37. Tatum
Chapter 37
Tatum
I'm dusting the shelves in the living room, swaying my hips to "Sweet Dreams" playing through my wireless earbuds. The feather duster swishes across the wooden surface of the bookshelf as I lip-sync along, enjoying a rare moment of freedom while the guys are out handling the ransom drop.
This time tomorrow I could be a free fucking woman. The thought almost brings me to tears, except I don't think there's any fluid left in my body after Isaac and I's hostage situation earlier. I can still feel the ache in my wrists and between my legs. I definitely plan to ask him if we can role play more often when I'm in the clear.
"Sweet dreams are made of—" The music cuts off abruptly. The room plunges into total darkness.
"What the..." My heart jumps into my throat. The darkness feels oppressive, almost solid. I reach out, hands searching for familiar surfaces. The shelf edge meets my fingertips.
Moving carefully, I edge along the wall. My phone has to be somewhere. I left it... where did I leave it? The kitchen maybe? Or was it upstairs?
Maybe I blew some kind of circuit running all the appliances at the same time. When I'm stressed I clean, so sue me.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaks behind me. I freeze.
Fuck, I'm residing with three mobsters. Why would my first thought about the power outage be about overloading the fucking circuit.
"Hello?" My voice sounds small in the darkness. No response.
The security system should have kicked in by now. Something's wrong.
Another creak, closer this time. My breath catches. I try to remember the layout of the room, but everything feels different in the dark. The coffee table should be three steps to my left. If I can just reach it...
My hip bangs into something hard. Wrong direction. The impact sends whatever I hit clattering to the floor with a crash that seems deafening in the silence.
"Shit, shit, shit," I whisper, heart pounding. I need my phone. Need light. Need to call the guys. But which direction is safe to move?
I edge toward where I think the back door should be, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. My hands trail along the wall, searching for the familiar door frame. The darkness seems to press against my skin, making every breath feel heavy.
A vase crashes to the floor as my hip catches it. The sound shatters the silence and I jump, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Just get to the door," I whisper to myself. "Just?—"
Strong arms wrap around me from behind. I throw my elbow back, connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain tells me I hit my mark. I thrash, kicking backward, knocking over what feels like an end table. The lamp hits the floor with a crash.
"Get off me!" I twist in the iron grip, managing to wrench one arm free. My nails rake across flesh and I hear another hiss of pain.
A large hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my scream. The stranger pulls me back against their chest, lifting me off my feet. I bite down hard on the hand, tasting copper.
"Fucking hell, chill out bitch," a deep voice growls in my ear.
I kick out again, my foot connecting with the wall. The impact sends a picture frame crashing down, glass splintering across the floor. But the arms around me only tighten, making it hard to breathe.
My attacker drags me backward, away from the door, away from escape. Away from help.
Rough hands shove a blindfold over my eyes before dragging me toward what I assume is the front door. My bare feet scrape against the hardwood, catching splinters from the broken glass.
"Move," a gruff voice commands, pushing me forward.
"I can't see where I'm going, dumbass." The words slip out before I can stop them. A sharp squeeze on my arm reminds me this probably isn't the time for sass.
The cool night air hits my skin as they march me outside. Gravel digs into my feet with each stumbling step.
"Watch your head," another voice warns, seconds before they push me down into what feels like a car's backseat.
"Thanks for the genuine concern," I grate out. The leather is cold against my bare legs.
Doors slam. An engine roars to life. The car lurches forward, throwing me against the seat belt someone's fastened around me.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Silence answers. The car takes a sharp right, then accelerates. I try to count the turns, but soon lose track. The blindfold is tight enough that not even a sliver of light gets through.
"At least tell me if this is about Thomas." I shift in my seat, testing the restraints. "Because if it is, I've got some news for you?—"
"Quiet." The command comes from my left.
"Just saying, you might be wasting your time here. That asshole doesn't care."
Someone in the front seat snorts. "She's got a mouth on her."
"Yeah, and it's going to get her in trouble," the first voice growls.
The car hits a bump, launching me up against the seat belt. My head smacks against the window. "Jesus, who the fuck taught you how to drive? Helen Kellar?"
"I said quiet." A hand grips my knee in warning.
I bite back another retort and focus on memorizing the journey. Left turn. Long straight stretch. Right turn. The car slows, gravel crunching under the tires. We must be off the main road now.
"Goodnight Madam," a sly voice says.
It's then that I feel the pinch of a needle in my thigh. Darkness comes quickly.