9. June
June
Cora and I close out the bar, along with a crap ton of other people, including her random dude.
We all funnel out onto the sidewalk to say our goodbyes. Dozens of bodies go in each direction, leaving a few stragglers behind.
“You sure you’re okay?” Cora hugs me tightly and almost falls over when she lets go.
“I could ask you the same.” I narrow my gaze at the guy waiting patiently for her. “You hurt a hair on her head, and I’ll find you Liam Neeson style and end you.”
The seemingly plain but attractive guy holds his hands up. “Drunk doesn’t mean consent.”
Maybe he’s not so bad. But it could be a front to convince me otherwise. Or maybe I’m being paranoid, and a little overprotective of my friend.
Their ride pulls up in front of the bar and he points to it. “This is us.”
Cora steadies herself to face me. “You have one coming?”
“I’ll order one when I get outside the Haven.
Rates are cheaper.” I point to a few buildings down where the Haven ends, knowing damn well that I’m walking home from here.
I spent more than I should have on booze and if I stand any chance of balancing the budget, I’m going to have to opt out of transportation tonight.
It’s not too far, but in my somewhat drunken state, it should make for an interesting stroll home. I have half a mind to crash on that park bench again, just for the sake of not having to deal with my idiot roommates when I show up at three something in the morning.
But, as much as I hate them, I love my bed more, and boy does she sound hella good right now. If only teleportation was a thing.
Cora presses a sloppy kiss against my cheek. “Love you, bitch.”
“You, too, skank.” I grab her shoulders and steer her toward her new man. “Take care of her.”
“Of course.” He gently helps her into the back seat, shutting the door behind her and going around to the other side. “Have a good night.”
The silver car takes off and when I glance around, I’m the last one standing here. The rest of the throng fluttered out their respective directions.
I take a deep breath, grateful to finally be alone after that rather hectic evening. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, quite a bit actually, but now I’m drained, mentally and physically, and not having anyone around to drain any more of my energy is a welcomed blessing.
I go past the bar we were in, casually making my way out of the Haven, each step guiding me further, toward my apartment.
It's strange to be simultaneously in a hurry but want to take my time, too.
I could use this window in between human interaction to attempt to regulate my next encounter.
Going from an enjoyable evening to that hell hole I call home is a massive mindfuck.
A car approaches from my rear, and I shift to look at it.
It slows, turns down an alley, and disappears from my line of sight.
I focus back on my path, crossing the empty street and stepping into a lesser lit area.
The Haven is bright and inviting, making everything around it seem much drearier and unappealing.
It’s clever, really. Like a moth to a flame kind of thing they have going on. Drawing people in with the lively vibe it puts off. Although now, with not another soul in sight, it’s a bit eerie.
I pick a leaf off a tree I pass, flipping the foliage between my fingers and breaking off little pieces of it.
Raising my arm up, I take a whiff of my armpit.
I could definitely use a shower but considering how late it is, that's going to have to wait until I can get a few hours of sleep.
It's laundry day tomorrow anyway. Or well, today, if we're being technical.
It’s the one day a week I only have one job to work instead of three, leaving me a small window of time to get my errands done. It’s a financial hit I hate taking, but if I didn’t, there would be next to no way for me to get anything done. And truthfully, I need the break. As little as it is.
Another car passes, snapping me out of my distracted mindset. I watch it drive a few blocks and put its turn signal on before I stop concentrating on it.
A sound to my right catches my attention but I react too slowly. My vision goes dark from something that's put over my head.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
I throw my arms, elbowing anything I possibly can in an attempt to get away from my captor. “Get the fuck off me,” I blurt out, but it’s no use.
The person latches onto me, pushing the fabric against my nose and mouth, forcing me to panic and breathe in whatever is lining the thing covering my face. I power through despite the effects taking hold; my world growing even fuzzier than it already was.
My knees buckle out from under me, dropping me to the ground. Pebbles impale my skin, and my palms scrape against the pavement. That’s going to leave a mark. But it’s the least of my worries given the circumstances.
I fight the uncontrollable drug overriding my ability to function properly. I grip the ground, willing myself to get up on all fours and crawl away. Anything to escape.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be.” The person finally speaks, reaching down and pushing the bag into my face again.
I hold my breath, but it doesn’t matter, there is no dodging the drug-laced fabric.
My head spins and with one final thud to the ground, everything fades to black.
I wake to the sound of screaming.
Only instead of settling my sights on who’s making all the noise, I realize it’s me that’s causing all the commotion.
A man standing in front of me, a cigarette butt pressed between his fingers. He flicks it to the ground. “Nice of you to join us.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
My forearm burns painfully. A round welted mark at my wrist where he had pressed the hot thing to my skin. Both of my arms are tied to the wooden chair I'm sitting in. My legs are unrestrained. Only one other person is here with me in this poorly lit room.
A guy in his mid-thirties. Thick, but not overweight.
Brown shaggy hair matching his scruffy beard.
Definitely taller than me, but from the angle I'm in, I'm not sure exactly how much more.
Scars litter his face, predominantly across his brow and cheek.
A faded, blown-out tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve.
“What do you want?” I ask him. I do what I can to trick my mind into forgetting the searing sting from his assault.
“I thought we could have a little fun.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a switchblade, flicking the thing into the open position.
Pressing it into his index finger, he spins it gently, a bit of blood coming to the surface despite the lack of pressure.
“Are you a fan of Halloween?” He raises a brow at me.
I don’t respond, because I know exactly where he’s going with this train of thought. No, my mind is elsewhere, looking for any potential way out of this torture chamber.
“I am.” He kicks off the wall and takes a step forward. “You know my favorite part?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Carving pumpkins.” He flits his attention to the blade. “There’s something about jamming a blade deep into the meaty flesh…over and over…until you create something magical.”
I check my peripheral, noticing the bare wall behind me. The lone doorway is the one in front of me, and behind the man. One that appears to be a hallway from what I can make out.
"People are no different, you see." He continues, hovering in front of me with the blade inching nearer. "A fresh canvas at my disposal, only to wither away when I'm done with them. Just like a pumpkin would." He puts the thing against my cheekbone, pressing it until the sharpness pierces my skin.
I tilt my head as far as I can to get out of the line of danger, but being restrained, there’s only so far I can go. I am at his mercy, and he knows it.
He drags the edge against my skin, an evil grin forming on his face with every bit of torment he causes me.
Warm liquid rolls down my neck and puddles at my collarbone.
“Why me?” I fumble with the rope around my arms, the tautness stopping me from breaking free.
Obviously. Like it would be that easy.
I beg the universe for something, anything to help me out of this fucking nightmare.
“Oh.” He wipes the bloody blade on his dark pants, inspecting it when he’s done. “That wasn’t my doing. I’m only the worker bee, following orders from up the chain.”
This wasn’t a random attack? What chain is he referring to? I might be a bitch, but I don’t have enemies.
Unless.
What if it was the guy Dominic had beaten up in the bar?
I never did confirm whether he was alive or simply unconscious.
What if he had the power to do this in an act of twisted revenge for what happened to him?
Or it could be countless other guys I've turned down and somehow pissed off enough to kidnap and torture me. Carter is the person I argue with the most, but I can’t fathom he would ever do something like this.
Nor would he ever have the power to pull it off.
He might be into illegal shit, but he doesn’t have this kind of authority.
And what would he gain? He’s the one who stole from me—if anyone should be punishing anyone, it would be me doing it to him, not the other way around.
“Then who?” I ask him although I doubt he’ll tell me. My chair squeaks under me when I shift my weight.
Whoever is pulling the strings, I don’t care to stick around and find out, because if I spend much more time alone with this psychopath, I won’t live to tell the tale. That much I know for sure.
I reposition my footing and pause, settling my gaze on this man and waiting for my chance to move. I very well could die here in this dreary room, but I won’t go down without a fight.
“You picked the wrong side, little girl.” He pulls another cigarette out of his pack and puts it between his lips. He pats his pocket for a lighter but it’s not there.