I could barely make out the silhouette of a man standing a few feet away. The only thing separating us was a door constructed of thin vertical bars. A crescendo of metal on metal split the air, then the door opened with a squeak.
“Cover yourself up,” he snarled, tossing something at me.
A dark, coarse blanket hit me in the face, causing him to laugh. It smelled like cigarettes and body odor, but I clutched it like a lifeline, dragging it around my body and fisting it tightly. It did little to ward off the chill, but at least it concealed my nakedness.
“Otherwise, I’ll treat you like a whore.” His words brought with them the stench of cigarettes and rot. Or maybe that was what bone-penetrating fear smelled like.
Something smacked the floor directly in front of me. It looked like a plate, but it was too dark to see what was on it. A water bottle landed next, bouncing when it hit the concrete before rolling away from me.
“Who are you?” I choked out, but even I knew the garbled words made no sense. My throat was on fire, my brain fuzzy, and I sounded like I’d just come from the dentist after having the numbing drug injected into my gums.
I swallowed past the pain in my throat and repeated my question.
“Name’s Diggy. I’m your babysitter for the foreseeable future, princess.”
Based on his tone, he was proud of his job title.
“What do you want from me?”
“Your virginity would be a good start.” He laughed like a hyena choking on a coconut. “Unless you want that to happen, that’s your last fucking question.”
I didn’t bother telling him I’d lost my virginity when I was fifteen. In the boy’s locker room, the night the Beverly Bulls won the homecoming game. I’d bet Rory Bingham, the star quarterback—also my boyfriend—that they wouldn’t win. I’d paid my marker with my body and hadn’t regretted a single second. Didn’t matter at the moment, obviously. Plus, if believing I was a virgin kept this creepy asshole’s hands off me, all the better.
The metal door slammed closed, the bang echoing over the concrete walls and floor.
“Maybe this’ll keep you company,” he chuckled.
A light flashed on, washing the room in a blue-white glow. I got my first glimpse of my accommodations, which included a toilet in the far corner and a drain in the floor. It took a second for me to realize the glow wasn’t coming from a light but rather an LED clock mounted on the wall over the door. It read 14:00:00.
Was that military time? Two o’clock?How long was I out?
The man laughed. “Sit tight, shut up, and you might make it back to your mommy and daddy in one piece.”
I stared at the dark outline of his body as he loomed in the doorway. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t know me. At least not the way he thought he did. If he had a clue who I was, he would’ve realized I didn’t have a dad—my mother claimed she had no idea who he was. Worse than that, I doubted Monica Quinn could be bothered enough to pay the ransom, much less put too much effort into looking for me. To say she was a narcissistic, self-centered bitch would be an understatement. And since the disappearance of her seventeen-year-old daughter would bring the press out in droves, I was sure Monica would have exactly what she wanted: attention. If I had to guess, she would drag this out as long as possible.
“Aww, do you miss your mommy and daddy?” he taunted. “So sad for you.”
Whatever hope might’ve flickered in my chest was snuffed out quickly because this guy … he was clearly the hired help. A henchman, a lackey. He was nobody, and he probably had nothing to lose.
He was also the only person I would see for the next thirteen days, twenty-two hours, and forty-two minutes. I knew because that clock wasn’t a clock after all. It was a timer depicting days, hours, and minutes. It started counting down from fourteen days, the amount of time I had left to live if my mother didn’t pay the fifty million dollar ransom.
My pervy jailer never realized that the fifty million dollar demand only ensured I wasn’t abused during my captivity. My kidnapper’s greed worked in my favor. Acted as a safety net that ensured Diggy didn’t touch me and that I was given enough food and water to keep me alive.
12 days, 18 hours, 57 minutes remaining
“Tell me, princess. What’s it like to be the daughter of a Hollywood queen?” Diggy asked when he brought me breakfast the following day.
Breakfast, as it turned out, was a piece of stale bread and a bottle of water.
“It’s fine,” I told him, knowing I had to give him some form of an answer or risk him coming in here.
He let loose with a broken cough as he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “Fine? That’s all you’ve got to say? I’ve seen the magazines.”
I was surprised he could read.
“She’s always out with some Casanova-lookin’ motherfucker.” He put the cigarette between his lips and talked around it. “Bet your dad don’t like that shit.”
“No,” I agreed. Since I didn’t have a clue who my father was and since he wasn’t around, I could pretend that was the truth.
