Chapter 34
thirty-four
HARLOW
“Stop,” I mumble, trying to swat away whoever is tickling my face. My hand connects with something with too many legs. Screaming, I jump up, arms flailing. I try to run, but slam face first into a metal wall.
“What the hell?”
It’s pitch black as I wipe my face and fling whatever was crawling on it. Once I check the rest of my body with my hands to assure nothing else is touching me, I put my hands out to feel around the room. My head and face are pounding, but I can’t sit still in the dark.
“Cal?” I say, softly. No response.
“Where am I?” Still nothing.
Everything comes rushing back to me. The strange man trying to get me into his car and then . . . nothing. I inhaled chloroform or something similar. Fuck.
I keep my hand on the wall and walk around, figuring out the size of the room I’m in. I almost fall into an opening. Walking forward, I keep my hands out, but my toe immediately hits something. Feeling around with my hands, I realize what it is.
“Stairs!” I hurry up them on my hands and feet, hoping I don’t fall back down them.
“Seven,” I say to myself, counting the number of stairs. They’re very narrow and there’s a scratchy material covering them. “Ouch!” I yell as I hit my head on something before I can take the last step. Raising my hands over my head, I feel around.
Shit.
“Is that a door?” I keep feeling around gently until I find a curved metal handle. I try to turn it in both directions, pull it towards me, push it away. Nothing. It won’t budge.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
Kidnapping 101: Don’t let them take you to a second location.
Well, too fucking late for that.
Putting my hands on the walls, I slowly make my way back down the stairs. My hand hits something halfway down. It feels like a switch. I flip it on and am momentarily blinded by the light.
Blinking slowly, my eyes eventually adjust. I look around, taking in where I am.
“Storm shelter,” I guess. I’ve never seen one in person, but the space is small with a bench along the walls and nothing else. White walls, white bench, white stairs with black grips.
Looking down at myself, I don’t see anything alarming. My jean shorts are on and still clean. My yellow tank is wrinkled, but that’s probably from the ball I was in on the floor. I’m barefoot. My flip-flops didn’t make the trip.
I’m trying to look at the situation like I wasn’t the one in it. What would I be telling myself to do if I was just watching? I walk around the small room. Then I walk around again. And again. And again. It’s so small I wouldn’t be able to lay down fully.
Sitting on the bench, I prop my elbows on my thighs and rest my face in my hands. I can’t cry because if I cry, I won’t be able to figure out how to get myself out of this situation.
“Think, Harlow,” I tell myself. “What do I know?”
There’s no way for me to get out of here until someone lets me out.
Someone put me here, but they didn’t hurt me.
I was targeted. They knew my name.
They knew where to find me.
“But who?” I ask out loud to the bugs.
“Senator Wolfe? Unlikely. It’s Mav he wants, not me.”
I think about that for a moment.
“I supposed it could be him, but all the way out here seems like a stretch.”
I guess it could be whoever sent that email.
“But who else would be angry about us doing an episode on Ezra?”
I don’t want to say it out loud and make it true, but it would make more sense for my dad to be targeted over me. He’s doing a lot more digging than I am, and he’s close to getting dirt on the senator.
“Unless I am the target because of him,” I mutter.
I shake my head.
“It has to be related to the email. They’ve been following us the whole tour. It makes sense I would have been followed to a nail salon.”
I thought it was public enough, but apparently not. I get up with renewed determination and climb the stairs. Banging on the door with as much strength as I can at the weird angle, I scream.
“Let me out, you coward! You made me miss my daughter’s birthday! At least fight me face to face!”
My dad taught me how to take down a grown man. Have I practiced what he taught me? No. Not in years, but I’m kind of hoping it’s muscle memory. I will not rot down here, or worse.
“What’s wrong? Is my dick bigger than yours? Or are you terrified of vaginas?”
Shit. What if the ringleader is a woman and I’m just assuming the two guys that took me are in charge?
“This chick just said she has a dick,” I hear right outside the door.
“And it’s bigger than yours!” I yell as loudly as I can.
The handle squeaks and stops.
“Don’t open it! The boss wants to talk to her before we take care of her,” Man One says.
“She needs to learn to shut the fuck up. I’m sure the boss won’t mind if I rough her up a little,” Man Two counters, but from the sound of smacking flesh, I don’t think Man One agreed.
I take a deep breath and count. One. Two. Three. Then I grab the handle, which thankfully turns, and push the door open. The two men are punching each other but stop when they see me jump out of the storm shelter.
I don’t stop. I don’t look around. I just run.
“Hey! Get back here, you bitch!” one of them yells. I don’t turn to look. I just run into the cornfield in front of me and hope I can lose them in it.
Keeping my head down, I move my legs as fast as I can, taking turns at random. The sun is starting to set, and I know my red hair is like a glowing beacon. It’s not long before I’m panting and cursing the amount of corn. Where the fuck is the end to this?
The shouts from the men get quieter, so I take a moment to slow down. I don’t stop, but I do slow to a walk. All my darting has them going in the wrong direction.
Or they’re going in the direction help would be, and I went the wrong way.
Hot, fat tears stream down my cheeks before I can stop them. I wipe at them furiously.
No. I’m not going to lose it. Not now. My feet are sore and covered in mud. I can’t even see the purple sparkles on my toes anymore.
Wait. Mud!
The men’s voices are coming closer, and I know they’ll spot my hair, and if they don’t, my yellow shirt isn’t exactly conspicuous. I whip it over my head and coat it in mud, shivering as I put the cold, muddy fabric on my body.
I wince as I do the same to my hair and skin, doing my best to hide any color that won’t blend into a field of corn. Then I stay in my crouch and wait, listening to the idiots continue to bicker, easily keeping me aware of where they are.
They pass by a few minutes later. I stay still, watching their feet through the stalks. They’re now considering running from whoever their boss is, but they don’t think they’d make it. Interesting.
This is so stupid, I think. So fucking stupid. Not giving myself time to talk myself out of it, I follow them.