Chapter 7 – POSY #2
Claustrophobia hits me in a wave. I squirm, straining against the tape. There’s no room. I’m up against a canvas bag. His golf clubs. I jackknife my body, and I knock my head against the side panel and taste copper.
How much air is there in here? It’s hot, and it smells like fumes. Where is he taking me?
And where’s Ray? Dario never goes anywhere without a bodyguard. I was under the impression Renelli decreed it so. Whatever Dario does for the organization, he’s irreplaceable.
But Dario also does what he wants. And for some reason, he doesn’t want a witness to whatever he’s going to do to me.
My heart slams against my chest. The trunk is pitch black, and the longer we drive, the stiffer I become. I try to twist my wrists, but all I do is warp the tape so it digs into my flesh. I can’t move my ankles enough to struggle.
Everyone’s heard that if you’re in a trunk, try to kick out the lights, but with the golf bag crowding me, there’s not enough space to draw back. I try, but there’s no force behind it. I wriggle to my back. There has to be an emergency release. A latch or something.
There it is, a neon green tab with a helpful picture of a stick figure jumping out of a trunk and running away. There’s no way I can reach it. Dario taped my wrists and elbows. I can’t even try to get it with my teeth.
I can’t breathe; blood pounds in my ears. I’m going to suffocate. I’m going to slowly lose consciousness to a muffled bass beat coming from the front of the car, and then I’m going to die. He’ll probably shove my body in the golf bag.
The trunk vibrates from the music. He’s blaring the radio, and we’re going fast. He’s enjoying himself.
There’s something about the idea that calms me down, lets me think.
I have enough air right now. I’m uncomfortable, but I’m okay for the moment. I can plan.
Odds are he’s going to take me back to his place. Dario’s a loner, and his home is his castle. He’s angry. He wants to play with me. He’ll want to be on his own territory.
That’s good. I know every inch of that house.
I never wasted the rare opportunity when Dario went to a meeting downtown with his men.
I’ve explored every nook and cranny. I wanted to know everything about the man I loved.
Discover his secrets. I was searching for a yearbook or a photo album. I never found anything.
I snort, and it’s loud in the trunk despite the music, the purr of the engine, and the shush of the road under the wheels.
I’d actually felt sad for Dario. Poor lonely child with no living family, no mementos to remember them by, no evidence that he’d ever been cared for. I knew his father had passed, and his mother left when he was very young.
I only have a few boxes of my mother’s things and some keepsakes from my grandparents. Nothing’s worth much, but it means the world to me. My heart broke to think he didn’t even have that.
I was so wrong.
He doesn’t have keepsakes because he’s a man-shaped shell.
He was telling the truth about anger, though. He was furious when he saw the video. It must have been injured pride. He’d lost face. It must suck to feel no love, but to be perfectly capable of feeling like a bitch.
I don’t think he’s even mad anymore. He’s having a grand old time. This is another game to him. Tag. He won. A fresh wave of nerves unsettle my guts.
He gets bored when he wins.
Panic threatens to take over my mind again, but I beat it back. He’s not done with me yet. He said so. If I’m alive, I have the chance to escape, and I will. I’m not going out like this.
* * *
At some point, I fall asleep. I’m jerked awake by the trunk opening and a rush of cold air. The sky is lightening to an ash gray. It must be near dawn. My eyes are dry and bleary. I groggily make to rub them, and the tape digs into my raw wrists.
Dario leans over and pats my stinging cheek. “Rise and shine.”
He lifts me like a bride and sets me on my feet.
I shriek to warn him, but my mouth is taped shut, and I’m not even fully awake.
I list for a breathtaking moment, and then I crash to the ground.
My legs won’t hold weight. They’re numb.
My head cracks against the driveway and a blinding pain shoots through my skull.
I tuck and curl like a shrimp as a wave of nausea rolls over me.
Behind us, a door opens.
“Boss?” It’s Ray.
He’ll help me. I call out on instinct, but I’m muted.
Dario crouches over me. “What’s wrong with you?”
He nudges my leg with the toe of a polished shoe. “Did your leg fall asleep?”
He squats lower, fingers searching through my hair. “There’s a lump. You banged it hard.”
He narrows his cold eyes, and then his hands are everywhere, the cut on my forehead, the rash on my cheek. There’s a snick. I peek through cracked lids. He has a knife. Oh shit. My stomach lurches.
I can’t puke. I’ll choke.
He considers me, head tilted, and I whimper, flopping on asphalt, trying to scuttle back. He stops me easily by rolling me to my stomach and pinning my butt between his knees.
“It won’t hurt long,” he says. “I’ll be quick.”
I freeze. Is this it? Does he gut me in the driveway?
My panties grow warm and damp. Did I pee myself? I moan.
There’s a press of cold metal at my wrists, and then a burn as he rips away the tape, taking fine hairs and a layer of skin with it.
It does hurt, but the burn is nothing compared to the flood of relief.
“If you hit me, I’ll hit you back,” he warns, matter-of-fact. I have no doubt. I stay still as he removes the tape at my elbows and ankles. Finally, he flips me onto my back.
Pins and needles begin to prickle at the tips of my toes and fingers. I couldn’t fight if I wanted to. I might be able to move my arms and legs, but it’d be like swinging a slab of meat.
I hate this. I’m helpless, and he’s on top of me, his hard dick digging into me again. Ray must be watching from the porch. If there weren’t a high privacy fence, anyone driving past could see. We’re in the middle of the driveway.
He can do what he wants. Hopelessness floods my chest, and all of a sudden, I’m cold to the bone, shaking so hard my teeth rattle.
Dario’s eyes narrow. He tears the tape from my lips, leaving a strip of fire in its wake. My nose tingles. I’m not going to cry. Not in front of him.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks.
I sputter a laugh. “So much.” I rotate my wrists, trying to get the feeling back. “But not nearly as much as what’s wrong with you.”
I brace myself, but he doesn’t react. His expression remains inquisitive. His brown eyes are still dark, inscrutable pools, and his body’s alert, but not tense.
“Do you have a headache?”
“Yes.” It’s more of a dull throbbing now, but it’s awful. There has to be a goose egg on my head. I’m so thirsty my lips stick together which is not helping.
“Nausea?”
“Yes.”
Is he checking to see if I have a concussion?
“Blurry vision?”
He is.
“No. I need water. And I need to sit up.” I don’t know why he cares. He’s got me back. That’s all that matters, right?
He rises easily to his feet and grabs me under my armpits, hoisting me until he can scoop me into his arms. I’m not a small woman.
His brute strength always surprises me. He spends hours a day at his computer or on the phone, but he balances it with time in the basement gym.
He doesn’t have machines. He flips tractor tires and swings ropes. That kind of thing.
I used to love his body. I was obsessed. I loved the ridges and lines other men don’t have and how his boring suits hid such sculpted power.
I was sucked in so easily. A pretty face, a hot body, money, brains. I was a goner.
Well, maybe anyone would fall.
But all the women I know steer clear of him. They know something I don’t. If he was just a dark horse, they’d be all over him. Frankie Bianco smacks women around, and everyone knows it, and the ladies still fight over him.
Until the video, Dario never laid a hand on me. He never even raised his voice. What did he do that is so bad that none of the shameless gold diggers in our circle tried their luck with him? Or am I so blind when it comes to men that I can’t see what’s obvious to everyone else?
Clearly, he’s not right in the head.
Each step Dario takes jars my brain, increasing the throb in my brain. He carries me all the way upstairs while Ray follows in his wake. I need an aspirin. I need to sleep. I can’t fight in this condition.
Dario brings me to our room and heads straight to the en suite. He sets me on the edge of the jacuzzi tub.
“You smell like gasoline and hot dogs. Take a bath.” He fingers my split ends, his mouth screwed up in distaste. “And wash your hair. It’s filthy.”
“I’m too tired.” I don’t know what possesses me to say it. It’s the truth, but I should use the time to search the bathroom. There might be cleaner I could throw in his eyes. Scissors. A razor.
I’m about to take it back when he grabs the hem of my collared work shirt.
“Arms over your head,” he orders. I’m so woozy, I obey. He doesn’t undo the top button, so when he pulls, the collar gets stuck around my head.
“Stop it,” he barks, yanking harder.
“I’m not doing anything.” I can’t suck in my face.
Finally, he wrangles it loose, and I register the chilly air on my bare belly. Goosebumps pucker my arms.
All the tugging triggers a sharp pain in my temples. I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s blessedly quiet for a moment, and then there’s a rummaging in the medicine cabinet.
“Here.” He takes my hand and presses pills into my palm.
“I can’t swallow them dry.” I’m still so thirsty.
I hear the sink run.
“Open your eyes,” he demands. He’s holding out a glass of water. I grab it, draining it in three gulps. I don’t even think to save a sip to take the painkillers.
He refills the glass. I drink more slowly this time. The water sloshes in my belly, and my guts cramp. I’m dizzy. I guess I did whack my head pretty good on the driveway.