Or worse, and then I’ll die.
The tears feel hot, and I’m angry at myself that I’m crying. I’m angry that I’m here at all in this situation, and I’m angry that I was too stupid to just call someone, months ago when this whole downward spiral of mine started.
The car jerks around a turn, and I thump against the side of it before suddenly, we stop. The engine turns off, and I take one beat of being frozen before I summon the last of my strength and lash out. I kick at the trunk like a maniac, screaming through the gag until my throat feels raw. Because maybe we’re at a gas station, or somewhere someone can hear me.
There’s a key in the lock, and just as I jerk my foot out to slam against the trunk door again, it swings up and open, and I kick thin air. I kick again, but he grabs my ankle tight in his powerful hands, stopping the movement.
Goddamn, he’s strong.
I scream as he grabs both my ankles, holding them tight so I can’t kick him as he pulls me out of the trunk and just throws me over his shoulder like he’s a fucking caveman.
…And I made out with this man.
I’m such an idiot.
Of course, I doubt he knew he was going to kill me then. I doubt he knew at all before I stepped into that room, and watched him murder two people.
And now I’m a witness.
It’s dark, and he carries me through a deserted parking lot towards a big, crumbling old factory building. A cold breeze slinks up under my skirt, making me shiver. I look up to see the Boston skyline, and my hope drops.
We’re not close to anyone out here. We’re in the old shipping and deserted factory district south of the city and screaming is not going to help.
But that doesn’t mean I stop. I try and kick my legs out, or try and get a knee into his chest as I’m slung face down over his shoulder, but he holds me firm.
He unlocks a side door with one hand and hauls me through to a freight elevator. I’m still screaming at him to let me go - pleading and begging as we go up one, two, three, four, to the fifth floor. The elevator stops and he uses the key again to unlock the freight door and push it up and open, still holding me tight. We step off into a huge, black cavern of a room. My heart’s racing, I’m looking for plastic wrap or torture devices, when he strides over and clicks on a light.
I frown, blinking.
Not a murder room.
Actually the place looks like a freaking magazine shoot. The huge loft space is gorgeous - masculine, tasteful, richly decorated in leathers and dark woods that contrast to the brick walls. Framed rock posters hang along one wall above an enormous vinyl record collection, and a tiled-wall kitchen full of brushed silver appliances occupies a far corner of the space.
Low-hanging, expensive looking industrial glass fixtures lit by Edison bulbs illuminate the loft space in a soft glow, showing a hardwood floor covered by Persian rugs, a brown vintage leather couch and matching Eames chairs, an enormous coffee table made from what looks like a reclaimed wooden factory door.
The place looks like a bachelor pad out of a damn movie, not a murder room.
There’s no plastic lining on the walls. No torture devices. No prominently displayed knife collection.
He strides across the room, me still over his shoulder and when I see the large king-sized bed in the far corner of the loft, I lose it.
I summon everything I have left to lash at him, tearing at him, feeling the blood on my wrists as I try and yank my binds apart. I kick his hands free of my legs, until I suddenly go toppling to the floor as he drops me.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he growls. He lurches for me but I kick at his hands, eyes wide, my face stricken.
Because this is not happening. I’ll fight to fucking death before I let him-
“Will you calm the fuck down!” he roars, and suddenly, it’s the eyes from before. It’s not the eyes of the man who grabbed me and stuck a gun against my head, it’s the man with the promise of bad decisions you’d love to regret from the bar.
The man I kissed.
The man who kissed me back like no kiss I’ve ever had.
The deep shadows of his cheeks hollow as that square jaw tenses. His eyes flit across mine, brow furrowing, and it’s then that I notice how damn perfect his lashes are - like, enviable as a girl dark lashes.
It’s a stupid thought, given what’s happening.
He crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet and clasping his hands in front of him as he peers at me.
“Who are you?”
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
Well, it’s more of a “fffcsshhk eeuurrr” through the gag, but the message gets across.
I hope.
He grins a small, tight smile before narrowing his eyes at me.
“Just answer the question. Who-”
“fffcsshhk eeuurrr.”