Chapter 9 Charlie
Charlie
My captor has gone completely radio silent.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to suggest “hate-fuck,” but I got nervous so I started rambling. I can tell traffic is starting to open up, and I need him to take this sack off so I can use my phone.
Lost in my pity party and self-doubt, I’m taken aback when a rush of fresh air hits my face. My eyes blink rapidly as the sudden rush of light assaults my vision. I’m temporarily blinded before my eyes adjust, and that’s when I see him. Or, well, his side profile.
I wonder what made him change his mind to remove my sack. Must be my charming personality. I stare at my captor, who’s in a simple black hoodie and a skeleton neck gaiter, hiding most of his face. His eyes are focused on the road ahead, and I can’t get a good read on him.
I take inventory of my surroundings. The car interior is shockingly pristine.
Black leather seats, spotless, the surfaces immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight.
This guy would hate my little Civic. I mean, it’s my version of clean; an empty cardboard box sitting in my passenger seat serves as my trash can for everything I drag in.
My eyes slowly drift to the rearview mirror where a hospital badge swings gently, catching the light.
I lean forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of his name.
The movement makes him glance back, and I freeze.
His sharp gaze follows mine, and before I can think, his hand is on the badge.
In one swift motion, he snatches it from the mirror and tosses it into the side compartment of his driver-side door.
Well, there goes getting his name for the police report.
Remembering my escape plan, I fumble for my phone now that the sack is off.
Awkwardly tapping at the black screen, waiting for it to turn on.
Nothing happens. Did it die? No, no, no.
I swear I left it on the charger last night.
My pulse picks up. I can feel it against my ribs as my panic level rises.
I take a shaky breath, willing my nerves to take a back seat so my brain can think.
Freaking out won’t help my phone turn on.
With my hands bound behind my back, it feels like I’m lifting imaginary weights as I try to get my phone into position.
Oddly, the rope isn’t tight. It’s like he put it on more for show than to restrain me.
I can move my wrists back and forth, so maybe I can actually get it off.
Squeezing my hands into tight fists, I start to wiggle them back and forth. The rope gives just a little.
I unclench my hand and keep wiggling, remembering that one drunken night I got my hand stuck in a mason jar at Cadillac Ranch, the local bar in town.
To be fair, some guy had called me chubby, and in my very tipsy state, I spotted the empty maraschino cherry jar behind the bar and proudly declared, “Oh yeah? Could a chubby girl fit her hand in this tiny jar?” Then I shoved my hand in and held it up in triumph.
The guy walked away without another word, probably because he didn’t know what to say.
As soon as he was gone, though, I realized my mistake.
I was completely stuck. Claire and I spent the next ten minutes wiggling and pulling the jar free from my hand.
Now this situation is similar, same but different.
Same in the sense it’s a tight fit to pull my one hand free, different in that I don’t have the drunk person mindset, the one that thinks they are invincible.
As I continue to wiggle and pull, I pray that traffic slows down again.
He’s almost completely clear of Main Street, and I need him to be slowed down enough to make a break for it.
I bite down a frustrated groan and whisper-shout, “Come on,” under my breath, the words slipping out sharper than I intend.
Realizing my mistake, I snap my gaze back to him, forcing a casual smile.
Our eyes lock in the rearview mirror, and I see his brow crease like he caught me in action.
My pulse picks up speed again, this time not from fear of being caught but from the intensity of his eyes.
Those dark green irises pin me in place.
For a moment, I almost forget he’s my captor.
Clearing my throat and attempting to break free from his smoldering gaze, I resume my questioning.
“Are we there yet? I feel like we’re not there yet. This is giving slow-burn angst.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight.
“Wow,” I say, leaning back and letting my voice drip with mock admiration. “You really go full grumpy silent type, huh?”
He flicks a quick glance, dark eyes narrowing, and grunts his response.
“Do all your sentences just come out in grunts, or is that just special treatment for me?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” His rich voice takes me by surprise.
“Oh my god, you speak! I was starting to think you were mute. This is huge character development for you!”
His hand tightens on the wheel. “Look, princess, we’ll be there before you know it, so do us both a favor and quiet down back there.”
“Princess?” I say, voice light and teasing. “Are we giving each other nicknames now? Is that what you call all your captives, or am I just special?”
He growls, low and almost amused. “The term fits you.”
“Flattering,” I shoot back. “What shall I call you? It’s only fair we exchange terms of endearment.”
“Terms of endearment?”
“Yes, you know the ones that’re special to just us but will make others want to cringe.”
I swear I see a smirk forming on the side of his face.
For a moment, I forget I’m his captive and he’s my captor.
I almost forget all about my escape plan.
That is, until my phone starts to vibrate against my thigh.
My heart leaps. Yes. A lifeline! I start wiggling my hand faster, the rope giving all the way that I’m able to pull one hand free.
A small burst of victory fills my chest. I quickly grab my phone, trying to get to the messages, hoping it’s Claire checking on me.
I try to discreetly hide my phone and text, like I’m back in high school, hiding my phone from Mr. Ferguson in fifth-period Geometry.
I get as far as opening my home screen when a large hand grasps my wrist. I let out a startled yelp just as he snatches my phone out of my hand.
“Hey!” My entire world feels like it’s ripped from my hand.
He doesn’t respond, just tosses the phone into the console without looking back.
God damnit! Now what am I supposed to do?
My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to anchor myself. I can feel the tears beginning to pool in my eyes. That was my only lifeline. I close my eyes, willing the tears not to fall. I am stronger than this. I will get through this.