“Where’d you learn to drive, fuckwit?” I slap the steering wheel in frustration. I can see the source of the problem five cars ahead. Clocked that idiot weaving through traffic and humping bumpers like a dog a couple of miles back. Now that stupid asshole is messing up my kidnapping by causing a pile-up during rush hour.
“AAAMMMPPH,” screeches the woman in my trunk. Jesus. Someone’s going to hear her. People are leaning out of their cars to rubberneck at the accident up ahead. Great. Just fucking great.
Impatiently, I force my way into the lane next to us, then over once more. Horns blare. I don’t give a fuck. I’m getting around this traffic jam and taking my stolen bride to Vegas, where we’ll be married tonight, come hell or high water.
Sierra
I’m being kidnapped.He kidnapped me. Oh god I can’t believe this is actually happening?—
Fractured thoughts whirl uselessly through my mind. This poor red dress will be ruined. I should never have put it on. I had no business pretending I was someone I wasn’t, even for a few minutes. I just wanted a tiny taste of a lifestyle I’ll never be able to afford. I couldn’t swim in that beautiful pool, which absolutely had cameras on it, so I tried on Alissa Morozova’s clothes and look where that got me—trapped in the stifling trunk of my own car. I bet he left my vacuum cleaner in the house, too. Fucking jerk.
I managed to get the heels off pretty quickly, and I’ve been kicking the side of the car every time the vehicle slows down, hoping to attract attention.
Something had to have happened. An accident, maybe? We’ve been crawling, lurching back and forth like he’s stomping on the gas pedal and then braking hard. Weaving through heavy traffic, presumably. If another vehicle hits the back of this one, I’ll be crushed. Awkwardly, I scootch myself as far back as I can. With my hands zip-tied, I can’t reach the emergency latch even if I could still feel my fingers. My left arm went numb miles ago.
At least I’m sweating enough to get the duct tape loose. I’ve rubbed my cheek raw on the bleach-scented fabric lining the trunk, trying to get it off. Now a strand of my hair is stuck to the bit I peeled back, and I taste glue every time I move my lips. Still an improvement over having my mouth taped shut, but not much of one.
I’m going to kill this asshole as soon as I get out of here. Whoever he is. He had on one of those creepy spandex masks that cover your entire face when he threw me over his shoulder. The only description I could give the police is that he was taller than me even when I was wearing five-inch heels, and that he was very muscular.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Tattoos. I remember those, too.
Always liked a man with tattoos.
A peculiar and highly unwelcome zing of heat pinches my lower core.No. Bad pussy. You have terrible taste in men, which is why you are not allowed to meet any of them in person yet.
I’m holding out for marriage and a family. Not a kidnapper with broad, strong shoulders and lots of ink.When my pussy stops swooning over awful men and finds a nice one to settle down with,thenshe can finally have one of her very own—and not a moment before.
Probably just a physical reaction to the stress of being kidnapped. That’s all.
The car zooms off again, and I roll like a melon that fell out of the grocery bag coming home from the store. Nausea roils my stomach. I taste more glue from the tape stuck over my mouth. Gross.
I will not die here.
Not today. Not this way.
I lapse into a fugue of misery.Conserve your energy, I tell myself.You’ve watched enough true crime. How do you not know how to escape from a kidnapping situation?But despite hours of TV-watching, I still don’t have the faintest idea what to expect. Will he kill me? What was that insanity about a wedding?
Maybe there’s a chance I can talk my way out of this. I’m good at that. Talking.
I feel like I’ve sweated out nearly every drop of moisture in my body when the car decelerates—on top of which, I really need to pee. An unholy combination that shouldn’t be physically possible.
The car halts. My eyes pop open. There’s almost no light inside the trunk. I can’t tell how long we were driving or what time of day it is.
Outside, footsteps crunch on gravel. My heartbeat kicks into a frantic drumbeat. Should I try to run?
Fight?
Scream?
All of the above?
I wiggle around to face the opening. I manage to get my hand on one discarded shoe. Maybe I can throw it at my abductor. The spike heel could do real damage.
What does he look like under that mask?
My final thought before the trunk pops open—after all, I’ll need to describe him to the police when I get free. Fresh air streams in. I inhale deeply and wait for my vision to adjust to the sudden change in light. A man leans over the opening.
“Are you alive, Alisa?”