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Is it possible to have a boring vagina? If so, am I in possession of one?
It's a ridiculous thing to get distracted by at this moment, but I think my brain is finally starting to catch up with the gravity of my current situation and wants to latch onto anything besides what’s actually going on. That Warren abducted me right off the sidewalk in relatively broad daylight. Like he wasn’t even worried someone might have seen him do it, which means he's either completely stupid, or completely unhinged.
Stupid, I can work with. Unhinged might be a different story.
"What do you want, Warren?" I decide to get this show on the road. Figure out what his goal is, so I can come up with a plan to thwart it and go find my husband. It's a tall order, I recognize that.
But I'm wearing heels, so I should be fine.
Warren studies me a few long seconds, before straightening, sitting taller in his seat. "This isn't just about what I want, Valerie." He says, then turns away to face the windshield. Like he thinks this conversation is over.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I’m aggravated. A little scared, yes, but generally pissed. I was just about to fix everything. To apologize to Fynn and tell him I understand now exactly what I did. How he felt when I held back from him.
I was also going to insist on paying him back the money he shelled out to my father, but that's irrelevant to the situation.
Warren flicks a hand my direction but continues facing forward. "Shut her up. I'm tired of hearing her fucking voice. It's like Goddamn nails on a chalkboard."
The burly guy who grabbed me off the street doesn't have to be told twice. Before I can even start to squirm away, he's ripping a length of duct tape free and smashing it against my face, the sticky adhesive plastering more than a few strands of my hair to my skin.
That’s going to be a fucking bitch to get off.
It also greatly limits my options when it comes to figuring out how to remove myself from the situation. Screaming is no longer on the board. Neither is biting. It wasn't high on my list to put any part of my mouth on any part of the guys in this car, but I would have done it.
Now I'm forced to silently sit in the backseat as we continue farther from Sweet Side and farther from Fynn.
He's going to be so pissed. Definitely at Warren. A little bit at me.
But mostly with himself.
And that makes me even more determined to figure out a solution to this little problem. I'm smart. I've solved all sorts of issues lately. Surely this one can't be that difficult.
Unfortunately, my thinking time is much more limited than I expected, and before I’ve come up with even a single possibility, we’re turning off the road and toward the water. I'm not familiar with this area, so I don't know that I could even give Fynn coherent directions on how to find me now, and I'm kicking myself for not getting to know the area more.
We make a handful more turns, and soon we’re pulling into the parking lot of what appears to be a dock. But it's not a pretty dock filled with expensive yachts and tour boats. This place looks shady as shit. The kind of place smugglers come to drop off their cargo.
Or the kind of place the Mafia goes to permanently get rid of their problems. And I might classify as a problem.
Luckily, I’m a problem with a very rich husband, so hopefully Warren's plan is to keep me around. At least for long enough that I can come up with a way to get the fuck out of here.
The car jolts to a stop at the end of a weathered wood walkway, and the big guy next to me climbs out, dragging me behind him. He's twice my size, so his steps are long and it's hard to keep up with him in my heels, but I manage. His meaty hand grips both my wrists, and I don't doubt for a second he would just continue dragging me if I fell behind, and I'm partial to this dress, so I don't want it ruined.
Warren walks in front of us, continuing to act as if I don't exist as he makes his way along the rickety path that rises and falls with the waves, passing ramshackle looking barges and rusted container ships. The things are gigantic, and I can only imagine what they're bringing in.
Much to my dismay, I might find out, because about halfway down the dock, Warren turns toward one of them, and Meaty Mitts drags me along the same direction. There's a narrow, grated metal ramp leading from the constantly moving dock to the deck of the worst looking boat I've seen so far. I'm not sure what color it used to be, but the worn hull is a patchwork of dull bare metal and corrosion. The thing looks about two weeks away from sinking, but Warren doesn't seem worried as he strides along the ramp and onto the watercraft.
As much as I don't want to, I'm forced to follow him. I know getting into a vehicle of any sort is a terrible idea, and I've already been forced into one. Voluntarily getting on a second is a huge no-no, but if I resist they will likely restrain me and force me there anyway, and then I won't be able to swim in addition to not being able to scream or bite.
And if this boat leaves the dock, my only escape will be to swim for it.
My heels are loud as I move over the corrugated metal that makes up the deck, each step echoing not only up my legs but into my ears. Almost like a death toll.
Not for me. I have too much to live for.
But I'm starting to worry not everyone is going to make it out of the situation alive.
A door opens up to the large, central portion of the ship, and another gigantic, sour expressioned man tips his head at Warren as he passes inside.
Again, I follow behind him willingly—if you can call it that—blinking hard as my eyes attempt to adjust to the dim interior of the windowless space. The sun is starting to set, but it’s still significantly brighter outside than it is in here.
