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There’s nothing else I can use right now as a weapon. I destroyed the ashtray, but that wouldn’t have done much good on its own, anyway. The TV is useless. I need something sharp, something that might actually be able to help me defend myself. The bedroom offers nothing. Just a bed, the dresser, and a flimsy old nightstand.
“The bathroom,” I mutter.
There's not much luck in there, either. The sink is virtually naked. I could break the mirror. But what good will that do? Seven years of bad luck and possibly getting close enough to slit their throats with a shard. It sounds stupid. The more I look around, the more helpless I feel. The more I think, the less sense my thoughts make.
Before I can talk myself back into any semblance of control, I sit on the floor and start crying my heart out, terrified and confused and beyond furious. This is on my father and his insistence on going against those who have means and methods of making people disappear—people like me.
Oh, God, this will get uglier and uglier; I can feel it. I can already see the newspapers—my face plastered across the media, photos from my social pages, likely the least flattering ones.
I’m angry.
I’m helpless.
And I’m a prisoner surrounded by people I know nothing about and can’t trust. If my father doesn’t adhere to their demands, they might do horrible things to me. I’ve seen enough movies and procedurals to imagine some of the worst ways in which this could end. And for what? It’s got to be about that stupid task force.
He’s the one who stirred up a nest of wasps, and yet I’m the one getting stung.
3
Ariana
Thankfully, they had left me a bottle of water on the dresser. I drank the whole thing before attempting to get some shuteye, then proceeded to toss and turn, struggling to get comfortable and turn my mind off. At around three in the morning, the noise coming from the clubhouse finally began to die down. The music became quieter, and footsteps shuffled about before motorcycles revved up and receded into the distance. At one point, I got up and glanced out the window. Only six bikes were left in the parking lot.
By sunrise, I am pacing the room again.
I have no idea of the time as the sun makes its way across the bright, blue sky. I’m guessing mid-morning; I doubt it’s noon yet. I don’t have my phone with me, and seeing that it’s Saturday, nobody will even notice I’m missing—not until Monday, that is when I’m due back at work.
The TV works, but there’s no cable. Just static. So, I sit on the window ledge and look outside, watching as some of the Steel Knights come back. They park their bikes in a respectful row at the front of the clubhouse. They smile and shake hands and seem happy to see one another, but there’s a noticeable tension in the air. I can almost feel it.
I’m going to lose my mind.
Soon, the door to my room opens, and in walks my kidnapper with a tray of food and a couple of cans of Coke. He sets them on the dresser and then gives me a curious look. In this light, he doesn’t appear as menacing.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
I look him over from head to toe, wondering whether I should play nice or just cuss him out until he leaves me alone. The jeans he’s wearing hug his muscular thighs and give me a shameless view of a generously bulging crotch. He’s wearing a black, sleeveless tee that reveals bare shoulders and arms covered in tattoos. I spot wolves and knights in shining armor, midnight forests beneath a full moon, and strings of text I can’t make out from where I’m standing.
His ears are pierced, something I didn’t notice last night. Three little steel studs in each lobe. His black hair is cut short and faded on the side. And those eyes of his, Jesus. They’re like onyx pools that I might drown in if I’m not careful.
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to answer that?” I shoot back, crossing my arms. I try not to think about how he found me last night, but every time he looks at me, I’m reminded of the moment, and my face burns red. “How the hell do you think I slept?”
“It’s a good bed,” he replies dryly. “Memory foam mattress.”
“Like that matters under the circumstances.”
“It should. You might be here a while.”
I can’t help but scoff. The plate of food is looking more and more appealing, the smell making it hard for me to resist. So much so that my stomach decides it’s the perfect time to start growling like a PCP-ridden gremlin. I can see a cheeseburger with a side of fries and a slice of cherry pie. The Coke would surely slide down easily right about now.
“Any word from my dad?”
“We haven’t reached out to him yet,” he says.
“Why not? Are you waiting for business hours to resume or something?”
“We’ll reach out when we’re ready.”
