30. Blue
30
Blue
M y head. Fuck. My head.
I squeeze my eyes as my ears ring, the pitch blocking out all other sounds. I hear a groan and I try to open my eyes.
Someone screams and a car alarm goes off. Drivers honk their horns, angry? Why? Why all this noise?
My door opens and I fall backwards out of the car. Someone catches me. I was wearing my seatbelt. I’d just put it on. Hadn’t I?
We got into the car, Isabelle and me. Dex closed the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, silent, as usual. I saw a lipstick on the floor I recognized. I bent to get it, realizing it was the car Zeke had used to kidnap me. Yes. That’s it. I unclipped my seatbelt to get the lipstick. We were at the light. It was just for a second.
But then, something hit us. Hard.
Isabelle.
Oh, God. Isabelle. She’s pregnant.
The moaning. I think it’s her. I try to pry my lids open, but it’s impossible.
Hands grip my arms hard. I’m hauled out of the car. Fingers dig into my flesh. My head flops backward, my legs slap onto the pavement, dragged, hard gravel cutting into the backs of my legs before I’m lifted, held against what feels like a stone wall. It’s in that second I manage to open my eyes. Just for the briefest of moments. Just for a split second.
And what I see.
Oh God. No. No.
It can’t be. What I see, it makes no sense. He’s at the compound. He’s guarding the old men. I saw him. I know I did.
He grins and his mouth stretches into a too wide smile, and I realize it’s not his mouth. He has scars, lines that go from the corners of his mouth to his ears. They make him look like a clown. He didn’t have them that night. My mind would have cataloged it, wouldn’t it?
“Remember me?” he asks, his voice familiar, his breath hot and foul on my face.
I stare up at him, those blue eyes so pale they’re almost colorless except for the pin prick pupils.
I struggle and he chuckles.
“Good.”
Ambulances arrive at the Rolls Royce. Dex is passed out. I glimpse his big body slumped forward. God. Is he okay? And there is Isabelle. Isabelle looks dazed. She’s crying. Screaming?
The baby. Is the baby okay?
Oh God.
We’re out of the commotion, heading away from the flashing red lights.
“No!” I scream, animated, swinging my arms, my legs as the hulk with those terrifying eyes, his hair cut shorter, his face fuller, drops me into the trunk of a car. He glances in the direction of the commotion, then turns to me and smiles that clown-like smile again.
“Looks like we’ll get that chance to be together after all. And I owe you, you little bitch.”
He slams the trunk shut, trapping me. A moment later, I’m hurled against its edge as tires screech taking a hard turn away from the sounds of sirens and safety and an absolute, suffocating darkness swallows me.