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Maybe he’ll be able to track me down before this psycho sticks me back in my trunk. Or worse.
Would Rooster give the information to the police? Is he out there trying to find me on his own? Or did he ask the club to help him?
For the first time since waking in this nightmare, I have a sliver of hope to cling to.
Mr. Creepy glances at my soup. “Eat up.”
Too stunned to say anything, I dutifully take another spoonful, forcing my brain to come up with some neutral conversational topic. Anything to keep him talking and avoid the inevitable return to the bedroom. Maybe even figure out where the hell I am. Who he’s working with.
“So, we’re still in Virginia?” I ask as casually as possible.
“You’ll be happy here,” he says, sidestepping my question.
“Ya think so, huh?”
He screws his face into a disapproving scowl.
Ignoring him, I go back to the soup, every now and then darting a quick look around the room, searching for anything to use to my advantage.
“Once you’re more…settled,” he says, “we’ll have a nice ceremony.”
Ignoring that, I keep slurping my soup.
A scraping noise draws my attention. He’s sliding his phone across the table. When I reach for it, he clucks his tongue, and taps the screen. A photo of me tucked in between Rooster and Jigsaw backstage appears.
Where did he take that photo? I frantically scramble through the tour dates in my head. How long has he been following me?
“That’s my boyfriend and his friend. What’s your point?”
He flips to a picture of me on stage with Dawson. My skin crawls. I mean, obviously I knew he’d been stalking me, but it’s a whole different feeling to be confronted with the evidence of said stalking.
“You’re too intimate with too many men,” he says. “No more.”
My blood simmers but I bite my tongue. I want to get out of this alive. Not trigger him into…doing Lord only knows what. My mouth stretches into my sweet, southern, charming smile. “Who I may or may not be intimate with ain’t really yer business.”
He scoffs. “Of course it is.”
“For your information, I’m not intimate with Dawson. I barely know him outside of the tour. Those performances were for the show.”
“It’s not appropriate. And you’re on that van with all those men from your band. You should have your own private vehicle.”
Unhinged laughter bursts out of me. “That’s not how the music business works, pal. It’s a tour bus. A way to get from point A to point B. A business decision. Not orgy time.”
His nose wrinkles. “Well, what are people supposed to think?”
“I dunno, maybe if someone has a problem with it, they can foot the bill for a private bus. ’Cause my label sure ain’t gonna do it until I bring in more money.”
His face screws into a confused expression. Maybe there’s some other aspect of a business he knows nothing about that he’d like to mansplain to me. Asshole. “And, by the way, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of my travel arrangements.”
Whoops. There goes my temper again.
But, really, no amount of me bein’ nice is gonna cure this crazy.
His eyes gleam, like he’s thinking he’s about to score a conversational point. “You were intimate with men on that television show too.”
“Thought you said you fell in luuuv with me on the show?” I can’t help the mocking tone that creeps into my voice.
His expression settles into the kind of calm condescension I’d like to slap right off his flaccid cheeks. “I saw something good and pure worth saving in you. And I will. You won’t need any other man but me.”
My spoon falls from my fingers and floats over the top of the soup. As if this creature can really be considered a man. “Who appointed you judge and jury over my life?”
“Someone has to be. Otherwise what would happen?”
“Well.” I sneer at him. “I reckon when my boyfriend finds me, he’s gonna kill you slow.”
He purses his lips in a startling imitation of a cat’s butthole. “Don’t do that.”
“Speak truth?”
“Don’t do that ‘I reckon’ thing.”
“Why exactly do ya think we belong together again?” My inner southern bitch is coming out loud and proud, now.
He winces. “Your accent is horrible.”
“Are you joking me? You drugged me. Kidnapped me. Stuffed me in my trunk. Took me Lord only knows where. You’re insinuating I’m a slut. Now you’re insultin’ my speech, on top of all that?”
So much for the meek act.
I’m absolutely boiling at the absurdity of the situation. Words are the only way I know how to deal with this overwhelming, powerless sensation.
“Shelby,” he says in a tone a normal person might use to calm a snarling dog. “We’ll work on your speech. I can’t have you passing that dialect to our children.”
“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree there, mister.”
