27. Poppy
27
POPPY
Who in their right mind thinks that an abandoned hunting camp is a good idea for a hideout? Literally every single hunter that I know in Maine has hunting cameras that are kept on their property. Not only that, but we are only a few months from the opening of hunting season. That means that hunters are busy stocking their camps, making repairs, and getting everything ready for a productive season.
Ortega really is an idiot.
But I have bigger problems than him.
Mainly the fact that we’ve barely made it two steps toward the camp when my water breaks, making it look like I pissed myself.
Admittedly, if I hadn’t just gone through it with Parker a few weeks before, I would have thought I had peed my pants.
“Did you just pee?” Ortega stares at me like I’m the disgusting one. “Can’t you fuckin’ hold it, you fat cow?”
“Look, asshole,” I snap, losing control of my anger. “I’m not fat. I’m pregnant. Also, no, I can’t hold it. Because I’m pregnant and not fat. You also drove me four hours into the northern woods and what? Expect me not to have to go to the bathroom at all? I’ve got a basketball attached to the front of my body, pressing on all of my internal organs. You’re just lucky I didn’t pee myself in your stupid car.”
While I do my best to ignore the taunts he throws my way, I’m busy counting the actual seconds to make sure that the baby isn’t coming anytime soon. Unlike Parker, I haven’t had two other kids. I’m really hoping that I won’t have to run into the woods and try to have a baby without the crazy man coming after me.
But I go a full five minutes without a contraction, and I finally take a deep breath. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to get out of it before the baby comes.
I count three cameras on our way into the camp, which means it isn’t quite as abandoned as Ortega hopes.
“What are you going to do with me?” I finally find the courage to ask. “It’s not like you have to keep it a huge secret. Part of the fun in torture is knowing that you’re actually causing pain to your target. But I’m not your target, am I, Ortega?”
He stands in front of the camp, and I stall. Yes, it is stupid, because he is the man holding the gun. But I also know that if he gets me into the derelict building, I may not be coming back out again.
“You’re a means to an end,” he says, sniffing the air, then running a dirty hand through his filthy hair. “Your man, if that’s what you want to call him, fucked with me and I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I glance around, trying not to make it obvious that I’m looking for an escape, and cringe.
“You killed his sister.” I tried not to say it.
Okay, that is a lie. I relish the fact that I make him angry, but I regret it immediately.
“That slut was a cocktease. Always flirting but never putting out. She was too over the moon for that dumb ginger. You know the one. Your brother, whatever his name was. But I asked her out and she finally said she’d go. I kissed her, you know. And she liked it. Didn’t try to run away. ”
Wow. He really is deluded if he thinks the measure of someone enjoying it is that they don’t run away.
“She didn’t start to fight until I got her legs open. What sort of slut does that?” He waves the gun in the air dramatically, and I nod along, hoping to feed into his delusion.
My tongue hurts from biting it so hard, because he is wrong on so many levels. I keep it in check, though, when the first contraction rolls in a full twenty minutes after my water breaks.
I’ve got time.
Breathing through it, I’m not even surprised when Ortega doesn’t notice my discomfort.
“I just gave her the heroin, hoping it would calm her down, keep her chill, you know?” He stares at me with wide eyes, like I’ll actually understand.
I shake my head. “No.” I tell him the truth. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to have sex with someone who’s not into it. Who’s knocked out from drugs.”
“I gave her a small dose.” He goes on like I haven’t interrupted, pacing around the front of the camp like he isn’t on the run after kidnapping me. “She shouldn’t have even felt it. But she put up a good game. A party girl who didn’t know how to party.”
“Is that when you took her home?” I keep my voice low, neutral, almost friendly even.
It isn’t my finest moment, I know that. But the baby is going to be coming soon. And I need to get away from the crazy man. If I go into labor, he’ll kill me just to kill me. I’m not stupid enough to think he’ll help me.
“Yeah.” Ortega nods, looking at me with shining eyes. Like I’ve just given him the whole world.
How high is he, and what the hell is he even on? I’m not a very good actor, and it is even worse when I’m in pain or afraid.
We stand in silence, until my body starts to ache, and the pain in my lower back returns with a vengeance. But he doesn’t force me inside. He doesn’t shoot me. He doesn’t scream. So I’m not moving. I’m not going to push it.
Minutes pass, and I try to breathe through the labor that is starting to take its toll. Either that, or the pain from being hit with a gun repeatedly is finally breaking through the shock of the attack. Either way, I’m not questioning why Ortega isn’t forcing things .
My options are limited.
So I lie my ass off, and I hope beyond hope that he won’t understand exactly what is happening with me. Because that is my only chance to get away from him.
To save myself.
“Logan snuck into my house and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I tell him. “That’s why I left him.” I run a hand down my tightening stomach, grimacing when I realize that this contraction is more intense than the first one.
My knees are shaking by the time it is over.
“He forced you?” Ortega steps closer, and I hold up a trembling hand, needing him to stay away from me.
But Ortega misunderstands what is happening. Either that or he just doesn’t care, which seems more likely. He puts the gun sloppily into the waistband of his jeans and leans back against a porch post.
“Did you like being forced? I bet you did. I mean, he saddled you with a brat. And you went back to his house.” The venom returns to his voice, and for a second I think maybe I’ve underestimated his need to be accepted.
The look in his eyes is the same, which gives him away. He wants to poke me with a stick. To see if I’ll defend Logan. To see if I’ll own up to it.
I’m sorry, Lo. I made a promise. Whatever I have to do.
“Why do you think I had two of the men from my father’s club with me to get my stuff?” I plant the seed of doubt into his mind. “I got away from him.”
Ortega leaves the post and the porch completely, stepping forward until he is almost nose to nose with me.
“Liar.”
His breath is just as rank as the rest of him, and I have to fight the bile that threatens to come out again.
It doesn’t help that he hasn’t even bothered to clean off my puke from earlier and we’ve been trapped together in the same car for as long as we have.
His beady eyes, the pupils taking over the entire irises because of how high he is, devour every detail of my face, trying to find proof that I am lying to him.
I absolutely am, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He is close enough for me to reach out and touch him if I want to .
I don’t.
My hands fall to my sides, and I let him stare as long as he wants.
That drive has given me exactly what I need from him.
Time to plan.
Going into labor isn’t part of that plan, but I have to adjust.
He comes closer, and we really are touching at that point. I have no choice. I have to move. It is either that or something bad is going to happen. I watch the shift in his eyes and know I don’t have enough time to try and convince him.
“I know you’re a slut, just like she was. But I don’t fuck pregnant bitches.” He lifts his hand and runs it down my bruised cheek, pressing into the cut in a mockingly caring move.
But he takes his eyes off mine, and I smile.
My fingers tighten around two pieces of metal.
The knife slides into my stomach at the same time I have what I need.
When did he get a knife?
My right hand comes up faster than my left, because it isn’t holding the heavier item, and I hit him under the chin with every single ounce of rage and pain I am feeling .
The gun in my left hand is pointed at center mass, the exact same way I’ve practiced for years on the range.
Blood, teeth, and snot fly out of Ortega’s face. He goes down harder than I did when he pistol-whipped me earlier.
Knowing not to get too close to him, I step back and double-check to make sure the gun is loaded. One hand on my stomach, pressing into my side to keep the blood from pouring out, I groan as white spots dance in front of my eyes.
I have to take my hand off my wound when I can’t get the clip out one-handed. Blood immediately starts leaking out.
“Holy mother of pearl.” I groan as another contraction hits, and the two types of pain merge into one.
I don’t stop checking the gun, though, as I breathe through the pain.
When I realize he used the entire magazine, I scream in frustration. “You piece of shit.” I keep the clip out but pull the trigger just to make sure it is empty. Yes, I have it pointed right at him, just in case there is a shot left.
Then I throw it onto the ground, out of reach, and pull off the sweater I put on that morning, pressing it into my stomach.
Through the pain, I stare at the bloody mess on his face. “I think I broke your jaw.”
Not the words I really want to say while I’m in labor, and not the person I want to say them to, but I don’t really have much of a choice, do I? Especially since I have a knife wound in my stomach.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t groan.
Doesn’t whine or cry about being hit by a girl.
When his chest doesn’t rise or fall with any breath, I know I’ve done more than just knock him out.
“This is great,” I say to no one in particular. “Just fuckin’ great.”
Another contraction hits, this one less than five minutes from the last, and I start to panic.
I stare at Ortega, wondering if there is any chance he left the keys in the ignition, but I know better.
Carefully, or as carefully as I can move since I’m in labor and can barely function, I get close to him.
His eyes are staring straight up, and I flinch without meaning to. I start crying, unable to stop the tears, not knowing why I’m crying in the first place. Managing to kneel down, I check his pockets, coming up empty for a phone or keys.
“Shit,” I hiss.
I leave him there while I go to the car, but there aren’t any keys in it, either.
I stare at his body, still lying on the ground, and don’t trust him to stay dead.
“Knowing my luck, he’ll come back as a zombie,” I tell my baby. “Let’s go.”
Doing the only thing I can, I leave the body and the car and start walking back toward civilization.
“Please don’t come while I’m on the side of the road, okay? I’ll give you anything you want if you just make it until I’m not alone. I really don’t want to be alone when you get here. You have to meet your daddy, okay?”
Another contraction hits, and I know I’m not going to make it. Not when I see the amount of blood soaking through the sweater. I can’t stand up through the pain, and I slump over.
I feel Logan there with me. Holding me. Helping me through the misery. Even if he can’t be there. He’ll never be there in time.
“I broke my promise, Lo.”