CAPTURED: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys(93)

This is so wrong-he shouldn't be afraid for his life, for his mother's life.

"I really don't feel like going out."

He strokes his fingers along the back of my hand. Goosebumps wash over  me. "I want you to go. Don't you think I hate myself for putting you  through this? I don't want you to stop living a normal life." His  intense violet eyes are grim, but he tries to smile. "You'll be safe.  Helman believes we've broken up. Since he's threatened my mother, he  won't touch you."



Saturday afternoon I take a cab to Westingham's local police station. I  made my decision. Sawyer and his family are in too much danger. He may  hate me for this when he learns that I did it. But I care for him too  much not to go to them.

The cops question me and I don't have much information to give them. I  don't know where the races happen. I only know the name "Helman." They  thank me and I leave, not knowing if I've done any good or not.

That night passes in agonizing slowness. Sawyer has to race. Abby and I  go off campus and end up in one of the most popular dance bars. I can't  focus on my friends or what's happening around me. I can't talk to  anyone about my fears.

The cops promised they wouldn't do anything to put Sawyer or his family in danger, but what if Helman finds out what I've done?

At the dance bar, DJ Mike has the music blaring so loud it thrums  through my body like another heartbeat. I'm the designated driver, so  I've been sucking back diet Cokes. Abby, Shanelle, Kylie and three other  girls are dancing on one of the tables. I'm standing with other girls  from Yardley.         

     



 

I drain my soft drink. Maybe I'm overloading on artificial sweetener,  but I feel strange. My brain feels kind of disconnected from my body. My  vision is blurry. If I'd been drinking alcohol, I'd suspect I was  getting drunk.

It must be stress. Shakily, I get to my feet. Maybe if I go to the  bathroom and run cold water on my wrists I'll feel better. With the  bright lights on the dance floor and so many people crammed into the  space and dancing, it's really hot. My hair is actually damp with sweat.

My legs are weak. On my way to the bathroom, I stumble into a booth. A  guy sitting on the end jumps to his feet and steadies me. "Are you  okay?" he asks.

I try to focus on him. I can understand that I might feel sick from too  many soft drinks, and I feel weak and shaky from stress, but why can't I  see properly? Things that should be stationary look like they're  moving, are growing bigger or smaller, and almost everything is out of  focus.

When I moved into residence at the beginning of the year, we received  ‘talks' from older students. Warnings about situations to beware. Date  rape drugs were discussed.

Am I a victim of a date rape drug? But how did it get in my drink? I  never left my diet Coke alone. I've been a table surrounded by girls  ever since I got here. No man has been anywhere near my drink.

"Are you okay? What's your name?" The guy from the booth is talking really loudly. Almost shouting at me.

"I'm not okay. I've been drugged." My words are slurred.

"Oh God, what's happened to her?" A woman's voice comes from beside me. "Claire, are you okay? What's wrong?"

I turn toward the voice, expecting to see Abby. It's a woman I don't  know. She has honey brown skin, large brown eyes, and lots of black hair  that's been ironed straight. I try to ask who she is and how she knows  my name, but I feel so dizzy I can't stand up.

"She thinks she's been drugged."

"Oh God," the woman says again. "I'll get her home right away."

"Maybe you should take her to the hospital. Or call the cops."

"The hospital. Yeah, that's where I'll take her. Right now. Thanks."

The woman grabs my arm and propels me through the crowd. I know I reach  the door, because a blast of cold October air hits me in the face. I  pray it's enough to clear my brain.

I try to take another step, even though I can't focus on where I am or  what's around me. My leg crumples underneath me. I'm falling …

Into blackness.





Chapter Seven

Something shifts underneath me. Something squishy that stinks of rancid sweat and pee-

I jerk my eyes open and discover I'm lying on a sagging mattress on the  floor of a small, grim room. Gagging, I scramble off the disgusting  thing and scuttle onto the hard concrete floor. But that's as far as I  can move. Something clanks and rattles. And something heavy and cold is  biting into both my right wrist and my left ankle.

Grey light filters in from a tiny window near the ceiling. I blink until  I get used to the faint light. A handcuff is clamped around my wrist,  attached by a thick chain to the concrete block wall. Around my ankle,  an iron shackle is fastened.

My head pounds and my stomach lurches and rolls inside me, like I've just ridden the world's highest rollercoaster.

Where am I? How did I get-?

That I do remember. I remember the sick, woozy feeling that gripped me.  My stumbling walk toward the washroom. The woman in the bar who acted  like my friend and pushed me outside-

I was drugged and brought here. Kidnapped, supplies my brain.

I'm not living up to my brainiac reputation. I try to keep calm and use  my head. Obviously I was kidnapped. But was it for white  slavery/prostitution, or was this because of Sawyer?

He was so certain his "sponsor" Helman would attack his mother. Had Helman lied to distract Sawyer so he could get to me?

In that case, violence against me is not just a threat anymore.

Oh God.

Suddenly, I retch as my stomach clamps tight in horror. But I don't  throw up. My throat feels parched, as if all the water inside me has  been sucked out. My lips are dry and cracked.

Then I see it.

A tall glass filled with a clear fluid. It has to be water. It stands on  a scarred wood table, where the rays of dim light hit it. It's out of  my reach, of course.

Left there deliberately to torment me?

If I'm in the hands of Helman, what is going to happen to me? He's going  to use me to-to what? Force Sawyer into racing? Or am I going to be  used as an example? This is what you get when you don't obey: a dead  girlfriend.

Then I'm sick. I barely have time to get to my knees and face away from  the mattress as I throw up. I keep being sick, even when my body is  heaving nothing.

With a loud creak of hinges and a grinding sound that must be metal against the concrete floor, the door to my room opens.

I turn, which is amazing since I don't seem to be able to breathe and my  heartbeat is like constant explosions in my head. Beyond the doorway,  it looks dark and shadowy. I squint-my glasses are gone, I suddenly  realize. That makes me panic. I'm not going to be able to even see  properly. How in hell will I get-?

No, it's not dark in the corridor. I'm looking at men who are standing  in the doorway and they are all wearing black. Without my glasses, I  can't tell how many are there, watching me.

Someone makes a gagging noise. "Disgusting," says a clipped,  authoritative male voice. "This room smells foul. Get it cleaned up. I  will return in five minutes."

The owner of the voice leaves. I wait, breath heaving. After what seems  like forever, three men walk into my room. Three huge men. Each must be  over six foot-three inches. One has a mop and one of those metal  janitorial buckets on wheels. The other carries two bottles with blue  liquid. Cleaner, I pray, not something to dissolve my corpse.

Frantic, I pull on the chains.

The third man, who is fat and paunchy even though he's tall, isn't  carrying anything. He looks at me with derision. His eyes are small and  jet black. He smirks.

They mutter to each other. Their voices are low and I can't understand a word. They're not speaking English.

Two of the men completely ignore me. The one with the mop cleans up my watery vomit.

The third man keeps staring at me. When I glance at him, he makes a  gross, clicking sound, as if he's summoning an animal. Then he pursues  his lips and pretends to kiss me. Finally, he does a grinding motion  with his pelvis and points his finger at me.

I want to be sick again. But there isn't anything left inside me.

Another man strides in. "Good. It's clean. Now get the fuck out and do  something." He's the one who issued the orders before. I recognize his  voice.

The other men file out.

This man that I am left with is wearing a silk suit. It's gray and looks  shiny, even in the gloomy light. He walks around me, studying me. "Not  what I expected," he says.

I don't say anything. Even if I wanted to, I'm too terrified. I remember  being scared to go to high school in case I got mocked and bullied. I  had some idea what real fear was-I had been really scared when my  brother's colitis flared up. But I had no idea what real torment was.

I'm really terrified-am I here because he knows I went to the cops?

"Water." I force the word out. "Could I have water?"

"Of course." He gets the glass and brings it to me. Is this a good sign?

As I drink, I squint at him. He stands close enough that I can sort of  focus on him. He's short, probably five-eight. Maybe he had tall  henchman to make up for that. But he is bulky with muscle, wears an  expensive suit. Very shiny black dress shoes. Underneath his flashy suit  jacket, he wears a white T-shirt. Black stubble shadows his jaw and  cheeks. His hair is longish and black and is coiffed to be high on his  head and brushed back. It's so full of hair gel, it looks like porcupine  quills.