Chapter 31 #2
“You know very well what Logan has to say. He lives and breathes by Damien. Never seen such a loyal guy. Damien could order him to jump off the Empire State Building, and he would. And that’s not just a cliche. The guy literally would do it.”
Everest shakes his head. “It just seems insane, now that we know who she is—that he would just go along with Damien’s orders.”
What does he mean, who she is? Uhm, I’m Piper Day? They know that. What the fuck are they talking about?
“Well, Logan is insane, in a way. He would rather put a bullet in his own skull than ever betray Damien. In fact, I’ll bet you fifty bucks Logan Colt is the one who kills her.”
I’m swaying, trying to stay in a seated position, as both of them actually laugh and shake hands.
“You’ve got yourself a bet,” accepts Everest, still chortling. “Not that I don’t think Logan won’t be loyal. But he won’t kill her directly. He’ll bring her to Damien and have him do the dirty work.”
“Bullshit. He never lets Damien do any dirty work. When there’s dirty work to be done, you bet your ass it’s Logan doing it. Anyway, pay up.”
“Write it down as an IOU,” says Everest. “I never carry a wallet.”
“Wealthy bastard,” snorts Vincent as he throws out the napkin in the garbage inches from my head. “C’mon, let’s go, we have a meeting.”
“What’s so wealthy about not carrying a wallet?” protests Everest, following him out.
“Only rich people don’t have to carry money,” are the last words I hear before the kitchen door swings out behind them.
I face Josh, and I have a feeling his pasty-white face is a reflection of mine.
“Fuck, Piper,” he stammers.
“We’re really the stupidest fucking people in the world, aren’t we?” I shudder. “Here we are, thinking we’re Ned and Nancy, solving a case, but instead… instead we’ve walked straight into the lion’s den.”
Josh’s eyes suddenly go wide with fear, fixing themselves on some point over my head, but I don’t register his expression right away as I continue, “We have to get the fuck out of here, now.”
He just has time to silently mouth, “Too late,” before I feel a hand slam down over my lips, while a syringe pushes itself into my neck.
Then everything goes black.
__
I open one groggy eye then another. It takes me a full minute to understand what kind of place I’m in. Another to remember.
Around me is a large room entirely decorated in some weird white-beige-grey blend of colors. Or lack thereof.
A white desk with a single sleek grey computer on top. A grey floor. Grey curtains, parted just enough to reveal the pitch-black sky that tells me I must have been passed out for hours. White walls with canvases of beige on them, like that’s his idea of art.
Even the books stacked on a shelf are the same weird, unsettling shade of greige, or whatever it is they call this godawful clinical lifeless color. I squint my eyes, but I can’t make out the titles on the spines.
Typical me, about to meet my end and still irresistibly drawn to a stack of books.
Right. I’m about to meet my end.
The sudden realization has goosebumps creeping up my skin and I try to stand before realizing I’ve been tied solidly to a chair. My wrists in manacles that give Quill’s a run for his money.
He never did like the furry variety. He liked the real metallic ones, the kind that bite into your skin and make you remember every moment just how helpless you are.
I liked Quill’s handcuffs, but I do not like these.
Unless Quill’s the one who brought me here, I suddenly allow myself to hope, but the eager beating of my heart calms down just as quickly.
No. Quill would never live in this kind of place. His bedroom is bare and basic because he doesn’t give a shit. This room, meanwhile, is curated. Someone actually thought pure blandness looks good.
Fuck me. I can’t believe I’m spending so much time focused on interior decor, when I’m about to die.
That’s obviously what’s going to happen.
Quill, for all his cruelty, was after all trying to protect me by scaring me away from Devil Tower.
He was trying to protect me when he paid for that hotel suite, when he brought me to his home, when he tied me up, when he fucked me with his gun in that alleyway—I interrupt that train of thought abruptly because I do not want to be turned on when I meet my end.
Imagine what the police would say: ‘Quill Piper, 21 years old, died by a bullet to the brain. No other injuries or signs of assault, though her labia was mysteriously wet.’
It takes my usual ‘what if I suddenly die without having erased my internet history, and the whole world finds out I’ve been watching old One Direction interview clips on Youtube’ thoughts to a whole new level of embarrassment.
“Piper!” I actually hiss out loud to myself. “Get it together! You’re about to die, Quill isn’t here, and you’re fucking stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
My words are interrupted by a low chuckle, and I freeze.
I was so focused on judging the soulless millenial greige in this room that I hadn’t even realized I had a blind spot.
This whole time, someone’s been behind me.
I can’t prevent a whimper from escaping my lips when I hear the creak of leather indicating someone has just stood up from what I can safely assume is a beige, greige or white couch. Then I hear feet pad on the thick beige carpet before stopping in front of me.
I recognize the brown curly-haired guy who towers over me. His cruel smirk is giving psychopath Quill vibes, only he doesn’t have the rest of Quill’s darkness, in all its weird blend of viciousness and vulnerability.
No, the look on this man’s face is so much worse, because it tells me he actually does see me as an insect.
The kind he could squish unthinkingly under the heel of his boot, and only feel annoyed at having dirtied the sole.
This man is Logan Colt, and he’s looking at me like I’m the world’s most inconsequential bug.
“Stupid,” he agrees, and my face flames red at this new proof that he’s heard my little monologue. “Stupid, or as I like to call you… a big fucking problem.”