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Well, aren’t you a magnanimous asshole.
“Where are we, Momma?” I whisper.
“You’re home, little rabbit.” Something strokes over my hair. “Far away from all the badness you were getting tangled up with. Your new life will be quite safe.”
Safe my round, rosy butt.
And we’re far away? As in, a rustic cabin in the woods—like the clubhouse Rooster took me to? Or far away, like a remote island surrounded by shark-infested waters?
Better not kick him until I get a better understanding of my surroundings. I’d hate to flee just to end up as shark food.
The completely absurd image pulls a chuckle out of me.
“Shelby?”
Huh. A little unhinged laughter spooks him. Go figure. I file that tidbit away for later and try to push my body into an upright position.
“That’s it, little rabbit. You had me worried.”
Oh, were you worried drugging someone and stuffing them in a trunk might have side effects, moron?
I barely hang onto the sarcastic retort. Sass won’t save me here. He isn’t a bar patron I can whirl away from. Or Rooster, who enjoys my little zingers. No, this is a sicko with a poor grasp of reality who drugged and kidnapped me.
Zipped lips might save this ship.
Groaning, I sit up and peer into the dim room, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with my captor.
My gaze lands on a large four-poster bed.
Of course it’s a bedroom. Why else would I be here?
Ignoring that stabbing jab of reality, my gaze skips to the heavy wood furniture, slick hardwood floors, and homey braided throw rugs. A window straight across from me appears to have shutters closed and locked over it. No daylight seeps in around the edges.
Painfully, I turn and peer out of the bedroom doorway into a portion of the hallway and living space beyond. Not a hotel room. Details, arbitrary and disjointed, register in my foggy brain. A home or cabin maybe? Dim lighting bounces off glossy hardwood floors. More locked and shuttered windows. Another couple throw rugs. No other decoration that I can see.
“Let me help you.” He wraps his doughy fingers around my upper arms and jerks me upright. Pain explodes through my skull and I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming.
“Give me a second,” I whisper.
My legs wobble but I refuse to lean on him. Bracing my hand on the open trunk lid, I slowly lift one leg over the side, then the other. My boots softly clunk against the wood floor.
“Come into the kitchen so I can feed you,” he says.
He’s gotta be joking. As if I’d accept food or drink from him.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I rasp.
He studies me for a second before walking me to a door and pushing it open. “Behave, little rabbit. I’ll be waiting right here. Don’t take too long.”
I stumble into the room and try to shut the door behind me. He stops it with one booted foot. “Hurry.”
I glare at him before remembering to appear weak and pathetic.
A second later, he removes his foot and turns his back. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be interested in watching me pee. I hurry over to the toilet and shove my jeans down. My scared bladder doesn’t want to empty. I have to close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to coax myself into relaxing.
Only when I’m finished and my jeans are all zipped into place do I take inventory of the bathroom.
Not one damn thing to use as a weapon. Not even a crummy plunger. This isn’t the movies. There’s no time to smash the mirror and fashion a knife out of the shards of glass without him stopping me.
The window has a shutter that’s latched shut and I study it, searching for signs of an alarm system or hidden locks. With him lingering right outside the door, I don’t dare test the latch.
I wash my hands and try not to cry at my reflection in the mirror. Wild, tangled hair. Remnants of smeared stage-makeup. Redness on my cheek that will probably turn into a bruise. My vision blurs and I rock on my feet. Gingerly, I touch the back of my head. My fingers come away smeared with blood. Dammit.
“Come on. You need food.” He pushes the door wider and holds out his hand.
Ignoring him, I finish washing up before stepping away from the sink.
Pathetic and meek routine or not, I can’t willingly force myself to touch him. I slide out of the bathroom, careful not to touch him.
“Come.” Irritation colors his command. He marches out of the bedroom, expecting me to obey.
Relief flows through me. I want to get as far away from this room as possible.
Of course, who knows what horrors await me on the other side.
Chapter Five
Rooster
The night drags on. The cops question Dawson for so long, he ends up taking the stage an hour late. Can’t muster up an ounce of give-a-fuck for his predicament.
