Chapter 8
Eight
Lane
I shout until my throat feels raw, and still, I yell for him to come back.
The man I slept with…the man I let use my body and fuck me to within an inch of my life is a fucking serial killer. My serial killer.
Worn out and scared, I stop shouting and plop down on the cot in the corner of the cell.
What the fuck am I going to do? How will I get out of this?
I tug at the chains that bind me, and they give, but only enough for me to get to the toilet.
I pull and yank and hang on them, but they’re unbreakable.
I look at where they’re bolted to the wall right outside the cell.
I stick my hand through the bars and try to at least grasp the base, but my fingertips are just out of reach.
“Fuck!” I curse and pull my hand back, lowering my head so I can think.
I check my pockets to see if my switchblade is still there, but despite me rooting around aggressively, I know it isn’t. Even before I wound up locked in this cell, they were empty.
“Didn’t even give me my shoes,” I murmur to myself, looking at my bare feet.
I sit on the bed and put my head in my hands. There’s no way to get out of this. I’ll die here, a victim of a sadistic serial killer. In the meantime, I’ll give The Poser hell.
The Poser. I scoff, though fear lances through me. Is his name really Ryell, or is that another lie he told me?
Pieces of last night that seemed off start to come together.
Why I thought his eyes looked weird—contacts.
Why he wouldn’t let me touch the hair at the nape of his neck—a wig.
Why that dangerous glint entered his eyes—he’s a fucking serial killer and knew he was fucking the FBI agent that wants to lock him away for the rest of his life.
My heart thuds violently in my chest, and no matter how hard I try to calm myself, I can’t. My breathing becomes quick and erratic, my hearing going fuzzy. Sweat dots my brows, and a hot flush blooms over my body. My hands start to shake, and my lips tremble.
“Oh fuck,” I mutter softly. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. I’m going to die. Oh fuck.”
The panic attack takes hold of me, and I can do nothing about it but lie on the bed and curl into a ball, clutching my knees close to my chest. I shove two fingers into my mouth, hoping the sucking will soothe me.
I work a dangerous job, and I’m used to compartmentalizing any strong emotions like panic and fear, but I’ve never been in a situation like this. Never been so close to death but not knowing when it’ll come.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t get my breathing under control, so I just lie there, suck my fingers, and allow myself to unravel.
My mind swirls, but I can’t grasp any thoughts for more than a second, bad scenarios of what could happen to me replaced with ones even worse.
My breath hitches every time a new horror assails me, and even though I attempt to push them away, they come harder and faster, battering against the fragile hold I have on my emotions.
I hold myself as I come apart, hoping this panic attack ends soon. When it’s done, I can try to pull myself together, but right now, nothing is working.
I’m not sure how long I spiral, but it’s long enough for me to have to use the bathroom.
Pulling myself off the cot, I shuffle to the toilet and relieve myself. I wash my hands, smiling briefly at the normalcy of the act, even though I’m not in a normal situation. That helps to calm me some.
When I get back to the cot, I’ve calmed down a little, and my thoughts aren’t as erratic.
Okay, I can figure a way out of here. I have to.
But how? How do I go forward every day, knowing I gave myself to a killer? What happens when I’m free and Ryell tells authorities he got me to his home because I was thinking with my dick?
“God,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my middle. At least my panic attack has run its course. My heart rate quickens but not excessively. I can still think through this fear.
What can I do?
I can use my instincts.
Instincts tell me that Ryell likes to be in control. After our initial meeting, he was in charge the entire time.
So I let him take control. But what does that mean? How will I let him be in charge but not lose who I am in the process?
Maybe I can’t give up too much control too fast? If I hold on, keep his interest, he’ll want to keep me around long enough for me to figure out an escape plan.
I will get out of here. No matter what he said, I won’t die here.
I’ll fucking take him down with me if he manages to take me out.