I scream before a sharp prick pierces my neck. My fingers ease apart on the door as my head slumps over Gargoyle.
“I didn’t want to do this again, but I used a smaller dose,” he says into my ear.
“You. Bitch,” I slur.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 13
Hello, Kill Container
Bianca
Water hits me at full speed, knocking me awake. My breath staggers, and my nostrils flare at the sting mixing with the worst headache.
“What in the world?” I sputter around the words, mouth dry, lungs heaving. Benny’s suit clings to my skin as water drips down my chest.
I wince at the beam of light in my face. My eyes narrow as a shield from the heated rays burning my face, but my hands don’t move.
“The hell is this?” I pull against the binds pinning my wrists to the back of the chair. When I shift forward to stand, nothing budges.
“I know you’re fucking lying!” I shout at my bound ankles.
Jesus, I need a full refund on this vacation. No way this is how it ends for me. I give to charities, round up my change in stores, and check on elders in my old building. Italy must have a personal beef with me. It’s been throwing hands since I tried to relax.
“It’s pointless to fight.”
Hollow footsteps shift to my right. Something scrapes before metal groans.
“Benny, get this light out of my face.” The muscles in my thighs flex. These damn restraints are tight.
A deep chuckle flickers beyond the shadows, dancing over metal. “I like her,” a man says in English, with an accent. “She’s not Bianca, but I like her.”
“I am Bianca!” I protest.
He tsks. “I’ve fucked Bianca. Long legs. Brown hair. Fair skin. Model figure. Doesn’t travel in a bonnet.”
Is he making fun of me?
“Who do you work for?”
This damn question again.
“Benny, I am not playing with you.” He’ll have to kill me if he thinks I’ll sit here in my free time while they disrespect me. I’d prefer not to die, but I’m not begging any man.
His pitch lowers. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“You might as well and say it louder to harmonize with your friend since you two are hard of hearing. Do I look like a woman who is remotely okay with this treatment?” I deadpan toward his voice. “Turn. Off. The. Light.”
A tiny lamp on a table sputters. Spots waltz across the shipping container. We’re not in his house.
Benny’s metal chair grinds over the floor in a slow shriek. His suit pants graze my knees, invading my personal space and human rights. He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, eyes boring into mine. The blades of his cheekbones cut through the light crawling over his black waves.
For someone so fine, he’s an asshole and an idiot.
“Your employer,” he asks again, tone arousing and infuriating.
“I’m between jobs, actually.”
