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This man kidnapped me, and my pussy’s over here trying to send him a thank-you card.

“Where am I, Sasha?”

“Home.”

“This is not my home.”

I shove his arm off and scramble out of the bed, and my feet hit the floor. It’s warm. The floor is warm. I’m standing on a heated floor in a room bigger than my whole apartment, naked, sore everywhere, sticky between my thighs, staring around like I’ve lost my mind.

There’s a fireplace. A couch. A chandelier. A bathroom with a tub the size of a hot tub and two sinks. Two sinks. And on the floor by the bed, my purple comforter, crumpled in a heap. The only thing in this whole room I’ve ever seen before in my life.

“Where’s my stuff?”

“Downstairs.”

“Downstairs where?”

“In boxes.”

“Boxes?” My voice cracks. “Who put my stuff in boxes?”

“My men.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“While I was sleeping?”

“You were on my chest.” He scratches his stomach, lazy. “You didn’t wake up.”

I grab my phone off the nightstand. Forty-one texts. All Tasha.

GIRL WHERE IS YOUR STUFF

DYLAN YOUR ROOM IS EMPTY

THE BEAR IS GONE DYLAN. THE BEAR

ok there’s an envelope on the counter with your name. ok there’s a LOT of money in this envelope

ARE YOU ALIVE

I turn the phone around and hold it out at him like evidence. “Do you see this? You moved me out of my apartment in the middle of the night, and my roommate thinks I’m dead!”

He looks at the phone. Then at me. “Text her back.”

“That’s not the point!”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is you can’t do this! You can’t just pick people up while they’re sleeping and move them across town like a couch!”

“I didn’t move you across town. I moved you up a hill.”

“Where?”

“Bel Air.”