34. Chapter 34
Iknow I started it, maybe shouldn’t have, but being in that dark storeroom alone with Reaper brought out a side of me I didn’t know existed. Now I feel a little shy because of the way he handled me. His roughness, his hard words, the slaps on my ass. That’s never happened in my life and frankly, now that it has, I’m not sure I can go back to the love making I always thought I liked.
“That was good,” I tell him to break the awkward silence as we walk to the truck.
“You’re a tease,” he replies, his voice hard.
“I didn’t mean to be. I just… well for some reason. Being in Miguel’s office?—”
He yanks me around. “I don’t ever want to hear his fucking name on your lips again. Do you understand me?” He gives me a little shake, then shoves me in the truck.
Spot yips a “hello,” while I try to get my growing desire under control.
I drop the office supplies on the floor under his seat. “But I have no frame of reference.”
“You don’t need a fucking frame of reference.”
“I guess I could talk about Barry,” I muse with a teasing smile.
“The only name I want to hear on your lips when we fuck is my name. Or do you want me to talk about Chrissy?”
Jealousy streaks through me. “Who’s Chrissy?”
“My ex. How about Poppy?”
Now I’m outraged. “You slept with the waitress?”
He squeezes my knee hard as he slams the truck door behind him. “I slept with a lot of girls.” He starts the truck and puts it into gear. “You want me to talk about them?”
We’re about to have our first fight. “How many?” I’m loud, belligerent, outraged.
“How the fuck would I know? I don’t keep track.”
“Well I keep track.”
“Because you’re practically a virgin.”
Now we’re seriously off topic. “What does that mean exactly?”
He grits his teeth. “Nothing. It means nothing.”
“It means something!” I say. “Like I’m bad in bed.”
“Jesus.” He takes a right turn too fast and I grab him to keep myself steady. “You’re fantastic in bed. I’m more turned on with you than with any other women I’ve fucked.”
My heart leaps with joy, but I can’t quite let go of the original discussion. “How many women have you fucked?”
“Good. You’re finally figuring out it’s fucking.”
I’m not letting him sidetrack me. “More than ten?”
He pauses, then takes a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Okay,” I say. I can work with eleven, but then I realize the flaw in my logic. More than ten could mean anything. “More than twenty?”
This time his pause is longer.
“You’re counting them,” I exclaim. Good grief! He’s been with so many he has to count them.
“Yes. Isn’t that what you want?”
I don’t know what I want anymore, but I can’t let it go. “How many then?”
He glances at me. “Twenty-two maybe.”
Twenty-two. Geez. “How old are you exactly?”
“I’m 34,” he mutters as he concentrates on his driving.
“How old were you the first time?”
“Why?” he asks.
“Well, I’m 26. I’m trying to figure out how many women that averages a year.”
He looks over at me in surprise. “You’re 26?”
“That too old for you?”
“No,” he says then pauses. “It’s kind of a relief. I thought you were younger. Maybe 22, 23.”
“Are you calling me immature?”
“Fuck, take a compliment will you. You look really young.”
He’s a keeper, my mom says.
Oh, yeah he is. “Thank you.”
I get back on topic. “So if you’re 34 and you’ve been with 22 women and I’m 26 and I’ve only had four boyfriends, well, five now that we’re counting?—“
“X. It doesn’t fucking matter. What matters is that you are the last women I’ll ever be with.”
I’m try not to get side-tracked by his declaration, despite it rocking my world. “If you started when you were sixteen, that’d be like one a year.” I stop. “Except that you were in prison….”
“Conjugal visits,” he replies, a small smile teasing his lips.
“Seriously?”
“No, not seriously.”
I do the math. “So then two women a year give or take.” It doesn’t seem too bad. “Probably dry spells, then.”
He scrubs at his neck. “Not many. I’m not a one-nighter.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better. “So they’ve all been girlfriends.”
“None of them mattered.”
“Wow.” I’m suddenly feeling protective of the women I was despising just a moment ago. “So then what am I? Number 23?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer because as he drives through an intersection, a big truck runs the red light and barrels into us on Reaper’s side. We spin out of control and my forehead bounces off the dashboard as the truck slams into a lamppost.
Reaper is out cold, blood trickling down his face. Spot is on the floor whining and scrabbling to get back onto the seat. I feel like a two-ton truck has hit me and maybe it has.
Adrenalin floods my body.
I grab Reaper, gently shaking him. “Reaper! Wake up!” My heart is already breaking as I think of losing him.
Call 911, Ximina.
I fumble with the pockets inside Reaper’s vest, my hands shaking, my head hurting. I can’t control the panic, can barely breathe, let alone focus enough to get to his phone.
Someone else will call 911, baby, Pop says.
Right. Right. He’s right.
Reaper groans and fumbles for his seat belt. His eyes are still closed, but I hear the steady intake of his breath. Thank you, God. Thank you.
Then the passenger door is yanked opened. Spot barks and jumps, then growls. A male voice says, “Fuck,” and then I hear Spot yelp.
“Sorry, he’s protective,” I say thinking help has arrived.
I’m wrong. “Shut the fuck up!” A gun is shoved in my face. I react without thinking, knocking it away and punching the guy in the nose.
“Motherfucker!” he yelps as he staggers back.
Another face swims into view, another man, totally bald on the head, but a full beard on his face. This guy wraps his hand around the back of my head and thumps me into the dash. “I’m gonna end your asshole boyfriend if you don’t get out of the fucking truck.”
“Owww!” I scream. The thump wasn’t that hard, but it’s the second time my forehead has met the dashboard. I’m dazed but manage to get the belt undone despite my shaking fingers.
“How do I know you won’t kill him once I get out of the truck.” There’s wet on my forehead, trickling down my temple.
He yanks me out the door. “You don’t.”
I start kicking and screaming, bucking my body, but he covers my mouth with his hand. Not fast enough or hard enough. I wrench my head away and crunch my teeth down on two of his fingers.
Then my head explodes with pain and color as he punches me. I don’t lose consciousness, but my body goes limp. Frozen, numb. My limbs won’t obey my brain’s command to fight back.
He carries me to a van and throws me in the back. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he snarls to someone.
It hurts, everything hurts as I land on the hard floor. My mind tells me it’s too late and shuts down.
I don’t know how I know, but I’m not out long. The van is still in motion, still on pavement because it bounces around in sporadic intervals. Not gravel, ruts. We’re still in Reno, but more remote because there doesn’t seem to be a lot of traffic or stops at intersections. Outskirts I’m thinking.
It’s doubtful they’re taking me somewhere to kill me. They would have done that back at the truck. The thought comforts me.
I assess the damage to my body. My head feels like it’s two sizes too big, but the blood on my face is drying. I won’t bleed to death anyway. My feet are intact, legs seem solid. Ribs don’t hurt. Arms are not hanging at unnatural angles. I’ll be sore in the morning but won’t need a body cast.
My rapid thoughts slow down and my head clears. I crack my eyes to scope out the lay of the land.
I can’t really look around without attracting attention, but I know Reaper’s not here. His perfect male scent is missing. My throat closes as I think about what might have happened to him. I know he was alive when I was yanked from the truck, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t seriously injured. Or dead by now if the guy up front followed through on his threat. My eyes burn at the thought of never seeing him again. My life would be over. I would have to join a convent because second best wouldn’t cut it.
Home, kids, family go up in smoke in my mind.
God, I pray. I’m not gonna make promises about being a better person or going to church regularly. We both know the truth of that. I know Reaper’s not perfect, but he’s a better man than any I’ve met except Pops. And I need him now more than ever, so please don’t turn this into one of those life lessons you’re so fond of. Let me have this one thing.
No answer and I have faith that it’s because God’s busy looking out for Reaper. I feel a kind of peace. Reaper’ll be okay.
I turn my attention back to my kidnapping and potential future torturing. I know the reason I’ve been kidnapped has nothing to do with some guy who’s upset over an undercooked cannoli. It’s about the coke. I’m guessing they’ve figured out that Hell’s Jury is in possession of it and the way to get it back is to use me as a bargaining chip.
I think about Hangman and frown. Will he care enough to exchange me for the coke? Is there a kind man under that monster-like exterior? Does he prefer his puppies and kittens boiled or roasted?
I shudder.
Thankfully, I have Reaper and unless he’s in a coma, he’ll come to my rescue.
Time to turn my mind to the future. I’m a vengeful little thing and my first thought is to leap up and destroy the two men in the van. One is driving, which means there’s only one man to take down. I can see the leg and foot of my future victim. Hear him moaning about the fingers I chomped. He’s the guy with the bald head and beard. The one who threatened to kill Reaper.
The other guy, the henchman, thinks Chromedome got off easy. I grin as he says, “The fucking dog went for my throat and then I got cold-cocked by the bitch.” My body thumps as he hits a pothole. I keep the groan inside.
“I like it better when women just scream and faint. They have no respect for death threats.”
“Yeah. But she’ll be good little victim when she wakes up. She don’t know her boyfriend’s alive. We’ll tell her he’s dead and she’s next.”
“Yeah, bitch’ll get what’s coming,” Henchman says, then the conversation drifts to more mundane stuff, like the price of gas and unseasonably warm weather.
Sounds like Reaper’s safe. My thoughts turn to retribution. Eye for an eye is what you said, right God?
I move my head quietly so I can see if there’s something in the back of the van that I can use as a weapon. In the movies, except for Silence of the Lambs, there’s always a tire iron or a brick or something both easy to heft and hard enough to crack skulls. In real life, or at least my current reality, there’s a thermos and it’s lying on its side against the back doors of the van, too far away for me to reach. There’s some blankets close enough to grab but I can’t figure out how I can use them as a weapon of destruction. My head pulses as I try to think.
Stop it, Brain! No time for pain or hysterics. We have an important rescue mission to carry out. Without me, you’re nothing and vice versa.
Brain agrees and gives me various options, all similar in method and outcome. Grab the blanket and strangle Henchman. No. Strangle Chromedome. Henchman is busy driving and can’t leap to his partner’s rescue. But strangling takes a lot of strength according to CSI Vegas. Sure, I’m furious with him and the adrenalin will kick in, but he sounds just as mad because I bit him. His adrenalin might kick in too.
Okay. Other options. Grab the blanket and smother Chromedome with it. Might work, or he might outmaneuver me.
Nope, the best option is to grab the blanket, leap up, throw it over Chromedome and then punch him in the side of the head. Repeatedly. Stop when he’s no longer moving.
Does he have to be dead?
No, but he has to be slumped over and twitching.
I inch my hand towards the blanket and touch it with my fingers. There will be no time for hesitation. I’ll have to be nimble and quick, both of which I can be when I choose to exercise the option. I grab the blanket, roll onto my knees… and fall flat on my face as the blanket catches under my foot.
It gets the attention of Chromedome. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growls as he looks back at me.
I groan and roll over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “Getting a blanket. I was cold.”
He exhales. “Don’t fucking move or I’ll punch you in the head again.”
And I’ll bite your fucking hand off, I think but don’t say.