Chapter 1 #2
Pete chuckles sardonically. “I doubt that. Now shut the fuck up.” He turns and pulls a chair out from where it’s tucked under the kitchen table. “You’re going to sit here and behave yourself. If you can do that, you might live.”
I buck and yell as he tries to lower me to the chair. I saw the duct tape. I will never be able to get away if he uses that to secure me.
Pete slams me into the chair and holds the gun to my forehead. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouts. “If you move one goddamn inch, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
I’m shaking violently as I grip the side of the chair. I do not want to die today. I also don’t understand what this asshole wants from me. I’ve been in more tight binds than the average human sees on primetime television if all they watch is crime shows, but no one has ever held a gun to my head.
Keeping the barrel of the weapon pressed firmly against my temple, he shifts toward the counter, grabs the duct tape, and holds it out to me. “Rip off a piece and put it over your mouth, you stupid bitch.”
He wants me to tape my own mouth?
Pete shakes the tape. “Now! Fucking take it.”
I jump in my seat as I reach for it.
“Six inches. Don’t fucking tear off some tiny sliver.”
I’m crying, but I need to stop my tears because if I cover my mouth with this fucking tape, I’m going to need to breathe through my nose. My hands are trembling so badly I can’t get hold of the end of the tape. I also don’t have any nails. I didn’t exactly go to the salon for a manicure this week.
“Hurry the fuck up! Jesus.” He shakes the gun, pushing it into my cheek.
I finally manage to grip the corner of the tape and pull on it.
“Six inches. If you make it too small, I’ll pull off two feet and wrap it all the way around your fucking head twice. You hear me, bitch?”
I nod, unable to control my sobs as I pull on the roll until I’m pretty sure it’s long enough for his taste.
“Tear it with your teeth.”
I bring it to my mouth and do as he instructs.
It takes me a few tries before I’m able to rip it.
“Please… What is it you want from me? Maybe if I call my dad, he can wire you some money.” I don’t have the foggiest notion if wiring money is even a thing.
Nor do I have a father. But I’ll say anything to keep this situation from escalating.
He bends closer to me, holding the gun against my temple again.
His eyes are wild, and his teeth are gritted as he speaks.
“Put. That. Fucking. Tape. Over. Your. Goddamn. Mouth. Right. The. Fuck. Now.” When he finishes, he lifts his free hand and slaps me so hard across the cheek that I’m dazed for a moment and almost fall over.
“Now!” he screams.
I lift the tape with shaky hands and slap it over my mouth. I’m crying uncontrollably. I’m going to die today. I’m scared out of my fucking mind. I don’t know why this man wants to kill me, but it’s clear he’s not playing with a full deck.
The moment the tape is in place, cutting off my ability to scream or argue my case, he moves toward the drawer again, reaches back without looking, and pulls out a long rope.
I consider jumping up and running for the door, but I would never make it. He’d shoot me before I made it two steps. I’m sobbing so hard now that I’m seriously concerned about my airway as he sets the gun down and yanks my arms behind my back behind the rungs of the chair. It all happens so fast.
This fucking asshole ties my wrists together and loops the rope around the chair rungs several times before coming around to the front so he can tie my ankles to the front legs of the chair.
When he’s done, he takes a deep breath and steps back as if the job is done. Once again, my blood runs cold. What if the job is done? What if his role was to find a woman, tie her to this chair, and leave her for someone else to…
I’m shivering. Snot is running down the tape and dripping off my chin. I sniffle and panic when that cuts off my airway, so instead I blow out. My snot spews in front of me.
Pete isn’t even paying attention. He’s on his fucking phone now. He taps the screen several times and then holds it up. What the fuck? Is he taking pictures of me?
I don’t get it. It’s not like he’s going to demand a ransom. From whom? He doesn’t have enough information to try to squeeze money out of someone. And if he did, he would know I have no one to squeeze money from.
He starts typing, and it’s obvious he sends that picture to someone. Fuck. Just fuck.
I tug on my arms, but he’s tied me so tightly there’s no way I would ever get free, even if he left me here alone. I’d die in this chair.
Pete grabs the gun from the counter and paces out of the kitchen and into the living room. “That bitch better fucking get her ass here if she knows what’s good for her,” he grumbles.
I try to make sense of his words. I don’t think I’m the bitch in that statement. Someone else is. Did he send my picture to lure someone else to the house? A woman? What the fuck? I don’t get it.
I look around, taking in my surroundings. It’s an ordinary house. Nothing special. He’s not rich by any stretch of the imagination. Who did you text, Pete…?
He paces back toward me. “You better hope my fucking wife is paying attention to her phone and gets her ass home in two hours. If not, you’re dead.”
I stare at him, not blinking. His wife?
My heart races. I’m at the mercy of another woman? He probably beat her and she left him, and now he’s using me to get her to come back. If I were her, I’d ignore his text and never return. Maybe she’ll call the police, though? There’s a chance. Or maybe she’ll never even see the text.
Calling the police would cause me more problems than it’s worth. I’d rather take my chances without their involvement.
I’m going to die. Today. In this fucking asshole’s kitchen.
Because I have bad fucking luck. I should have stayed where I was yesterday, waited another day before moving.
I try to put myself in his wife’s shoes. What if my fucking ex sent me a text showing me that he had a woman tied up in his kitchen and threatened to kill her if I didn’t come back?
I don’t have to wonder what his wife is thinking right now because I am that woman. This could happen to me. Would I trade my life for a stranger’s?
I do know I wouldn’t call the police. Ha. The man I’m hiding from is the police.