19. Sydney
nineteen
sydney
The health clinic on campus can prescribe birth control. I learn that from Maddy, after I try to casually ask her about it at dinner. Having none seems a little too dangerous, especially since Penn lives on the reckless side. And Carter… he brought me the morning after pill, but I can’t rely on that.
I won’t.
Getting pregnant young is exactly what my mother did. And since I’m already following in her footsteps in more ways than one, I can’t jinx myself.
Better safe than sorry .
I head down after dinner, feigning nausea to my friends. But when I get there, I tell the nurse practitioner what I really need.
She nods without judgment. That’s a small miracle all on its own.
After reviewing my options, we go with the monthly shot. She gives me one right then and there—after a pregnancy test that thankfully comes back negative—and makes me an appointment to return at the end of November.
“Halloween is next week,” I gasp.
She laughs, ushering me out.
Halloween used to be fun. Like in high school, when I would go to house parties of my classmates, but everyone was kind of on equal footing in terms of sneaking alcohol and having enough funds to actually get good costumes.
I, for one, always put my creativity to the test.
I walk home, and a chill like ice slides down my spine. I stop short on the sidewalk. It’s a residential area, the university perfectly blended in with the surrounding neighborhoods in Framingham. The street is quiet, and yet…
There’s no one around. No one walking or jogging. I spin in a slow circle, trying to make sure, before I shrug it off and continue.
A car turns onto the road ahead of me. Their headlights are bright, but then they flick on their high beams.
I raise my hand to block the light.
The engine revs, the car flying toward me. My body goes tense as it draws nearer, my heart skipping. I almost fall off the sidewalk into the yard beside me, but the squeal of brakes comes a second later. It stops a foot from me, and someone jumps out of the passenger side. They’re wearing a mask.
Hell. No.
I backpedal, then turn and run across the lawn. The big one is on me in a second. He’s huge, easily doubling my body weight, and takes me down hard. We hit the ground, the air kicked out of my lungs, but he grabs my arms and hauls me up faster than I can comprehend. The driver looms in front of me. He dodges my kick and grabs my legs while the first guy takes my upper body. I manage to get out a piercing shriek before the big one stuffs something in my mouth.
I try to spit it out, but there’s too much of it. The one behind me has my arms pinned to my sides. Desperation kicks through me, and I twist harder than even I expect. I get a foot free. Without hesitation, I slam it into the driver’s stomach.
He lets out an oof , but his grasp on my other ankle doesn’t loosen. He quickly gets my other foot, and they carry me the short distance back to the car. The trunk is already open.
It’s sick how time slows down. I know what’s coming. They’re going to put me in it, shut the door. Once I’m in, I’ll be even more vulnerable.
I scream around the cloth in my mouth and throw my head back. It worked on the girl in the bathroom, but this angle sucks and I just bash it into his chest.
They toss me into the trunk without preamble. I curl, protecting my head, and the door slams down a second later. I’m encased in pitch-black, blinking rapidly as I try to adjust to the darkness.
Shit.
I lie unmoving, shock more than anything holding me hostage.
What the fuck do I do? Two doors close, and the engine revs. The car takes off, and I slide headfirst into the side of the trunk. I yank the cloth out of my mouth.
“Let me go!” I pound on the roof and yell as loud as I can.
Music starts up a second later, something awful—a thumping bass that easily disguises my attempts to signal anyone.
What the fuck ?
I brace myself in the trunk and feel around for something—anything—I can use as a weapon or means of escape. But it’s completely empty. It’s no better than a freaking rental car.
My backpack didn’t make it in with me, but my phone is in my pocket. I yank it out and scroll my contacts, but I don’t have Penn’s or Oliver’s numbers. Which fucking sucks, because I’m pretty sure one of them is driving.
And I would have words for them.
I won’t call my dad. This will either worry him or infuriate him, and either way, I don’t want to be held responsible for his reaction. I would, too. If I told him what’s going on, he would react and it would be my fault. The school would go back to hating me, with or without Penn’s sweatshirt’s protection.
There’s only one real viable option—Carter. I can barely scroll to his name, my hands are shaking so badly. Once I get to him, it takes a second to click.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It feels fucking terrible to be out of options. Is this my karmic retribution? I never should’ve snuck into Oliver Ruiz’s house. Never should’ve sent those pictures of the playbook to Carter.
Me
I know we don’t do the whole calling thing, or face-to-face thing, but if I said I was in the trunk of a car…
L.
What?
Two guys threw me in the back of the trunk. I don’t suppose you’re one of them? That would be a real laugh.
Not really. Kind of traumatizing, actually…
The car stops so suddenly, I slide forward and slam into the front of the trunk. I rub my shoulder, which takes the brunt of the impact. The music cuts off. I shove my phone into the waistband of my pants, hurrying to tug my shirt and Penn’s sweatshirt down over it. I don’t trust them not to search for it, wherever we are. But maybe they won’t feel… there.
I don’t know if I can trust L., but I’m really hoping he comes through.
The trunk pops open, and a bright light sears my eyes. I squint up at the two figures, their silhouettes dark behind the light.
“ Get out of the trunk. ” The voice isn’t human, though. It’s robotic, like read through a computer program.
The flashlight moves away from my face, and I sit up slowly. I peek around.
We’re in some sort of mechanical shop. They drove all the way into it, parked in one of the bays. To my left and right are empty bays for more cars, and a warehouse spreads out behind my abductors.
I climb out slowly. They drove for maybe twenty minutes, I think, but my limbs are stiff from tensing at every turn.
The two of them look even worse in the overhead fluorescent lighting giving their masks pits of shadows. They stand back, waiting for me to emerge. The huge guy is within grabbing distance, and the one who drove stands a few yards away with a phone in his hand. He presses another button, and the voice comes out of the phone.
“ Sit in that chair .”
He points.
Their masks are not cool like those neon stitch ones, or even the Scream mask. These are grotesque, more like something you’d find at Fright Night or going through a haunted house. The driver’s is a bloody, smiling skull. The other’s is a creepy clown mask.
They’re both wearing nondescript clothing. Black sweatshirts and pants, black boots. The masks completely hide their heads, too.
I stare at the black mesh where the driver’s eyes would be. I fucking hate masks, and the fact that they both seem to be watching me with a keen gaze—all in my head, since I can’t confirm—does nothing to calm me. If I lose control over my even breathing, I’d quickly fall into hyperventilation.
All I need to do is hide the trembling and convince them I’m not afraid.
Easy.
“Don’t suppose you have a school affiliation,” I ask in a low voice. “Is there a point you’re trying to make here?”
He points again. More insistently.
I move past him and sit in the metal folding chair, brushing off my thighs. Isn’t there something about not showing fear to bad men? I feel like Mom told me that once upon a time… a lesson in walking through the trailer park where we lived, when I had to do it alone at night.
A whispered, Don’t show fear, honey . A kiss on the top of my head when I made it back, trembling, after someone spooked me bad enough to sprint home.
This is just like that.
My phone digs into my abdomen, but I ignore it. When my fingers shake, I squeeze my thighs.
Neither of them move.
I raise my eyebrows at them, like, Now what?
My phone is on silent, even the vibration turned off. I don’t know if texting L. was the right idea. Maybe I should’ve called my dad? Or the freaking police?
Snitch.
The word rings in my ears.
The guy in charge presses a button on his phone. “ You have what we want .”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?” I lift my chin. “My grandma’s lasagna recipe, perhaps?”
They exchange a glance, although how they can interpret a nonverbal look with masks on is anyone’s guess.
He types something, and it plays a second later. “ You’re close to the FSU goalie. We want to know what you know. ”
“I don’t know anything.”
“ Liar .”
“What, do you think I sleep with him and then flip through his playbook in the middle of the night? Why the fuck would I do that after everything that happened?”
Silence.
I glare at the one speaking. “You want me to give up secrets about FSU?”
“ Yes .”
“Well that’s too fucking bad, because I don’t have any.”
A low buzz punctuates my words. Not my phone—the driver’s?
“ She’s not scared enough .” The driver tips his head to the other guy. His phone is still going off in his hand, but he swipes and it falls silent.
I swallow.
They drift a short distance away, maybe whispering or deciding what to do with me, or talking about the fucking weather. I don’t know. But then the driver goes to one of those mechanic toolboxes and pulls out a coil of rope.
He throws it to the big guy.
From far behind me, toward the back of the warehouse, comes a banging noise.
The driver points at the big guy and moves off in that direction.
“Just let me go,” I say to the remaining one.
He hasn’t spoken either. But I’m pretty sure every single television show about a kidnapped girl suggested getting on one of their good sides.
His hands flex on the rope.
My gaze goes down to it automatically, drawn by the slight motion. He unravels it and approaches.
I stand, but he shoves me down just as fast. I hit the chair hard. He ties my hands in front of me, the rope tightening every second.
His mask freaks me out the most.
Clowns… no, thank you .
But I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to stare at where I think his eyes are.
“I haven’t done anything to you,” I whisper. “Please. You don’t want to know about FSU. I don’t even know anything?—”
“Quiet,” he mutters.
“This is ridiculous. I won’t press charges or anything, I swear.”
He drops the rope over my head. It drapes across my shoulders.
It isn’t until he slowly pulls the end, holding my wrists with his other hand, that the rope tightens slowly around my throat. My eyes widen. I lean back with the pressure, but it doesn’t ease.
I jerk uselessly at my hands.
He keeps tightening until I can barely inhale—and even that hurts. My chest immediately aches for more air, but I can only manage to draw in the weakest of breaths. The rope digs into my windpipe.
And yet, there’s some part of me that’s convinced this is a terrible joke.
“Now that you’re goddamn quiet ,” he says, “And he’s distracted…”
He wraps the rest of the rope around my torso, catching my arms. Everything is attached. I move my hands; the neck rope shifts.
When he shifts back to check his handiwork, he tilts his head. The clown mask is the worst, and I fight my shudder. I don’t want anything else to tighten.
“He gave you options,” he says. “But I think there should be an and instead of an or to his proposition.” He flicks out a knife. “First, I’m going to cut the scraps of clothes off you. Then, I’m going to fuck your ass so hard, you’ll be shitting my cum for a week.”
My eyes widen.
I don’t recognize his voice. That’s what scares me more than anything—and makes me believe him. It’s not Oliver or Penn pulling some sick prank. He seems to mean every word he just said.
He steps closer, dropping to his knees in front of me. It puts us practically at eye level.
He runs his hands up my thighs, spreading them with rough hands. “I like the idea of you choking for air while I violate you.”
From my thighs to my hips?—
He finds my phone. He grunts and tosses it away, then drags me off the chair. The motion is shocking, the impact of hitting the floor reverberating up my spine. He rips the button on my jeans and yanks my pants down.
No .
White spots flicker in my vision, but I’m not going out like this. I kick at him and try to scream, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. Panic rises in me, sharp and swift. It nearly blinds me with fear.
“Yes, scream some more,” he groans.
I can’t scream. It’s just the low whistle of air—but he seems to like it, because he pinches my thigh until I do it again. Make the pathetic noise, empty my lungs and struggle to fill them.
He dodges my kicks and kneels between my bare legs. Through the mask, it seems like his attention keeps dancing around. From my face to the rope to… lower .
And I’m helpless to stop him from unbuttoning his pants and palming himself. From leaning over me, the mask filling my vision.