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Laughs echoed around the room, Taylor joking, “You may have all you need here, man, but I sure don’t.”
“Where’s my glasses?” I yelled. “Turn on the fucking lights!”
“You got it.” The one who wasn’t Taylor, Rory, or Will said. “Here.”
A glow suddenly brightened a few feet away from me, and I blinked several times, adjusting to the light as a dark form lit a candle. Brick walls came into view, and someone was in front of me, holding something out.
I stumbled back, sucking in a breath, but then I noticed my glasses in his hand and grabbed them. “Get away from me,” I said, moving away.
“Relax, baby,” he cooed. “We were just afraid you’d break them. Don’t want you to not see this.”
A snort went off somewhere, and I slipped my glasses on, jerking my head left and right and taking it all in.
Ceilings made of wood hung low, water dripped down, wetting the brick on the walls, and wooden barrels sat around the room as empty wine racks, taller than me, filled the rest of the space. Stairs led up to a set of doors in the ceiling behind me, and a furnace ran, grumbling in the corner. We were in a basement. This house might have several.
I eyed the doors.
“Micah.” The guy who gave me my glasses approached me again, holding out his hand. “Moreau.”
I quickly backed away, shooting a glare from his hand up to him.
Micah Moreau? I took in his shaggy black hair hanging down his neck and around his ears, piercing blue eyes and a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. Maybe early twenties.
Moreau, Moreau…
“As in Stalinz Moreau?” I inquired, unable to catch my breath.
Was that his father?
He just smiled tightly and shrugged.
Shit. How bad does a kid have to be for a career criminal to not even be able to stand his own son?
He pointed behind him to a lanky blond with hollow cheeks and better skin than mine. “Rory Geardon,” he pointed out. “And you’ve met Taylor.”
I looked over at Taylor who sat on a stack of crates behind Will, leaning over his shoulder, smirking at me.
I locked eyes with Will. He leaned against the crates, his hands tucked in the center pocket of his hoodie.
A door was next to him, and I ran for it. He shifted away from the crates and grabbed me, and I shoved at his body, feeling something in his pocket.
I paused and then it hit me. My knife.
Or the knife I had on me when I woke up. I’d never seen it before, and I had no idea how it got in my pocket, but I wanted it back.
I dove into his sweatshirt, pulled out the knife, and backed away, unsheathing it again as I looked around me.
The other guys chuckled under their breaths.
“Did you bring me here?” I yelled at Will.
How long had he been here?
But I didn’t expect an answer.
I just screamed. “Let me out!”
I sucked in air, the small space, the darkness, and no place to run making my blood chill. I choked back my sob.
