Pushing me toward the table, Steven hooked one foot around a chair and pulled it out. He let go of my mouth and wrist to shove me down in the chair. I scrambled to get my feet under me. His fist caught my already bruised jaw in a flash of pain, sending me back down into the seat. A drawer opened behind me and I heard the rasp of duct tape being peeled off the roll. That seemed to be my luck tonight. Steven hadn’t done a single dish or cooked one meal in that kitchen. But he’d taped up a tear on his favorite tattered sneakers, and apparently he remembered where I kept my duct tape.
No more men, I told myself. It would take me years to forget how badly I’d fucked up my life by picking Steven. He taped my wrists together behind me, then wrapped the tape around my torso over and over so I couldn’t get up. When he was sure I was secure, he left me, disappearing down the hall off my kitchen.
It didn’t take him long to find the title to my car and the spare key. I was organized and everything was exactly where I’d told him it was, the file folder complete with a neatly printed label courtesy of my handy little label printer. When this was over, I was going to try being irresponsible. No more savings, no more 401k. Fuck my tidy filing cabinet. What had all that gotten me? Heart broken and victimized by a two-bit con artist. Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes. I fought them back. I wasn’t going to cry in front of Steven.
He held out the title and my urge to weep vanished. I’d have to sign the title over for him to sell the car. In Nevada a transfer between private citizens required a bill of sale and a title, but no notary. I’d looked into it for an elderly client who’d been newly widowed and had never sold a car before. I’d let Steven worry about the bill of sale, but he had to know I’d have to sign the title. Not easy to do with my hands duct taped behind my back.
I didn’t need to say anything. Looking from me to the title, he realized his mistake. Again displaying his maturity, he slammed the paper on the table and kicked the leg of my chair. What an ass. It wasn’t the chair’s fault he was an idiot. I had a moment of triumph before my brain kicked in and reminded me that I was currently taped to a chair in my kitchen and about to sign my car over to this moron. So who was the stupid one? Steven wasn’t a genius, but neither was I.
Cursing under his breath, Steven yanked open drawers until he found one with a knife. Then he did the same looking for a pen. When he had both, he slashed at the tape on my wrists, freeing them with one slice that cut the side of my wrist along with the tape. I felt a cold burn, then blood began to well on the side of my free wrist. He cursed again. Yanking the title away, he snarled,
“Don’t bleed on it.”
“Then get me something to wrap this up,” I snapped. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t cut myself.”
More evidence that I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was. Mouthing off to an angry guy with a knife was not the best idea. He grabbed a dishtowel, wrapped it around my bleeding wrist, and taped it in place. It hurt like a bitch, worse than my jaw. It wasn’t bleeding fast enough to be dangerous, but it was bleeding more than I’d like. Quickly, before blood could soak through the towel and stain the title to the car, I scanned the document and signed it over to Steven.
The second the pen left the paper, he snatched the title away from me, folded it up and shoved it into his back pocket. Tossing the knife in the sink, he wrenched my arms behind my back and taped them together for the second time. Standing back, he examined me before saying,
“You look good like that. Tied up and helpless. Makes your tits look bigger. I always liked your tits. They made up for your fat ass.”
A sharp bolt of fear hit my heart. No, not this. He could have the money, he could have anything. I didn’t think I could take it if he touched me. Steven grinned at the terror in my eyes. I flinched back, trying to get as far from him as I could. Taped to the chair, I couldn’t move very far. One hand reached out to stroke my bruised cheek. I jerked my face away, looking down at my lap, shamed by the tears leaking from my eyes. He laughed, dropping his hand to cup my left breast. I’d managed to put on a bra in the dark, but it was thin. No barrier from the harsh squeeze of Steven’s hand. Desperate, I said,
“Touch me one more time and I’ll scream so loud Mrs. Carmody will be on the phone with the cops in a second.”
His hand fell away. Steven knew Mrs. Carmody. She’d come out on her front porch and yelled at him more than once when he’d parked his car too close to her yard.
“That old bitch,” he murmured. “I could just do this.” He ripped off a length of tape from the roll and held it out, moving toward my face. If he gagged me, I couldn’t do anything. I opened my mouth to scream, and he punched me again, this time on the cheekbone. My jaw snapped together. Tape slapped across my mouth, sealing it shut.