Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Especially that one guy who was holding me when the other one knocked me out. Damn, he hit me hard—I can barely turn my head without pain tearing through my skull. Did he really need to knock me out? I’m sure a hand over my mouth would have done the job just fine since both men are big and strong enough to subdue me without hardly trying.
No, that was for their pleasure, I’m sure of it.
There’s no question in my mind they’d kill me without blinking. My bladder feels too full all of a sudden, and fear isn’t helping anything. I’m going to die tonight, aren’t I? I’m going to die, and all because I was stupid enough to think there is any such thing as easy money.
And nobody will care. That’s the worst part, the part that brings tears to my eyes as the motion from the car rocks me, almost like I’m being soothed—though it would take a lot more than a rocking motion to soothe me right now. Elena might feel bad for a minute, but probably not much more than that. She’ll forget me just like everybody else will. I thought I had more time than this.
Would you get your shit together already? I don’t know where that voice in my head is coming from, but it’s sharp and no-nonsense, and it goes part of the way toward snapping me out of what was about to dissolve into screaming, weeping panic. I don’t have the luxury of that right now. I need to figure out a way to get out of this. There must be a way.
What are the facts?
I’m in a trunk. At least two men know I exist after finding me at that warehouse. Dangerous men—they don’t have to shoot me for me to know how dangerous they are. The memory of them grabbing me and being so rough is enough.
I have what’s most likely drugs in my bag, which they threw into the trunk with me. I’m almost surprised, though they might already have checked it for a weapon while I was unconscious. Not that I thought to bring one with me. Why would I have made a smart decision like that? Oh right, because I was worried somebody would take it the wrong way if they searched my bag and found a knife or something.
There’s a good chance they’re doing this because I’m not Elena. I have to keep telling myself that. It could be a simple misunderstanding. And it’s not like I stole anything from them. The drugs are still in my bag. I didn’t even try to use them. They haven’t lost anything. Maybe I can convince them of that? When all else fails, tell the truth.
For all I know, this could be how the drugs get to where they’re going. And wherever we’re headed right now, it could just as easily be the address I was supposed to go to on my own if I hadn’t been discovered. I need to think that way so I don’t lose myself to panic or fear. This could all end up being an unfortunate, uncomfortable, but easily amended mistake.
And maybe Santa Claus is real.
The car stops, and I’ve never been so close to peeing myself in my whole life. I force myself to take a few deep breaths before the trunk opens, and I squint up at the man whose eyes I was looking into when I got hit on the back of the head. The red rear lights wash over his face, bringing to mind the devil himself.
But there’s no way the devil was this beautiful. I always heard he was before he was cast into hell, but this guy is something else. Like his face was carved from granite by a master, his sensuous mouth set in a scowl as he gazes down at me. If I saw a picture of him in a magazine, I’d assume he was photoshopped to hell and back.
But he is very real and very angry. So angry, he takes hold and yanks me out of the trunk without warning before setting me on my feet, then grabs my bag and slams the lid shut hard enough to make me flinch. He doesn’t say a word, taking me by the arm hard enough that I have to grit my teeth to keep from whimpering in pain.
I keep stumbling in my stupid heels along the way up a gravel path leading to a townhouse. Even when I roll my ankle a little, he doesn’t slow down, demanding I keep up with his quick gait. He doesn’t even say a word or grunt in acknowledgment, and neither does his friend.
Something tells me this is not where I was supposed to be going. Why did I dress up like this if I was going to somebody’s house? Do they think I’m really a prostitute and we’re going to have a private party? Oh god, just when I thought this couldn’t get worse.