Black Tape

Chapter 1

JULIAN

The first thing I register is the leather.

The cold stick of it against my cheek. That, and the throb of bass somewhere deep in my skull—maybe the shitty club I was at before, maybe my own pulse.

Hard to tell. My mouth tastes like cotton and regret, and when I try to sit up, my shoulders scream.

Something bites into my wrists. Rope, old-fashioned and rough, like I’m being kidnapped by a fucking cowboy. Fantastic.

“Oh,” I croak, my voice ragged from whatever the fuck I snorted before everything went sideways.

“So this is the part where you kill me and dump the body in a ditch, right?” I tilt my head, or try to.

The blindfold’s tight enough to make my temples throb, and I think it’s a necktie.

Silk. Expensive. Smells like cologne and blood money.

“Listen, if this is how I go, I’m not even mad.

Real classy so far. I’ve had worse dates. ”

No response, but the hum of the engine, the low snarl of tires on wet pavement, the silence of whoever the hell is driving. Or watching. Because I can feel it—that someone’s in the back with me.

“You’re not very chatty, huh?” I mumble, licking my lips, tasting blood and whatever they laced my last drink with. “Lemme guess. Mafia? No, too obvious. Kidnapper with a heart of gold? Shit, maybe it’s a fan. You want an autograph, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

There’s movement now. The leather groans. Then a hand grips my jaw, tilts my head up. I smile. I always smile when I’m about to get hit.

“Mmm, romantic,” I whisper. “Didn’t know we were doing foreplay.”

The fingers tighten enough to make my head snap back against the headrest. I let out a soft gasp, more reaction than pain, and laugh. “You’re gonna have to buy me dinner after this. Or at least breakfast. C’mon, manners.”

Still nothing. Just the faint scent of cigarettes. Not the cheap kind. Italian, maybe. I know that smell. One of the Bellini brands, probably. Shit, was I at a Bellini bar? Did I mouth off to someone’s cousin again?

I shift, trying to get comfortable, which is hard when your wrists are tied and your dignity’s long gone.

My legs are loose, but I’m not stupid enough to think I could fight.

I’m high enough that my bones feel like Jell-O, and my heart is doing this lazy, syrup-slow thump like it’s not really sure if it wants to keep going.

“Where are we going, huh?” I ask, softer this time. “You gonna tell me? No? That’s fine. I like surprises. As long as there’s no plastic sheet involved, we’re good. Fuck, you’re quiet. You one of those strong, silent types? I always had a thing for—”

The car slows, turning on gravel now. It's bumpy, somewhere outside the city. The air smells like rust and bleach, faint under the leather and smoke. Industrial. Warehouse district? Dockside? No idea.

I’m starting to come down. I can feel the comedown gnawing at the back of my skull.

Clarity pressing in like fingers against my temples.

Still too high to panic. But the edges are sharpening fast. “Hey,” I murmur, and my voice cracks a little.

“You sure you wanna do this? I mean, I’m cute and all, but I bite.

You ever fuck a hockey player, mystery man? We get real mean when we’re cornered.”

That earns me something. A hand knots in my hair and yanks, sharp and sudden, jerking my head back until my neck aches and I’m nose to nose with a breath that smells like smoke.

The voice that follows is low and unbothered.

“You talk too much,” he says calmly. “Keep flapping your mouth, pretty boy, and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out and mail it to your old team. ”

Oh, that voice. Deep, gravel, Italian-drenched, like the devil learned to whisper and got bored of subtlety.

It rolls down my spine in a way it shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t react. I know I shouldn’t. But that never stopped me before.

I groan, dragging the sound out like a stretch after a long fuck.

“Kinky,” I breathe, licking my lower lip like I’m starving.

“You always threaten your dates like this, or am I special?”

He doesn’t respond, but the hand in my hair tightens once more, just enough to make my eyes roll back behind the blindfold. I’m starting to sweat, and it’s not from fear. It’s the comedown. The crash.

The car finally stops, and I’m yanked sideways by the same hand still knotted in my hair.

The door opens, wind slaps me across the face, and before I can say another word, I'm thrown.

I hit the ground hard, gravel carving into my hip, my shoulder, my cheek.

The air punches out of me in a single, raw noise.

The impact bites deep—sting and grit and the fresh scrape of skin tearing open.

“Fuck—” I hiss through gritted teeth, coughing against dust. My knees curl up too slow. Everything hurts, but I’m grinning again. “Jesus,” I croak. “That’s no way to treat a guest. Didn’t your mother teach you how to be gentle?”

The car peels away without ceremony, leaving me sprawled like roadkill on a slab of goddamn nowhere.

Wind hisses through rusted metal and the faint echo of something dripping somewhere. Maybe water. Maybe blood. My wrists throb. My hip is fucking screaming. There’s dirt in my teeth, and my ribs feel cracked. But the worst part? The fucking blindfold is still there.

“Fucking shit,” I growl, spitting grit. I roll onto my side and thrash like a fish on concrete. Arms bound behind me, face scraped raw, I twist until my shoulder pops, trying to rub the blindfold off on the ground, the gravel, anything. “God damn it, I swear to fuck—”

“Welcome home, golden boy.” The voice comes out of nowhere. Or maybe not. Maybe he was standing right there, toes to my face. I wouldn’t know. Too high. Too wrecked to tell what’s real and what’s just blood in my ears.

But his voice is cheery, bright. Like he’s excited I’m here and also hoping I bleed.

And that name—Golden boy. My breath goes sharp and fast, too loud in the silence.

That name doesn’t mean anything anymore.

It used to. Before the fall. Before the press conferences and the thrown game and the tape that ruined me.

Before the league tossed me out like rotted meat and the world watched my gold tarnish in real time.

I snarl, low and mean, twisting toward the voice. “Say that again,” I snap, voice raw with venom. “I fucking dare you.”

There’s a laugh. Then footsteps getting closer, and suddenly the blindfold’s ripped off and light slams into my eyes. I flinch, blinking hard, and when my vision finally focuses, I see him.

He’s crouched in front of me, smiling like this is a fucking meet-cute and not a hostage situation. Dirty blond hair, eyes too bright, and a cracked grin that says he enjoys pain—mine, his, yours, doesn’t matter. “Hi,” he chirps, like we’re sharing coffee. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

I bare my teeth. “And you’re exactly as punchable as I imagined.”

His grin widens. “Flatter me, why don’t you.” Then he grabs the ropes around my wrists and yanks me to my feet like a ragdoll, knees buckling, balance gone.

My head spins. The high claws at my ribs again and I stumble into him, but he doesn’t flinch. Just holds me there with one hand fisted in my shirt like he’s debating whether to break me or kiss me.

I don’t do shit to get out of his grip, because I’m too high to care, and what the fuck would it change anyway? If this is where I die, at least the view’s chaotic.

The blond bastard—cheerful sociopath with hands like steel and a grin like a warning sign—doesn’t say a word as he starts dragging me forward by my shirt. The gravel crunches under my boots, the wind bites at my face, and my knees nearly buckle every few steps.

We pass rows of stacked shipping containers—red, gray, faded blue—all arranged like a labyrinth.

Some are rusted over, others reinforced with steel beams and reinforced doors, a few lit from within like they’ve been turned into actual fucking homes.

There's movement behind the walls, silhouettes at the edge of my vision. No one says a word.

I squint up at the closest container, its walls tagged with chipped paint and dented like someone’s head got introduced to it at high speed. “So what is this, huh?” I rasp. “Prison? Concentration camp? Or do you guys collect broken athletes like Pokémon cards?”

No answer.

I stumble again, tripping over something—probably my own fucking feet—and catch myself with a hiss.

“Where are we?” I keep going, because I don’t know how to shut the hell up.

“Is this, like, a sexy murder cult? You gonna fuck me before you kill me, or is this more of a—what do you call it—emotional torture setup? I’ve seen Netflix, man. I know the vibes.”

The guy finally laughs. Actually laughs—bright and delighted. It echoes off the steel around us and makes my skin crawl. “God,” he says, low and full of teeth. “He’s gonna love breaking you.”

He stops walking, but I don't, so I slam into him. He leans close, his breath hot at my ear. “Hope you’re good at screaming, golden boy.” Then he hauls open a steel door, shoves me inside, and slams it shut behind me.

The container’s dark, colder than outside, and smells like metal and old cigarettes. There’s a bed frame welded into the wall—bare mattress, no sheets, one small metal shelf, a toilet shoved in the corner with zero privacy. Welcome to hell.

I spin, eyes adjusting fast, and I lunge for the door, slam my shoulder into it, but it doesn't budge. Of course. “Fucking coward! Let me out!”

I yank at the ropes on my wrists—raw now, the skin under them hot and abraded—but they won’t give. I kick the wall, I scream, I cuss the nameless grinning fucker outside and threaten to bite his dick off and feed it to him. Nothing.

Then I freeze because I just had the worse thought ever, and I check my pockets. No phone. No pills. Not even a fucking crumpled five. I don’t have anything. Fucking shit.