Chapter 2 Kitty
TWO
KITTY
Playlist recommendation:
Say Yes To Heaven - Lana Del Rey
Laughter was my initial weapon.
I’d prefer a gun, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and dating finance bros had told me insecure assholes never liked being laughed at.
So I laughed.
And it worked—I only wanted to distract him from locking the door and he didn’t.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?”
My lips burned, the cuts tugging and pulling as I smirked. “You.”
Snarling, Mr. Cavity stomped over like an oversized toddler and used my hair as a leash to drag me forcibly backward just so he could slap me again.
When the brute force on my hair ripped some strands from the root, my shriek morphed into a scream that he shut up with a punch.
Dazed, my head hung as pain ricocheted through my skull from that abrupt hit.
When he spat on me, I had enough wherewithal to shudder with disgust.
He noticed too.
That earned me a couple kicks and another punch, this time to the gut.
Panting, I sagged in my bindings, tilting my aching head to scope out my new locale.
The luck of the Irish was on my side because his momentum had pushed me into a better position—closer to the nightstand.
Now or never.
Preparing myself for the punishment to come, I gathered as much strength as my weak body contained and shoved up on my toes until my chair tipped backward. Gravity and momentum performed the bulk of the task for me, which came as a relief.
Recoiling as I collided with the floor, I bit my tongue when my skull slammed into it.
I will not die tonight, goddammit.
Once he started growling more Slavic nonsense and grabbed the back of the chair to haul me upright, I sucked in a breath stained with his stench.
The buzzing in my ears and the strange spots in my eyes hinted I was likely concussed as well as drugged, but sheer obstinacy allowed me to focus on my next step.
I used his distraction and the forward momentum of him picking me and the chair up to snatch the lamp from the nightstand.
Somehow, my fingers circled the body and I managed to bring it with me. Heavier than expected, the base a solid weight that tugged at my weakening reserves, it nevertheless gave me hope that I had a weapon on my side.
He spat something at me as he straightened, but I didn’t let him stand.
With the base of the lamp, I whacked him in the temple.
He snarled again, a wicked light of rage gleaming in his eyes as he reached for the makeshift weapon, but I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t. In a fight for life or death, I refused to fucking die tonight.
My forward movement was hindered, but it didn’t stop me from hitting out at his hands and his stomach.
Thrusting and stabbing, anywhere and everywhere—I’d take anything so long as it hurt him.
He laughed, the sound wild with a kind of delight that declared for the world to hear how much he loved it when a woman struggled.
As he snatched at the light, it knocked my aim off course. The hefty base glanced off his knuckles and landed on his cock.
Talk about more Irish luck!
He howled like a baby.
Groaning, moaning, whimpering, he cupped himself, wobbling on his feet.
I watched him fight the urge to drop to his knees.
Desperate to encourage that urge, I pushed the base at him again, managing to get him in the nose.
Wrenching upward drowned me of every ounce of energy I had, but it was worth it when blood cascaded from the tender tissues.
Celebrating as he flopped over, uncertain if I’d pushed hard enough to send his nose shuttling through his brain, I came to a decision.
If you pissed off an angry bear, you made sure it was down for good, so I acted accordingly.
Angling the body of the lamp to the side so that I didn’t accidentally impale myself on it, I rocked the chair, my bindings encouraging the forward momentum, praying for enough of it to push me over too.
Someone was eavesdropping—Da, for once?—because forward I flew and my knees collided with his stomach. When he groaned then began coughing, I had confirmation the bastard still lived, so I twisted the lamp in my hold and bludgeoned wherever I could hit.
Once he stopped cupping his dick to defend himself, I targeted his penis. The downside was that freed his hands. He yanked my hair again to get me to stop, but I wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Stopping meant a beating that’d make my earlier treatment look like a walk in the park. Or, of course, there’d be worse consequences that every woman knew to fear.
Hell, in his rage, he could kill me.
AND I WAS NOT GOING TO DIE TONIGHT.
He could tear off great chunks of my hair at the root for all I cared—so long as I survived, it’d grow back.
I carried on hitting him.
Over and over.
Blood spattered—I didn’t heed it.
Over and over.
His groans turned into drowsy moans.
Over and over and fucking over.
Until he lost consciousness and I was on the brink of joining him.
Unfortunately for me, this was only phase one of the escape plan.
Pushing my head into his stomach, ignoring the stench of unwashed man, I gathered my flailing strength—adrenaline could only do so much—and twisted as best as I could to force the chair into flipping onto its side.
It took more than I had to give.
Tears leaked from my eyes. Exhausted, weary, scared tears.
It was the latter that fortified me.
“Kitty Frasier isn’t afraid of anyone,” I proclaimed, needing to hear the blatant lie from my own lips, with my own voice.
I tried again. And again. Each time, a sob burst free, but I used it to empower me.
Eventually, when I gathered enough energy to twist over, I managed to half-land on him, whimpering in relief as only my knees knocked into the grody floor. Phase two complete, I began phase three by delving into his pockets, trying to find anything that’d cut me loose.
Locating a pocketknife, I wished like fuck I could swipe my hands over my cheeks—the tracks tears left behind were a distraction I couldn’t afford.
“Get yourself together, girl. He could wake up any minute.”
Realistically, I had time before he came to, but there was no room for hope, only pragmatism.
Borderline surgical pragmatism at that.
I turned the knife onto my bindings and realized then the blade was dull.
A gasp stole much-needed oxygen from my straining lungs, but I worked through the rope, securing my top half to the chair to give me freedom of movement as I prepared for what needed to be done.
Once released from some of the bindings, I took a moment’s grace to weep.
But only a moment.
“You have work to do,” I sniped, amping myself up like I used to do when I’d been on the softball team in high school.
Grinding my teeth together, I unfastened his fly. Retching when the stench of fish from unwashed skin and blood hit me right in the face, I gagged throughout my preparations.
With a pocket of space made, I turned the small-shafted blade toward his crotch.
And suddenly, it felt like I was no longer in the room as I watched a stranger’s hand palpate the area where hip met thigh while another swiped the blade in a smooth motion.
At this distance, I could appreciate the steady rush of blood that greeted the steel as those alien hands used an inadequate scalpel to sever the femoral artery.
Brute force slashed that dull blade through flesh, sinew, and muscle, putting an end to this animal’s existence in an arcing arterial spurt.
And that was the moment my mind decided to recollect itself.
No more fugue state for me.
The first thing I noticed was that my fingers looked as if I’d dipped them in hot sauce. And the projecting spatter would’ve given Pinhead a boner.
The little bit of blood I’d seen on Stan earlier was nothing in comparison to this tidal wave.
But I shoved that hysterical thought aside.
I didn’t have time for hysteria.
Only, my brain didn’t agree.
“Oh, fuck,” I warbled, refusing to cry until I had time. Until I could break down. Until I was safe.
Until, God help me, I was sitting on Stan’s lap as he held me and I could let my feelings loose—one of those anger. Because I was angry at him.
So fucking angry.
Something that only grew as I struggled with my bindings and that one dull blade.
Exhaustion hit by the time I’d freed myself, enough that I felt lightheaded.
“This isn’t over, Kitty,” I growled, hoping to energize myself.
It worked.
A little.
But I was dazed, in pain, and undoubtedly concussed, so it took me too long to realize he had a cell phone.
A cell phone that he’d used to contact Stan.
As I forced myself to remain calm, hysteria settled at the back of my throat, threatening to suffocate me—I needed oxygen for my brain to work, though, so I regulated my breathing.
“If I call him, he’ll come.”
But was that the wisest path to take?
“Should I try to get out on my own or wait for him?”
I glanced at the window and saw the bars that’d prevent my freedom. There was a dubious-smelling bathroom but it had no door—just a curtain.
I could lock the door that my captor hadn’t. I could get out. But I was tired. So tired.
If I locked the door, they could break it down. If I ran into the corridor, where would I hide? Was I safest in here?
The sturdiest goddamn thing in the room appeared to be the lamp I’d used to beat that bastard to death.
Could I do that again to protect myself? Would I have a choice in the matter?
If I stayed here, strategically, they had—
“Stop it, Kitty. Make a decision!”
I inhaled, exhaled, then staggered over to the door and locked it as gently as I could, but the sound from the lock tumbling had me cringing and freezing as I listened out for footsteps.
When the coast seemed clear, I dropped to my knees by my attacker and sought his phone.
It was tucked in his pocket, covered in his blood, and I retched but wiped it on my once-pretty dress, avoiding looking at the viscera that now soaked my beloved espadrilles.
I released a sob, only to suck it up and suck it in.
As I was still sniffling, it took me too long to realize that this was my phone.
He’d used my fucking phone!
I found our text thread, saw the pictures Mr. Cavity had sent him of me—God, I felt worse than I looked—and shared my live location. When the gray ticks turned blue, I nearly wept.
He was there. On the end of the messages. Waiting.
Safety.
Me: Stan, I killed him
Me: Please, help me
Me: Please
Me: I need you
Trembling when I saw the waving three dots, I hit the camera and took a photo that I sent to him of the corpse.
Stan: KITTY
Stan: I’m coming, liunissa
Stan: You’ve done so fucking well.
Stan: I’m so proud of you
The tears that fell from me were useless, but I couldn’t stop them from finally pouring free. I didn’t swipe at them, even though I now could, just let them flow unchecked.
Me: Please come
Me: Please
*Stan sends his location*
I stared at how close he was to the blue dot that showed my own location and I sagged.
Stan: Nearly there
Stan: I will always find you
Stan: Always
Stan: I fucking love you, Kitty
Stan: You hold on
I didn’t go into the messages, half-ignored the banners that popped up on the screen, and watched his dot move ever nearer to mine.
When the two merged, I gasped as the door handle twisted.
Terror flooded me.
It was too soon for that to be Stan.