Chapter 9
Piper
Why am I so stupid?
I open one eye then the other, my head hurting far more than after I thought I’d been shot. I still have no clue why my body was in such pain then, but I definitely know why my head hurts now.
I got punched by some asshole, and now I’m in the back of a car.
Fuck.
Clearly I should have stuck with Quill. He may be a murderous psycho, but at least I know exactly what kind of a murderous psycho he is. Meanwhile, these pieces of shit…
My heartbeat picks up as I wonder what exactly they’ve got planned for me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I let them talk to me? Why did I listen? Why the hell didn’t I tell Quill about it?
He hurt me yesterday, but I know he wouldn’t actually, truly hurt me. Some stupid form of pride got in the way of my self-preservation instinct, I guess, and I let these two assholes convince me they could help me solve my parents’ murder.
I try to move but my hands are bound behind my back. So are my ankles, and I’ve got duct tape around my face, a rag stuffing my mouth and preventing me from talking.
Which is definitely the worst part of all this.
I wish I had asked Logan Colt more questions. I was terrified of him, but with Quill there, what could possibly happen to me?
Oh, right. Everything.
Still, it sucks being in danger and not even knowing why.
Maybe I am as bad of a detective as Logan told me I was.
I sigh, then realize that was a big mistake, because it alerts the two fuckfaces in front that I’m awake. The one not driving turns a leery grin at me.
“Well, well. Piper Day. We’ve finally got her.”
“Wonder what the boss wants with her.”
“No clue. But I do know we’re getting a big payday.”
I lean my throbbing head back on the seat, beyond frustrated that I can’t ask a single question.
“I mean, I know he wants to kill her,” comments one of the guys. “I just don’t know why.”
“You don’t need to know. Stop wondering.”
“But why are they subcontracting? They usually take care of their own shit.”
“Not always. Look at the Coles.”
“Exactly. When it’s important, they subcontract. So why the hell are they subcontracting out for this skinny girl? She’s not even that hot.”
The other guy glances back at me. “I don’t know. Without those glasses…”
He licks his lips, as if he’s imagining what I’d look like without my horn-rimmed round lenses, and I glare back at him, though I realize my glare doesn’t look half as dangerous as I wish it would, especially with the glasses that are currently askew on my face.
Thankfully, he turns his eyes back to the road, but the other guy now reaches back and removes them.
“Ew, cross-eyed freak,” he laughs.
I turn my not-so-dangerous glare to him, though I can barely make him out through the veil of fuzziness that now surrounds me.
I’m not that cross-eyed anymore. Still, I should probably be thankful that he’s finding me a little freaky. Maybe it means—
“I’ve fucked a lot worse,” he adds.
“I’ll say,” chuckles the other one. “I’ll always remember the sixty-year-old humpbacked chick you brought back once.”
“Not sure she could be qualified as a chick,” snorts the first dickhead. “More like a monster.”
He leans back, chewing loudly on his gum. “Wonder what they want with her.”
“Well, stop wondering, and get us sandwiches there. We never ate dinner, and it’s after two. I’m fucking starving.”
The guy driving pulls up and the other one jumps out. I eye the gas station thoughtfully, wondering if I could manage to get help. But between the locked doors, my gagged and bound state, and the fact that we’re on a deserted road, there doesn’t seem to be much hope of that.
Before I’ve even had time to foment the beginning of a plan, dickhead number one is back with two sandwiches. At the smell of the meat, my stomach growls hungrily, even though I’m also nauseous.
It makes the two assholes laugh, and I hate myself for being embarrassed in front of the two men who are probably… going to kill me? And, unless I can quickly convince them that I would be an even worse fuck than the sixty-year-old humpbacked woman, maybe do some other shit to me first?
I blink back stinging tears at the thought. I can’t go back to that dark place. I just can’t. I’m not sure I could survive a second rape.
Though I guess I wouldn’t, anyway.
I sniff loudly, desperately wishing Quill would find me. What the hell is wrong with me for wishing that? The last time I wished for his help, he aimed a gun at me. I know he didn’t kill me. Maybe he didn’t plan to, either. But he was pretty fucking convincing.
And yes, I guess I do believe that he didn’t order his friends to rape me. But he did shut me down when I broached the subject by telling me it wasn’t a good time for him.
And of course, I apologized.
Seriously, what kind of a cruel heartless boy am I aching for?
Meanwhile, the two men upfront are chewing on their sandwiches and talking amongst themselves. I guess Logan is right, and I’m a terrible detective, because if I were any better, I wouldn’t be lost in my thoughts and so zoned out.
I force myself to be present once more, even though I wish I could stay in the comfort of my own mind.
“Weird that they didn’t pay us to kill her. Don’t they want her dead?”
“Definitely,” says dickhead number two. “But maybe they’re planning to kill her themselves.”
“They’re not the type to get their hands dirty.”
“They sure have gotten soft since the mafia days,” laughs dickhead number one.
“Not soft, just careful. And you’d be too, if you were sitting at the head of an empire. But anyway, Mr. Wells told me he’s planning on being the one to plant the bullet in her brain.”
I sit up, my eyes wide. More confirmation that Damien Wells, the CEO of Devil, wants me dead. So these two guys are out doing his bidding.
But why the fuck does he want to kill me? What did I do?
“Really?” questions the other guy. “I thought I’d understood that Logan Colt was going to do it.”
By now, my whole body is tense, and I’m sweating.
Quill was bringing me to the address on the card Logan gave him. Was Logan actually planning to kill me, after all? Did Quill really not guess at his intentions? Or did he not care?
Or… was he in on it?
My mind is spiraling again, as I once more allow myself to sink into my suspicions.
For all my anger at Quill, he had at least convinced me that he hadn’t shot at me. That he wasn’t going to hurt me.
If I can’t count on him, then who the hell can I count on?
Myself.
But that feels laughable right now when I can’t even begin to wriggle out of my bonds.
I hang my head despondently, letting their conversation wash over me.
“I don’t think they’d decided on who was going to pull the trigger,” says dickhead number one, as calmly as if they’re discussing the weather. “But one thing’s for sure, they’re going to kill her.”
“Wonder what’s so important about her that they want to do it themselves.”
“Maybe they’re into glasses-wearing chicks with crazy hair and different-colored eyes.”
“She is kind of hot, after all, when you get used to the cross-eyed thing.”
“You know, if they’re going to sink their cocks into her before they kill her anyway, couldn’t we…?”
I squeeze my thighs together, my heart beating so fast that I wonder if I’m going to be sick.
I’m struggling at my bonds desperately, feeling warm drops of moistness at my wrists that tell me I’m bleeding. But I’d chop my own hands off if it meant getting away from them.
“We’ll see,” half-promises dickhead number one. “You know very well, Tony, that we do not want to fuck with Damien Wells.”
Dickhead number two—or Tony—shrugs. “I guess. But we also do not want to pass up a good fuck.”
“Would she really be such a good fuck? Look at that skinny thing. She doesn’t even have breasts.”
I don’t. I’m fucking flat-chested. I would be the worst fuck ever, especially since I’d bite your fucking dick off if you got anywhere close to me.
I’m aware the only person I’m trying to convince is myself, though, since I’ve already discovered my fight-or-flight reaction is to freeze.
As in, not even one of the proper reactions.
Right now, I’m terrified, and even if I could get out of these bonds, I’d probably just sit there like some fucking idiot, awaiting my fate.
Which doesn’t sound like it’s going to be a very good one, judging from the conversation I have no choice but to overhear.
Just as I’m allowing myself to sink into the seventh pit of despair, I feel something hard and metallic behind me.
I grope at it tentatively, and realize that it’s… a seatbelt.
Oh, my god. I’m in a car. What kind of an idiot am I? Of course there are seatbelts.
Seatbelts with hard-edged buckles that maybe could, if I angled myself just right, cut into the tape sealing my wrists together.
At the very least, I stand a better chance with the metallic buckle than by just struggling hopelessly.
I edge myself carefully to the seatbelt buckle, and now that I have an actual plan, it becomes easier to listen to Tony blathering on about what exactly he’s going to do to me.
Which is a lot, apparently.
“Okay, hear me out,” he says. “You just know they’re going to tell us to take her down to the cell. That’s where we take all the guys they have us bring back for them.”
“The three guys,” corrects dickhead number one.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Phil. We usually kill them on the spot. But we did bring three guys in, and three is enough to know that they always have us take them to the cell.”
“They were men, though,” objects the guy that I can no longer as easily call dickhead, now that I know his name is Phil. “Who knows, with this chick? Maybe they’re going to fuck her right then and there.”
“Maybe,” says Tony dejectedly, as I furiously push the tape against the buckle. “But maybe,” he adds, looking at Phil brightly, “they’ll have us take her to the cell. And you know what the cell doesn’t have?”
“What?” grunts Phil.