Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Britton
My brain is foggy, my eyes are heavy, and my tongue feels swollen to the point that it’s rendered immobile.
Drool slips from the corner of my mouth as I try to orient myself.
I can feel my body moving, but not of its own accord.
I try to turn on my side and it’s then that I realize I’m bound.
Tears stream from my eyes as I try to recall what happened and how I ended up in this predicament.
As my mind travels through past events, my entire body begins to quiver at my naivety.
I’d ordered a new laptop case, guaranteed next day delivery, after I’d accidentally dumped an entire can of cherry soda, my vice, into my laptop bag.
Since my computer is my lifeline, I had no other alternative than to buy a new one before I made up my mind on whether or not I was going back to East Texas.
I was leaning toward going back since the calls were growing more intense and they gave me a bad, bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I knew that no matter what, LoneStar would make sure nothing nefarious happened to me, kinda like what’s happening now.
Damn, it took something substantial and dangerous to occur for me to realize what’s important in life, and it’s not being a single woman with no foundation.
My heart and soul sing out for LoneStar, begging him to find me so I can make things right between us.
The tears continue to leak down my cheeks as I remember unlatching the door when the delivery man rang the doorbell.
Who doesn’t trust someone in an official uniform?
He was in the appropriate brown and tan button down shirt, hat, pants, and had a package in his hand.
I went to accept it and then felt some sort of pinch in my arm. From there, it was lights out.
Here’s what boggles me, if he wasn’t the delivery man, how did he know I was expecting a shipment?
How did he get the uniform, and how did he know the window of time allotted to me when I placed the order?
These are the questions I’d like to have the answers to, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to ask them. I’m gutsy and bold seven days out of the week, but I’ve never been in this type of situation before so I don’t know how I’m going to react when I come face-to-face with my abductor.
The hard metal of what I’m encased in bounces, causing my body to jerk as it goes over rough terrain.
My entire left side is probably going to be one ginormous bruise from being slammed onto the flooring.
Now that I’m more aware and my brain is close to being fully functional, I begin casing the vehicle to see if I can gather some clues about who took me.
It’s a van—of course, it’s a van.
Stereotypical.
Every damn true crime documentary I’ve ever watched has some sort of van involved, it’s easier to hide bodies in.
Especially when they don’t have any windows in the back.
As I continue to peruse my surroundings, I notice that there’s some rope hanging from a rack, along with some tools I don’t recognize.
My mind plays havoc on my head and all sorts of ominous scenarios begin playing out, courtesy of my creative career.
My imagination is very vivid.
As a matter of fact, I’ve written this same exact narrative in one of my books. I blanch as that memory comes to the forefront of my mind which has me doubling my effort in taking in every nook and cranny of the van.
Duct tape… check.
Climbing ropes… check.
Back board for easy transport… check.
The more I see, the more check marks I can add to the list of similarities.
Dear God, this guy is living out ‘Taken One Starry Night’, which was the first manuscript I ever wrote and published.
The premise of the book was a man obsessed with a woman, one who didn’t pay him any mind but was nice to him when nobody else was.
She said hello to him once and he took that to mean they were in a relationship.
He became obsessed with her, infiltrating her life by dating her closest friend, even though they didn’t interact personally, he knew what she was doing by pillow talking with her bestie where her guard was down and she thought they were getting to know each other and the people in their lives better.
But his entire background was fictional.
He lied to her about who he was, what he did, and who his family was.
He collected all the data he needed before he captured her and took her to the woods to start their life together.
“Nobody is ever going to find me,” I internally groan. I didn’t leave any sort of paper trail that’ll be easily traceable.
Unless somebody knows my pen name, they won’t know to look for my business card that I used to book my cabin. Foolish. Stupid.
Now I regret not being more transparent with LoneStar when we chatted about what I do. I could’ve shared what name I use to publish under, but that’s something I don’t typically share which is why I didn’t think of telling him.
Jersey and I created my pseudonym one drunken night, we used my true name for inspiration, I wanted the same initials so we came up with Bristol Darling.
It’s kind of a ridiculous surname but since I’d submitted it as my DBA and made an author profile while being under the influence of margaritas, I stuck with it—tequila hits me hard and makes me ditzy.
It’s one of the reasons behind when LoneStar calls me darlin’ my knees grow weak, and more or less, I swoon. He’s playing on my adopted identity and doesn’t even know it.
As the vehicle comes to a sudden stop, so does my heart rate.
My breath becomes hostage inside of my lungs as I use my ears to listen to the man get out of the vehicle and round it to the back.
I gulp hard, fear has goosebumps erupting on my skin.
I begin a slow pattern of inhaling and exhaling so I don’t pass out, I need to know what this shithead is doing to me.
When the back doors swing open, my jaw drops when I see who my captor is. No freaking way! My English professor, Mr. Stratton, from college, is grinning at me, a satisfied gleam blazing in his eyes.
“Hello, Britton. I told you I’d be seeing you soon.”
The shock has my eyes rolling to the back of my head as darkness embraces me, dragging me into an empty abyss where nightmares reside.
A cold, wet washrag is dragged across my face. The fabric is scratchy and I begin trying to wave it away but my hands are restrained. I tug on them harder, but there’s no give. “What?” I ask, blinking my eyes and staring at Mr. Stratton. “Professor?”
“Relax, Britton. You’ve had a rough day, you need to preserve your energy,” he tells me, looking down at me with hearts in his eyes.
“Why am I here? Why did you take me?” I ask the questions in rapid succession.
“Because you’re mine, you always have been.
I just need you to see it for yourself,” he coos.
My acid reflux rears its ugly head and I begin to gag on it.
“Let me get you some milk to help settle your stomach.” He drops the washrag on the bed beside me as he jumps up to his feet and sprints into another room.
Do I tell him I loathe milk? I decide that’s probably a horrid idea, I should just plug my nose and sip it—slowly.
If he releases my hands from their shackles, I can make that happen and pretend like everything is kosher.
With men like this who are living in a world of their own making, you have to lower yourself to their level and become who they’ve fantasized you are.
I’ve never been a good actress, I’m not a natural born role player, but since I prefer living and breathing, I’m going to give it my best shot. When he comes back into the room, his face no longer has that romantic glow, instead, he looks downright rabid.
“We need to talk,” he orders, almost as if he’s an entirely different person than the man he was as my teacher. When he taught my class, he was jovial, always joking, making learning fun, but this man, the one I’m stuck with, is his evil twin.
My hands, which are bound together at the wrist with duct tape, shake as I reach out and accept the glass he hands me. Licking my lips that feel dehydrated, most likely from whatever drug he injected me with, I ask, “What do we need to talk about, professor?”
“Mara and Clint,” he snaps, his cheeks puffing out. “You didn’t give them the ending they deserved. We’re going to fix that.”
“Fix it how?” I bravely ask.
“By killing off Trevor, of course,” he states, proud of himself for coming up with that plot twist of an ending. “He doesn’t deserve Mara, Britton. You know it, I know it, the world knows it.”
“You want me to write a follow-up book?” I ask, thinking that if that is what he needs to let me go, then that’s what I’ll do.
Hell, I’ll even submit the damn thing to placate him.
“No, we’re going to live it,” he tells me, a deranged smile growing on his face.
“Live it,” I squeak out, thinking this has to be some sort of sick trick before reality sets in and I stammer out,“h-h-how?”
“By killing off that filthy biker and living happily ever after,” he proposes.
“Filthy biker?” I repeat his phrase, hoping he’s not meaning who I think he is.
“Yeah, the one who hung off you like you were his to claim,” he spits out. “You’re not, you’re mine!”
“You saw us? How? How did you see us, professor?”
“I used my binoculars after climbing a tree to watch you. I had to make sure you were safe, Britton. I couldn’t get close to that house of sin they call a clubhouse, so I had to improvise. I used the lot over, one the owners don’t monitor.”
I picture it in my head and I know which one he’s talking about.
I researched it because it’s a beautiful plot of nature.
Its native land, still preserved by the Comanche tribe whose forefathers settled there and claimed the land as their own.
Somehow, they managed to hold onto it, even after many men tried to claim it for themselves—battles were fought there due to greediness.
Nobody currently lives there, but they refuse to sell it since it’s a part of their history.
If I manage to escape his clutches, I’ll be letting them know it’s being trespassed on and tell the Kings that the property adjacent to them is being used to spy on the club.