I’m about to be in. With one quick movement, I slam my head back and hear a crunch as my skull rattles. There are white pinpricks of light in my eyes that I try to ignore as I fumble for the door handle, twisting uselessly.
The palm that was on the door clamps onto my shoulder, and he spins me around roughly until my back slams against the wood.
In the next breath, light pierces the room, making me squint and duck away, but there’s nowhere for me to escape because he’s still standing right in front of me. When I can open my eyes again, I see red smeared all over his heavily tattooed abdomen. My eyes travel up as he does nothing to staunch the flow of blood streaming from both of his nostrils as if he doesn’t even notice.
I flinch when he releases my shoulder, expecting his hand to cuff the side of my face, but when I don’t feel anything after a moment, I slit my eyes open to see him standing a few feet away from me.
“Go.” He knocks his head to the side, telling me to get around him. I know the door is no use now, so I skirt the wall, staying as far from him as I can while keeping my eyes on him until I’m behind the closed door of my room. The scraping of metal against metal tells me I’m locked in the room with no hope of getting out anytime soon.
After sitting down, I rub the back of my head, feeling the tender spot that collided with his face. Something akin to regret plagues me when I drag my hand down the back of my hair and feel dampness against my palm. When I pull my hand away, my fingers are smeared with barely visible streaks of his blood.
I’ve been in a tight situation before and used a similar move, and the guy was a mess after. I think he damn near passed out from the sight of his own blood, which allowed me to grab a lamp off a nearby table and go Louisville Slugger on his skull. He hit the ground, and I kept swinging. It was a mess, and I was exhausted after, but he was as dead as all the others.
Winger didn’t even flinch. At some point, I’ll learn to stop comparing him to pedophiles who are happy to hurt people much weaker than themselves and realize I’m in way over my head. Maybe the only way to get out of this is to confess that it was only morbid curiosity and boredom that had me tailing him and hope I can get him to believe me.
CHAPTER16
MAXINE
Iface the door when I hear the metal scrape, telling me he’s unlocking it. “Back away from the door,” an unfamiliar male voice demands through the wood.
I do as I’m told, positioning myself against the far wall. I’m close to the bathroom, which might buy me a little time if I lock myself inside.
The door creeps open, and I see a bag get pushed in on the floor before the door snaps closed and the lock gets replaced.
The smell of greasy food fills the room, and my stomach rumbles with hunger. The food is packaged in a Happy Meal bag, but it’s not a kid’s meal. There’s a Big Mac, a ten-piece nugget, and a large fry. The only thing missing is a drink, until I move the fries and see a little bottle of chocolate milk.
I shove a fry into my mouth. Even though it feels like I’m being insulted, I’m not dumb enough to pretend I have a choice.
After I’ve eaten the burger and most of the fries, I lock myself in the bathroom and strip out of the clothes I’ve been wearing for the past twenty-four hours and place them on the counter. The large mirror over the sink doesn’t allow me to ignore my body. Someone must have done a fairly thorough job of cleaning me up, because I don’t see any dried blood. The bandage looks small, only about three square inches. It’s hard to believe what’s under there could hurt so badly. I decide to leave it on while I shower. I don’t know if it should get wet, and it’s not like I can call the doctor lady and ask.
I wash quickly, using the new soap to scrub my body before making a lather in my hands to wash my hair. It’s not ideal, but then again, neither is being kidnapped.
When I exit the bathroom, I know right away something is off. The chicken nuggets I was saving for later are gone, as is the bag. There’s also a new pile of clothes on the end of the bed and a book.
I get down on my hands and knees, my stomach screaming the entire time, and check under the bed, then the empty closet to make sure no one is hiding. I shouldn’t feel gratitude, but I am very relieved to have clean clothing.
I lock myself back in the bathroom and get changed as quickly as possible. I’m cautious when I leave the bathroom again, knowing someone has been in the room. The fact that it might have been someone who isn’t Winger feels like an intrusion.
There’s a part of me that must trust him on some level, because his presence doesn’t seem to bother me in the same way. It probably stems from the fact that he always seems to be trying to save me, even if the effort is wasted and I don’t need to be rescued other than maybe from myself.
I look around the room, trying to figure out what I can put in front of the door that will block someone from barging in and isn’t too heavy for me to move alone.
The dresser is out, since it’s on the other side of the room, as is the bed, which is too bulky anyway. The nightstand or chair are my only real options, and I know which will be more effective.
