Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VALERIE
I THINK I'M going to throw up.
I don't feel bad about it either, because no one deserves for the interior of their expensive car to be covered in the remnants of my lunch more than the man smirking at me from his spot in the front passenger’s seat.
"What are you doing here, Warren?" I'm a little proud of the venom in my tone. I'm not sure how long it will last, but I'm hoping I can dig deep and find enough anger to carry me through this. Because if I suddenly revert back to the woman I used to be, I'm going to be abducted and humiliated.
Warren clicks his tongue, but the smile on his face holds. "Is that any way to greet the man you were once supposed to marry?"
Is he serious? It really seems like he's serious. "Considering it was basically an arranged marriage and you were planning to have a whole ass woman on the side, yeah. I think my greeting is more than appropriate." Again, I'm a little proud of how I'm handling this. I haven't been in Sweet Side for what most people would consider a long time, so I wouldn't have expected my newfound inner strength to be quite as shored-up as it seems to be. But I'm gonna take it, because Warren deserves every bit of nastiness I can give him.
But, while I am thrilled at this new backbone I've acquired, Warren doesn't seem to be as fond of it. His sandy eyebrows pinch together and the already hard line of his mouth flattens into a frown. "I would watch what I say, Valerie."
Two months ago that sort of a reaction would have me withdrawing. Shrinking back and doing whatever possible to smooth things over. But being small and quiet and good is what landed me almost betrothed to the awful man scowling my way. Being ballsy and brave got me to Fynn once. Hopefully it can do it again.
"Now, we both know that's not true. You would never watch what you say." Every retort I make gets easier to spit at him. Louder. Sharper.
Hopefully the next cuts him, because I'm not dumb enough to think he's here because he missed me. It's more likely he decided my father shouldn't be the only one to benefit from my current husband’s hefty bank account, and he wants his cut.
Warren runs his tongue across the front of his perfectly straight, overly whitened teeth, eyes narrowing on me. "Don't ever act like I haven't earned the right to be what I am." His nostrils flare. "And don't for a single second believe that because you found some dumbass who has more money than sense to marry you, that you will ever be remotely on my level." The harsh lines of his tragically attractive face twist into something that has my stomach rolling. "That's why I knew I'd need another woman. Having only that boring cunt of yours to fuck every night would have driven me over the edge."
I would argue the edge he’s referencing is far, far behind him at this point, but Warren’s jab has hit me in a somewhat touchy spot.
Is it possible to have a boring vagina? If so, am I in possession of one?
It's a ridiculous thing to get distracted by at this moment, but I think my brain is finally starting to catch up with the gravity of my current situation and wants to latch onto anything besides what’s actually going on. That Warren abducted me right off the sidewalk in relatively broad daylight. Like he wasn’t even worried someone might have seen him do it, which means he's either completely stupid, or completely unhinged.
Stupid, I can work with. Unhinged might be a different story.
"What do you want, Warren?" I decide to get this show on the road. Figure out what his goal is, so I can come up with a plan to thwart it and go find my husband. It's a tall order, I recognize that.
But I'm wearing heels, so I should be fine.
Warren studies me a few long seconds, before straightening, sitting taller in his seat. "This isn't just about what I want, Valerie." He says, then turns away to face the windshield. Like he thinks this conversation is over.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I’m aggravated. A little scared, yes, but generally pissed. I was just about to fix everything . To apologize to Fynn and tell him I understand now exactly what I did. How he felt when I held back from him.
I was also going to insist on paying him back the money he shelled out to my father, but that's irrelevant to the situation.
Warren flicks a hand my direction but continues facing forward. "Shut her up. I'm tired of hearing her fucking voice. It's like Goddamn nails on a chalkboard."
The burly guy who grabbed me off the street doesn't have to be told twice. Before I can even start to squirm away, he's ripping a length of duct tape free and smashing it against my face, the sticky adhesive plastering more than a few strands of my hair to my skin.
That’s going to be a fucking bitch to get off.
It also greatly limits my options when it comes to figuring out how to remove myself from the situation. Screaming is no longer on the board. Neither is biting. It wasn't high on my list to put any part of my mouth on any part of the guys in this car, but I would have done it.
Now I'm forced to silently sit in the backseat as we continue farther from Sweet Side and farther from Fynn.
He's going to be so pissed. Definitely at Warren. A little bit at me.
But mostly with himself.
And that makes me even more determined to figure out a solution to this little problem. I'm smart. I've solved all sorts of issues lately. Surely this one can't be that difficult.
Unfortunately, my thinking time is much more limited than I expected, and before I’ve come up with even a single possibility, we’re turning off the road and toward the water. I'm not familiar with this area, so I don't know that I could even give Fynn coherent directions on how to find me now, and I'm kicking myself for not getting to know the area more.
We make a handful more turns, and soon we’re pulling into the parking lot of what appears to be a dock. But it's not a pretty dock filled with expensive yachts and tour boats. This place looks shady as shit. The kind of place smugglers come to drop off their cargo.
Or the kind of place the Mafia goes to permanently get rid of their problems. And I might classify as a problem.
Luckily, I’m a problem with a very rich husband, so hopefully Warren's plan is to keep me around. At least for long enough that I can come up with a way to get the fuck out of here.
The car jolts to a stop at the end of a weathered wood walkway, and the big guy next to me climbs out, dragging me behind him. He's twice my size, so his steps are long and it's hard to keep up with him in my heels, but I manage. His meaty hand grips both my wrists, and I don't doubt for a second he would just continue dragging me if I fell behind, and I'm partial to this dress, so I don't want it ruined.
Warren walks in front of us, continuing to act as if I don't exist as he makes his way along the rickety path that rises and falls with the waves, passing ramshackle looking barges and rusted container ships. The things are gigantic, and I can only imagine what they're bringing in.
Much to my dismay, I might find out, because about halfway down the dock, Warren turns toward one of them, and Meaty Mitts drags me along the same direction. There's a narrow, grated metal ramp leading from the constantly moving dock to the deck of the worst looking boat I've seen so far. I'm not sure what color it used to be, but the worn hull is a patchwork of dull bare metal and corrosion. The thing looks about two weeks away from sinking, but Warren doesn't seem worried as he strides along the ramp and onto the watercraft.
As much as I don't want to, I'm forced to follow him. I know getting into a vehicle of any sort is a terrible idea, and I've already been forced into one. Voluntarily getting on a second is a huge no-no, but if I resist they will likely restrain me and force me there anyway, and then I won't be able to swim in addition to not being able to scream or bite.
And if this boat leaves the dock, my only escape will be to swim for it.
My heels are loud as I move over the corrugated metal that makes up the deck, each step echoing not only up my legs but into my ears. Almost like a death toll .
Not for me. I have too much to live for.
But I'm starting to worry not everyone is going to make it out of the situation alive.
A door opens up to the large, central portion of the ship, and another gigantic, sour expressioned man tips his head at Warren as he passes inside.
Again, I follow behind him willingly—if you can call it that—blinking hard as my eyes attempt to adjust to the dim interior of the windowless space. The sun is starting to set, but it’s still significantly brighter outside than it is in here.
It also smells way better. I don't know what the foul odor permeating this place is, but I could go my entire life without having to smell it again.
Warren motions to a dented metal folding chair sitting a few yards into the vast, shadowy space. "Put her there."
Meaty Mitts all but shoves me down, pushing so hard that the chair tips up onto two legs when my weight hits it, and I suck in a sharp breath through my nose, a little worried I'm about to hit the floor. The slimy, smelly floor that I’m pretty sure is the source of the foul odor.
In my first stroke of good luck, the chair miraculously tilts back down on all four legs, and I let out a little sigh of relief.
My eyes are still struggling to adjust to the darkness when Warren clicks on a bare bulb rigged up to an extension cord draped over the exposed metal framework of the ceiling, adding sixty watts to the evening sun filtering through the doorway where we entered this disgusting space. He begins to pace, each step making a sloppy, squishing noise, checking his watch every two seconds like he's expecting something.
Maybe a phone call? Does Fynn already know I've been taken? If he does, this might all be over soon. I thought I hated the idea of Fynn allowing me to be used by the people in my past, but it's really growing on me now. I'm fine with being a pawn at this point. Hell, I would love to be a freaking pawn.
Whatever gets me the hell out of here.
As the minutes tick past, Warren seems to get more and more antsy. By the time I hear steps banging against the metal decking outside, he looks ready to explode.
I turn to the propped open door, pretty sure I know who I'm about to see next when a large shadow hovers in the opening. The man who let us in passes through first, followed by someone who is not the person I was expecting.
Jessica stops just inside the room and gives me a wide smile. "Well what do we have here?"
She is impeccably done. Her hair is smooth and sleek. Her long nails are painted and glossy. The pale pink dress she's wearing is perfectly fitted to her fit frame. Even her makeup is flawless.
With one, glaring exception. Her nose.
It's impossible to tell how much damage I did, because the thing is taped up within an inch of its life. The hint of shadow under her eyes narrows down the timeline of her most recent nose job .
One I'm directly responsible for.
Jessica walks to where I sit, standing close enough I could easily send her back to the plastic surgeon, and I consider it.
But again, not a fan of drowning.
She glares at me a second, before turning toward Warren. "Did you tape her mouth shut because she was crying like a little bitch?"
Warren looks a little more relaxed now that Jessica's here, making me assume she was the one he was waiting for. "I didn't want to listen to her talk." He crosses both arms over his chest. "And you’re fucking late."
Jessica spins away from me, her head snapping Warren's direction. "I'm sorry." It’s not an apology. She advances on him, steps slow and methodical. "I'm not sure what gave you the impression I'm someone you can talk to like that." She stops right in front of him, nearly going nose to nose with the man my father wanted me to marry. "I'll let it slide this once since you didn't know, but if you ever speak to me that way again,” she shoved a finger my direction, “this little bitch won't be the only thing going into the ocean."
Well. Shit. Super glad I didn't swing on her now, since it sounds like their plans for me involve less extortion and more extinction.
It takes everything I have not to react to this new development. To not let panic overtake me. Freaking out is the absolute worst thing I can do. I need to keep it together. To keep my head on straight so I can think. I know I'm smarter than Warren, and I'm way more lucid than Jessica, so I have to believe I'm capable of outwitting them.
Warren snorts, amused by Jessica's threat. "You obviously don't know who you're dealing with, little girl." He inches closer, staring her down. "I'm allowing you to be here out of the goodness of my heart, but don't think I won't happily tie off your loose end."
Jessica's head tips back like he slapped her, her mouth dropping open. "The goodness of your heart?" She squares up to Warren. "You wouldn't even know where she was if it wasn't for me, asshole. If I hadn't sued her for fucking up my nose, you'd still be running around Minnesota with your dick in your hand, crying because she left you at the altar."
They continue arguing, each trying to one-up the other, distracted and paying zero attention to me.
I let my eyes drift around the cavernous space, looking for my best route out of it. There are a slew of doors, but I have no idea if any of them lead outside. The only one I know will get me out into the open is the one I came through, and while the man who I assume was put in charge of guarding that escape is no longer right next to it, he’s still close enough to stop me if I make a break for it.
As long as he sees it happen.
Jessica and Warren are getting louder and louder with each passing second, their heated exchange drawing more and more of the two other men’s focus to them, leaving me practically forgotten. When the big man who stuffed me into the car starts to move closer to Warren and Jessica, I decide to start making my move.
Whatever’s coating the floor reeks to high heaven, but it’s slippery as hell. Since standing up and trying to run would bring attention my way, I use the narrow heels of my pumps for leverage as I begin to slowly push my chair across the disgustingly slick muck. Holding my breath—partly out of fear and partly due to the stink—I continue easing my way closer, hoping they keep their argument going long enough I can slip away unseen.
As luck would have it, neither Jessica or Warren is accustomed to not getting their way, so things continue to get more and more terse, drawing Meaty Mitts and the door guard closer and closer, likely in case they have to intervene. By the time I’m ready to run, they’re all yelling, the chaos serving as the perfect cover.
I slide out of the chair, staying low so no one notices the sudden change in my location. Holding the skirt of my dress so it doesn’t flap around, I dash toward the door Jessica left open when she arrived.
“Hey!” Warren’s voice is sharp and loud and makes my feet move faster. “Someone fucking grab her.”
No, no, no, no. I’m not being grabbed again. Won’t happen.
I move my little legs faster, the soles of my shoes slipping and skidding in the greasy grossness. My heart is in my throat as the doorway gets closer and closer, each beat it makes bringing me closer to escape.
But as I reach the threshold, someone steps in my way, causing me to flail around as I try to stop and keep my balance. I’m forced to decide whether to shove them down and keep going, or turn the other direction.
The decision is taken out of my hands when a surprisingly strong hand snaps out to grip my arm, keeping me on my forward trajectory as they step past me to put themselves between me and the group plotting my demise. My body bounces to a stop against the door frame just in time to witness a scene that might be hilarious under different circumstances.
My beach day friend Sylvia surveys the scene in front of her, grey brows stitched together above her glasses. “I was expecting more people than this.” She frowns at Warren. “And you look way too young to qualify for this thing.”
Warren has stopped his chase in the face of this newly arrived witness, but his expression gives away his murderous intentions. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The Social Security Swingers meet-up.” She makes the claim without batting an eye. “This is the address that was on the invitation.” Sylvia pats the front pockets of her linen capris. “I know I brought it with me.” She reaches behind her back, continuing to search around. Her hand stops, but instead of an invitation, she pulls a pistol from her waistband, swings it toward Warren, and pulls the trigger, sending a bullet straight into his thigh.
He doesn’t react for a second, like he can’t believe what just happened.
Honestly, I can’t either .
But then he starts to howl, grabbing at the thigh now leaking blood at an alarming pace. “You fucking shot me.”
“That was an accident.” Sylvia’s lower lips pushes out in a pout. “I didn’t mean to shoot you in the leg.” She raises her gun again. “I meant to shoot you in the dick.” Her shoulders lift in a little shrug as her finger twitches on the trigger. “Probably should’ve picked a bigger target I guess.”