6. Fun
SIX
FUN
KYLIE
W ow. There’s nothing like coming to, groggy and dry-mouthed, fucking chained to a cot to make you realize that you lost your edge.
They got me. Not like I made it that hard. I saw the Sig Sauer in Devil’s massive paw. If the driver didn’t grab me as quickly as he did, I have no doubt in my mind that the head Sinner would’ve shot me down to get me to stop.
To be honest, I’m still kind of surprised that he didn’t. From all the research I did on the mafias that run Springfield, everything I learned made me sure that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
But I’m alive. My head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. My mouth tastes like I tasted a shag carpet from a 1970s living room. My arms ache, and my legs… my legs…
I blink.
Okay. My right leg has some kind of metal shackle on it. The shackle itself is attached to a length of chain that slinks off the edge of the narrow cot I’m sprawled out on. And the chain is?—
Oh. No wonder my arms ache. Not both, I notice, now that I’m slowly becoming more coherent. But while my right leg has a shackle on it, my left arm is stretched over my head. One half of a pair of handcuffs is encircled on my wrist. The other? Looped around one of the bars on the headboard.
What the fuck?
I can’t see what’s going on with the chain because my arm is stuck. I don’t like that. Whatever kinky shit is going on here, I’m not about to stay put on this bed, waiting for my captor to return.
Who did this? The Devil of Springfield? The chauffeur who answered my knock on his window? It can’t be Walt Collins since I distinctly remember hearing the gunshots that rang out, obviously ending his life before anyone else had the chance to kill the shady vice mayor. But when I was convinced that I was next, what the hell happened that I ended up…
Where?
I glance around. I have no idea where the fuck I am. I get ‘basement’ vibes, from the chill down here to the cement floor and the stairs across the room that lead to another level, but it’s December. For all I know I’m in some weirdo’s bedroom or garage. Either way, I’m stuck, and considering the last thing I remember, that’s probably not a good thing.
Well, fuck me. That’s what a dash of boredom, a pinch of recklessness, and a hint of a death wish get you. I screwed up, and while I was almost welcoming the bullet I expected between my eyes for getting snagged by the Devil of Springfield and one of his goons, they made a mistake, too.
They took me alive.
I take another gander around, getting a better lock on my surroundings.
There’s a mini fridge that I’m pretty sure is plugged in based on the slight hum I’m picking up on. A long, narrow table about a foot-high in the middle of the space. A waste basket. A door that’s closed, and not a single window. Luckily, there is a single high-watt light bulb in the center of the room, helping me see everything down here. Otherwise I’d be sitting in the darkness, judging my life choices.
No. I’m just doing that with the blinding light causing me to squint.
Ugh. I know I’ve been in a rut lately. I’ve been chasing the same high I got when I took my first life, and after a decade, it’s lost its luster. I’ll admit it. I’ve been going through the motions. Even the prospect of a high-profile hit wasn’t enough to really rev my engine. That was why I jumped at the chance to finish it all off tonight if I could. I’d beat the Christmas deadline, get the money owed to me by Winter, and find something else to give me that same sense of satisfaction and enjoyment.
I actually experienced a spark of it tonight. For the first time in a loooong time, when I rapped on that window and the man inside jumped like a frightened rabbit, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
That wouldn’t have fit the image I was trying to put on. Neither would have the outright flirting I wanted to do when I got my first look at him. He was better-looking than I was expecting from the profile, and if he hadn’t been sitting in the expensive, shiny black car idling outside of the Blockbuster, I might have flirted with him after all.
The car had to belong to the Devil of Springfield. I’d heard about how he has a personal driver to ferry him around the city. Why? No idea, but even if it wasn’t Devil’s car, there had to have been a reason it was the only visible car on the stretch of road where Crewes and Collins were supposed to meet.
Unless, you know, those two guys at the Playground got it wrong. It could’ve been a drug deal taking place around back, or one of the girls the street over found a willing buyer after all. I didn’t know, but without going around back myself, I had no idea.
The direction I headed down the street meant I couldn’t do that unless I wheeled back around. I could’ve, but something about the driver waiting in the car had me going with my first idea.
Up until the moment I knocked, I planned on just walking by as if I had every right to be there. I couldn’t get to my target with others around anyway, and Winter only paid me for one head, not three. I wasn’t going to eliminate the vice mayor, the mafia leader, and his driver on one commission which meant that this entire trek over was a colossal waste of time.
And yet… I’d never turn down the chance to get some intel. Even if it was cementing my story for why I was there, then moving on, I was going to do it.
I just never expected that Lincoln Crewes would blow away Vice Mayor Collins when I was right fucking there—or that he would set eyes on me after the fact before I could pull a rabbit.
To be fair, until his gaze landed on me, I did think I had a bit of a death wish. When that murderous gaze found me in the dark and the cold, I realized just how much I wanted to survive when my first instinct was to bolt.
The driver guy caught me, though. He dropped me in the trunk like Devil told him to, and I played the part of a good little girl, letting him think I was under his complete control while plotting how I was going to escape the trunk before they got me to a second location.
That’s self-preservation 101. Never let them take you to a second location, and I wasn’t planning on it.
Too bad I didn’t plan on the driver injected me with something that had me knocked out within minutes…
How long was I out? No idea. Long enough that someone was able to bring me here, truss me up, and I was unconscious through all of it.
I’m not anymore. I’m wide awake now, and my focus is on getting out of this bed first, and out of this unfamiliar room second.
Focusing on the handcuff to start, I give my wrist an experimental twist. Whoever clasped in on me was careful not to tighten it too much. I’m confident that I can slide my hand out with only a couple of scrapes around the widest part of my hand, but before I attempt to do that, I notice something about the cuffs.
They’re cheap. Chintzy. Unless I’m wrong, they’re fucking toys .
And my captor only had a single pair to trap one of my hands. That means my right hand is free to do whatever I need it to.
Dumbass. Considering a majority of the population is left-handed, he could’ve made it a lot harder on me by cuffing my right hand. He didn’t, though, and I quickly use my dominant hand to unclasp the back of my silver hoop earring.
I’ve worn the same pair of earrings since my mom and dad gave them to me as an eighth-grade graduation present. They’re comfortable, work well with my style, and when I need something a little sharp and pointy in a pinch, they do the job.
It takes a little more effort to twist my body and my head so that I can get a better look at the handcuffs. What I see proves my initial suspicion correct. These are shitty cuffs. You don’t even need a key to remove them. A pin—or the back of an earring—is enough to trigger the locking mechanism on cuffs like these.
It takes a few frustrating minutes to get the earring in the whole while only being able to use my one hand, but I’m determined. I don’t want to catch the attention of my captor, either—assuming he’s somewhere nearby—so when I manage to pop the lock, I swallow my cry of, “Fuck yeah,” as best I can before turning my attention to the chains.
I’d hope that the same cheapskate didn’t bother with actual chains. Most people who get nabbed by the mafia would probably be contained by garbage chains and toy handcuffs; it’s more their own fears that would keep them captive than anything their abductors used to keep them trapped.
But Kylie Ferguson isn’t most people. Contrary by nature—and more than a little prone to amuse and challenge myself however I can—if whoever stole me wants me on the bed, I’m getting up, one way or another.
The handcuffs were easy. The length of chain?
Not so much.
The shackle is stuck. The heavy chains are unbreakable. I nearly bend my earring, trying to see if I can pick the lock on the shackle before giving up on that and replacing the earring in my ear.
That doesn’t stop me, though. There has to be a way to break free of the chains, and I’m going to find it. If I have to break the leg on the cot that it’s attached to, or?—
Hang on. Crawling to the bottom of the cot so that I can get a better look at the chains, I feel like an idiot that I focused on the shackled end of the chains for as long as I did. The other side has to be connected to something else to keep me on the bed, and I snort under my breath when I realize just how tiny the metal loop is that keeps the chains connected to the bot by one of its legs.
I kick it. I know I’m risking the noise traveling upstairs, catching the attention of my captor, but I don’t care. Using the boots I’m still wearing, I kick and I kick, and when the metal loop starts to buckle under the force of my strike, I kick again until it completely breaks away from its weak solder.
I’m still wearing a shackle. The length of chain trails behind it like a snake. Doesn’t matter. I can get up and walk around now with nothing stopping me.
Once I’m on my feet, I do a quick rundown on myself.
Boots? Check. Leather jacket? Check. The curls in my ponytail is smashed flat—from my time in that fucking trunk, or how I was lying passed out on the cot—but apart from the lingering nasty taste in my mouth and the fuzzy headache that’s still kicking my ass, I’m okay.
Well. Okay -ish .
I don’t have my knife, but I already knew that. Whatever shit he gave me, I had enough brains to ditch the knife before they could use it on me. Same thing with the bluish hummingbird crystal I kept in my pocket. I planned to leave it behind with the body if I managed to off my target, but when that all went to hell, I didn’t want to get caught with my signature crystal on me.
Fucking Springfield. I don’t know if the one I left behind at the tattoo shop was ever found or, if it was, they managed to link the arson to an assassin attempt made by the infamous Hummingbird, but it was bad enough I got snagged by Devil and his henchman. Having my cover blown at the same time would be like rubbing salt inside a wound.
Patting my jacket, I snort when I feel the lip gloss-shaped lump. I have no illusion that whoever put me here wouldn’t have gone through my pockets before they trussed me up like that. Just as I expected, they completely disregarded the lip gloss as something a silly girl kept in her pocket.
Good. I can use that.
And if necessary, I can use the strychnine, too.
That perks me up. Someone went to a lot of trouble to keep me alive. They want me as their prisoner for some reason, and if I acquiesced as easily as I did earlier tonight, that’s only because I didn’t plan on being their prisoner for long.
I still don’t, but with this in my pocket, it’s my ace in the hole—and a way to get out of this before I really do become the next victim.
Do I think I will? Not really. I’m here for a reason, but now that I’m awake, I’m not going to sit down here and wait to find out what it is. That’s not my style, and if someone else is here with me, I’d much prefer to throw them off-guard by being like nothing they suspect.
I always do.
Another sweep, looking for something that I can use as a weapon if necessary. The closest thing I have is the chain rattling against the floor with every step I take. Dropping low, I grab the end of it. It’s not really long enough to really hurt someone, but if I have to hear the scrap as I head up the stairs, I’ll lose it.
Because the stairs? That’s exactly where I’m going.
My plan is to bang on the door so that, if someone is up there, they know they have a conscious, cranky captive on their hands. Despite the cuff and chains being overkill for little ol’ me, I honestly expected that the door at the top would be locked.
It isn’t.
Huh.
The doorknob turns easily under my hand. I man, I had to check, and I blink a few times in rapid succession when it opens. I ease the door out as slowly as possible, waiting for a gun or a knife or a scarred brawler with a scowl and dark cruel eyes to appear in the gap.
Am I being held by the Devil of Springfield? I don’t know, but after how he glowered at me, I’d take my chances with anyone else.
Is this my bid to escape? Not really. Call me a glutton for punishment, but this is the most excitement I’ve had in months. Witnessing a murder that I didn’t perform? Being tossed in a trunk? Tied up in what I’m more and more sure is a basement only God knows where?
I’m having a blast now that I’m not dead!
So, that thought in mind, I say ‘fuck it’ and use my palm to shove the door open all the way.
Whoops. I used a little more force than I should’ve because the answering slam of my hand against the wood fills the room I’m peering into.
I’m not alone. To my right, I see a man. His arms are stretched out on the top of the two-seater couch, legs spread as his head is tilted back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Unless I was imagining it, he was snoring, too, though that stops as soon as his eyes snap open.
I know who he is. I saw that surprisingly handsome face earlier tonight. Those shocking green eyes. The sandy brown hair seemingly sticking up in random places.
It’s the driver who drugged me.
He jumps to his feet, pointing at my chest. “What are you… how did you… what?”
Releasing my hold on the lip gloss container in my pocket, I jerk my thumb behind me. “You forgot to lock me down there.”
His mouth falls open all the rest of the way, the heights of his chiseled cheeks turning a slight shade of pink.
Without another word, he slowly—almost sheepishly—sidles over to the front door. A snick -ing sound later, that door is locked, too.
I smile.
You know what? This is gonna be fun .