Page 61 of Hunt You Down

Finally, we came to a supermarket parking lot. Wide open, there was less of a chance of getting caught on camera. He led me to an unfamiliar car, opened the passenger door, and all but threw me into the seat. I started to move, but pain jolted through my back and I froze.

“I said get in,” Regan snarled, shoving the spot where his hand met my back.

An involuntary cry pushed past my lips as he shoved one of my most sensitive places. I knew immediately that I’d fucked up. One person turned their head to look towards us, which was one person too many. Bracing for impact, I squeezed my eyes shut, but nothing came. Instead, Regan leaned in as if he were about to kiss me. “You can scream all you want, sweetheart. Sugar Daddy can't save you this time.”

He gave my face a rough shove, thumb pressing a bruise into my cheek. I didn’t dare pick up my hand to rub it. I didn’t even buckle my seat belt. I only did as I’d been taught, and sat quietly with my hands where he could see them.

My vision blurred as we left New Orleans city limits, but I blinked the tears back. If I cried, it would only make things worse. I’d gotten too soft. I no longer had the protective shell I used to when it came to Regan. He was right: I’d gotten too comfortable.

I had no idea where we were going, and it didn’t seem that Regan did either. An hour passed on the dashboard clock. Regan had only grown frustrated when he couldn’t find something he liked on the radio and turned it off. The only sound in the car for most of the ride were the tires on the asphalt. I shifted every now and then because of my back, trying to keep it subtle so he didn’t notice.

It didn’t work.

Regan gave me a hard shove in my shoulder, slamming me into the door. “Stay still! You’re distracting me.”

Stabbing shot up my side, taking my breath away. I bit my lip to keep the tears in my eyes from flowing down my cheeks. Much to the protest of my back, I didn’t move a muscle for the rest of the car ride. By the time we exited the highway, I didn’t think I could move at all.

I was wrong in thinking that Regan was acting on impulse—so wrong. As he turned onto a hidden back road, I realized that he’d made this drive before, often.

We drove another half an hour, my back protesting the entire way. The dirt road that led to a run-down house on the edges of civilization nearly killed me. The place seemed to be falling apart. Shingles hung off the roof. Windows were cracked and the rickety old porch looked one strong breeze away from collapsing entirely.

The car came to a stop, and I waited patiently for Regan to open my door. He painfully tugged on my arm until my feet were on the ground. He didn’t have to hide his intentions anymore—there were only woods for miles around. I winced, fingers digging into my skin. Forget the fact that I knew better than to run, but he didn’t like to even give me the option.

“Should I untie my shoes?”

Regan turned to me, gaze slowly raking over my body. A chill shot down my spine. Without so much as a nod he said, “Go ahead.”

I crouched to untie my laces, my heart sinking at the twinge in my stomach. The last thing I wanted was to have to ask Regan for the bathroom but the moment I had the thought to ignore it, my kidneys said, “think again.”

Once I saw the state of the carpet inside, I don’t know why I bothered with my shoes. What was once a nice beige or even a pristine white carpet was now darkened due to years of dirt and neglect.

My phone continued to buzz in my pocket, but Regan had yet to notice it.

“Go sit down,” he barked.

“C—” I choked, thinking better of my actions.

Regan rolled his eyes at me. “Spit it out.”

“Can I use the bathroom, please?”

Fully expecting to be refused, it shocked the hell out of me when he nodded. It was brief, so much so that I’d have missed it if I wasn’t paying attention, but it was a nod, and that was all I got. I knew my rules: find it yourself and don’t lock the door. Of course, the bathroom looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Katrina, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

Once I was finished, I risked checking my phone. I had dozens of missed calls and texts from André and Dylan, but I didn’t have time to respond to any of them. Regan would come looking for me at any second. Instead, I shut it off, stashing it in the collapsing cabinet behind crusted-shut cleaning products.

I quickly ran my hands under the murky water that came from the sink. I didn’t need a drink yet, but my stomach lurched at the prospect. Before I could search for something to dry them with, the door swung open.

“Time’s up, baby boy,” Regan snarled. He latched onto a thick fistful of hair, jerking me backward.

My back slammed into the wall. Regan let go of my hair in favor of wrapping his hand around my neck. His heavy palm crushed my airway. Breathing was impossible, much less talking. I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, which only made him angrier.

“Did you really think you could get away with hiding from me?”

Spit flew from his mouth and sprayed my face. To my horror, he used the leverage on my throat to lift me off the ground. I scrabbled at his hands, writhing in a desperate attempt to free myself. My legs kicked, finding nothing but air as he brought me to eye-level.

“After the way you embarrassed me in that courtroom, did you really think I wouldn’t come looking for you? Only to find you shacking up in New Orleans with some rich-bitch-pretty boy.”

With one hard shove, I crumpled to the floor. My throat burned, chest aching.