Chapter 5
James
“James Alexander Fletcher,” she repeats, grinning up at James. “ How unusual. I love it. Very creative, too, but your identification number only has room for five letters, so we’ll go with James. J-A-M-E-S? Is that how you spell it?”
She kneels at his feet to do what? Program his name into some device?
Though he can’t shift his neck, James scans the edge of his vision, assessing surroundings he doesn’t recognize.
Besides the top of the woman’s head, all he can see is a door and three stark white walls.
The still air is slightly warm, but uncomfortable.
Nothing else that might suggest his location.
After several moments racking his brain, he realizes he has no clue how he got here.
He remembers being at dinner with someone—a client, maybe?
Then the bar, but he didn’t drive after.
He has a vague image of his driver waiting outside and getting in the town car.
They were heading somewhere—was she with him?
She couldn’t have been. He had a flight .
. . so this woman must be a flight attendant. Finally, a break in his mental fog.
Dread, like a punch to the gut, sends him reeling. She drugged him! He’s been abducted! He’s being held for ransom. How much does she want? Why can’t he remember her from the plane? She’s uncommonly beautiful, if a bit odd. Surely he’d remember someone who looked like that.
He collects himself quickly. He shouldn’t be too surprised.
There are dozens of accounts of successful men being held for ransom—he feels almost proud to be counted amongst their ranks—though his mind is fuzzy about why.
Or how he knows he’s supposed to initiate an action plan as soon as possible.
His urge to do so is almost robotic. Once he can move, he’ll find a phone, assuming he can’t find his cell.
A trickle of sweat runs down his side. The room is becoming warmer.
Focus.
He is supposed to call—numbers flash across his mind. At first he thinks they are his number, but then a name pops into his head: Worldwide Rescue Services. How prudent of him. If only he could shake the clouds from his mind.
Why does he know this? It feels important.
The air conditioner kicks on, sending a gust of cool air nipping over James’s bare chest. Bare. As in naked. Not only locked up in this odd woman’s barren room, he’s naked. Is this some sort of sex thing? “Yes, that’s how you spell it,” he finally answers her. “Where are my clothes?”
“I wrapped a towel around your waist,” she says, like it isn’t a violation that she’s undressed him.
“You can get dressed once we finish your programming. Then I was thinking we could arrange a chance meeting at the teahouse downstairs.” The woman, Kate, seems more settled than she did moments earlier as she fidgets with the device.
“I would like this to feel as realistic as possible. I never wanted a manupartner, but either way, you’re here, so I might as well use you.
I probably should have had Lessa activate you and arrange our meeting, but too late for that now.
We can pretend!” Her voice is unnaturally chipper.
How is she so nonchalant, and what about the threats? Isn’t she supposed to be demanding money? And what’s a manupartner?
He is about to snap at her when white-hot pain flashes across his feet. An undignified sound hurtles from his throat. Able to move his limbs, he high-steps across the room as if he is dancing across coals.
“Did that hurt?” Kate’s dark eyes fill with concern, like she’s surprised.
He lands on the one piece of furniture in the room, a small bed draped with a light gray blanket.
No pillows. No side tables. The firm mattress creaks as he adjusts his position so he’s sitting perched at the foot of the bed next to a small package of what he hopes is his clothing.
He crosses one leg over the other and angles his foot to inspect the sole.
There’s a mark tattooed in red ink, similar to a QR code but with characters he doesn’t recognize.
His feet no longer hurt, so he runs his fingers over the ink to see if the odd brand has any texture.
The skin appears to be perfectly healed and smooth.
An identical mark is on the opposite foot.
“Yes, it fucking hurt,” he barks. “What are these marks?” Though the pain has evaporated completely, his irritation lingers.
He holds it in. Most of it, anyway. He needs to see how much information he can get from the woman who’s holding him hostage and has branded him before he tries to get away.
Surely he can overpower her, but who knows what lies beyond the door.
Kate gives the little square scale-looking thing he was standing on a quizzical look. “The shock must have come from the disconnection to the electrical charge. Now that your body is performing its own electrical functions, you no longer need it. The tagging laser shouldn’t have caused you pain.”
The woman gave him a minor electrical shock? A submission tactic? She makes quite the actress, standing there with her pouty lips turned down and her large, sparkling brown eyes blinking innocently at him.
He’s aware he’s gawking. The way her black bodysuit highlights every sumptuous curve—those fucking tits alone.
They are too perfect to be her originals, but .
. . they look real. The material looks like it’s sprayed onto her.
He can’t even detect a seam. If this is a sex thing, there would be no reason to drug him.
Too bad she’s abducted him. And is, apparently, a sadist.
Kate gives him a lazy smile, as if she’s noticed him studying her and knows she’s pleasing to the eye.
“Listen, lady,” he says. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, with your sexy cat suit, those ridiculous boots, and the little insignia on your chest like you’re some sort of Avenger. What does that say?”
She takes a few steps closer, leaning forward so her chest is eye level. “ ‘Sector C Air Control Officer.’ I worked this morning. Didn’t have time to change before your alarm sounded.”
“Air control?” He was right. She works for the private jet share company—though that is a fancy name for a flight attendant.
“Mmm . . . yes. A very important job. It puts me in pay bracket C. That’s how I can afford this place.
And you.” She winks as she boasts, as if what she’s saying means anything to him.
“You should get dressed. I’ll do the same.
Then we can head downstairs and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. ”
Downstairs, possibly with other people. Who else is involved?
He hears nothing from the room beyond. His focus turns back to her.
He’s got to get out of here and back to his life—whatever that entails.
Somehow, the urgency he feels makes him think it must have been important.
He must be someone important. Why else would he have had the number for a global rescue service memorized—practically embedded into his subconscious—if he hadn’t thought he’d need it one day?
James watches her slip out of the room, seeming pleased with herself. Her long auburn hair swishes behind her as she leaves.
Wait. She thinks her pay bracket afforded him? She already said she plans to use him . . . how precisely does she intend to use him? A chill that feels a lot like intuition dances across his skin.
No reason to panic. Things could be worse. He could still be immobile. Someone could be pointing a gun at his head, making an astronomical demand.
James takes a calming breath and grabs the package, tearing open the closure.
Not a zipper, more like a smooth magnet?
Inside, he finds a fitted pair of pants—uncomfortably, revealingly fitted—and an asymmetrically cut knit shirt.
Both are a deep navy with a subtle sheen to them.
No boxers, or even briefs. Not that they’d fit under the second skin he’s squeezed himself into. At least he isn’t naked.
He scans the room for footwear, eyes catching on a pair of military-style boots that would rise to mid-calf.
No socks either. He sighs as he struggles to figure out the clasps, eventually discovering the gunmetal buckles are only decorative.
Giving the shaft a tug, like the package, a practically invisible seam opens down the center.
A smooth sock-like material meets his bare foot as he slides it inside.
As he does, the boot seals itself over his ankle, cinching to match its circumference perfectly.
They are a strange style. One he’d never wear.
Like something from a costume shop selected to match the weird outfit the woman wears.
But they’re his only option and seem sturdy enough.
He shakes his head as he tugs the other one on before rising to his feet, finding the odd boots surprisingly comfortable.
He approaches the door, which doesn’t have a handle.
He runs his fingers along the gap between it and the wall until the door clicks, then swings open to reveal a minimalist apartment.
The stark concrete walls and floor lend it an eerie, sterile feel.
The solid material of the ceiling glows, brightly illuminating the space.
Yet the light is soft enough to stare at without irritating his eyes.
An elaborate computer desk sits in the center.
Or at least what looks like a computer out of some futuristic movie.
The giveaway is the keyboard stationed between the six of what must be screens.
Except they are metal bars suspended on stands, each emitting a field of black light, shooting upward into paper-thin rectangles.
He assumes that means they are asleep. Other gadgets James can’t identify litter the desk.