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’regoingto 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.”
“Sheiskind 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 donotwant to fuck with Damien Wells.”
Dickhead number two—or Tony—shrugs. “I guess. But we also donotwant 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 gotanywhere 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.