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Whatever it was, I told our story.
I’d initially expected the story to be short, to provide the rundown of what had happened without emotion—without sounding like a total lovesick fool.
But…the drinks.
My broken heart.
My willing and empathetic audience.
So it was long.
Two drinks long.
Especially when there were breaks in the story for each woman to ask a question.
“You got bitten by a rattlesnake and walked yourself back to the house?” Mia asked.
“Not all the way. Duke arrived about three quarters into my journey.”
Mia leaned back in her chair. “You need to claim that shit. It’s like in that movie where the snake didn’t bite you because you were the savior of the generation, except this time you got bitten, survived, showed that snake and Duke who was boss.”
I decided that Mia was one of the funniest people I’d ever met. Even though I didn’t agree entirely with what she said, I’d never argue.
I just continued the story.
“And now I’m here,” I finished.
Everyone blinked at me. This was the longest silence we’d had at this table since we sat down.
“Girl, I thought your movies were good,” Mia spoke first. “But it turns out your real life is so much better.” Her face paled slightly. “Of course, I don’t mean that you witnessing the man you’re sleeping with die and losing your friend is good. Fuuuudge.”
I smiled. “I know what you mean. It is fucking crazy, hearing it all out loud.”
Rosie winked at me. “Thank God. A crazy story is a requirement for membership into the girl gang.”
I let each of them discuss getting jackets or tattoos to signify membership into this gang. My bladder was definitely letting it be known just how much liquid I’d consumed in a small amount of time.
If I’d announced I was going to the restroom, I was sure I’d get a bunch of women accompanying me. Women traveled in packs, after all, and then there was the whole fact that I was the target of a murderous crime boss.
But I figured that said murderous crime boss wasn’t about to kill me in the bar, especially since he didn’t even know I was here yet. The “plan” would apparently commence tomorrow.
They’d somehow leak I was here, they’d lure Kitsch somewhere and then…you know. I definitely should’ve known the exact details since I was an accomplice to murder, but whatever.
All of these thoughts happened in the bathroom, of course, where tipsy women have long since realized just how drunk they were at the same time as having all sorts of deep thoughts.
So I spent a hot minute crying in the stall over Duke. Crying over a man while drunk in a bathroom was a rite of passage I’d never experienced. I figured it was about time.
But I only gave myself a minute. Since I still didn’t have a phone, I counted very carefully. When my minute was up, I wiped my eyes, exited the stall and washed my hands, taking great care so that was all I was thinking of. I fixed my makeup. Then I walked out of the bathroom.
And, to be totally freaking cliché, it all went black.
I’d expected to be dead.
That’s what generally happened when you were kidnapped by the goons of the man you were about to put away for murder and had just plotted to kill with a motorcycle club.
I knew that movies got almost everything wrong, especially these parts where the heroine is kidnapped but somehow kept alive long enough for the muscled man to come and save her.
In reality, criminals intent on murdering someone didn’t fuck around unless they were into torture. I really hoped that was not the case here. I’d survived a lot in my time but I didn’t think I’d be able to withstand torture.
I was tied to a chair. My mouth was dry and my wrists ached with the tightness of the handcuffs. I tried to move and that only served to break open my skin with the metal of the cuffs. My blood was warm.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
My feet were bound too, and I was not going to MacGyver out of this. Instead, I took in my surroundings. Surprisingly, I was in a very nice-looking living room, really fucking nice. I was facing floor-to-ceiling windows that boasted views of the ocean. Everything in the room was in neutral tones—white sofa, tan vintage rug, bookcases covering the wall to my left, seriously expensive artwork arranged tastefully on the walls.
Murdering people in luxury seemed to be this guy’s style.
I tried to think how long it had been since he’d taken me. It was still light outside. Barely, the sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, but that gave me hope. Unless I’d been out for a full twenty-four hours, it was the same night, which meant I couldn’t have been gone for longer than an hour. Was that good?
