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“Where’s your kitchen?” I demand, knowing full well that I’m in no place to make any demands.
“You’re hungry, huh?” Angel says, flatly. “You think that’s why you’re so grumpy?”
It’s not hard to make me go ballistic, but Angel seems to have a special gift for pressing my buttons. I whip around, uncrossing my arms and pointing a stern finger at the behemoth. “I’m ‘grumpy’ because I’m a fucking hostage, you dolt! I should be back at home right now, curled up in bed, getting ready for a real date tomorrow, instead, I’m stuck here with you!”
Angel fiddles with his empty glass, seemingly unhurt by my lashes. “So, you’re horny, then?” he mumbles, clearly holding back a savage smirk.
The anger that explodes inside of me at his observation is almost enough to sizzle the skin off my bones. He’s not wrong—I’m both hungry and horny—but he only needs to know that I’m hungry. In fact, I’m almost more pissed off at myself for actually finding Angel attractive than I am at him for recognizing it.
“What the fuck do you want with me?” I ask, when the anger has subsided enough to talk through. My tone is laced with more desperation than I had hoped it would be, but what’s the point in holding that back? This is all so exhaustingly frustrating.
Angel places down his glass and floats over to me. Before I even have time to process his smooth movement, I’m engulfed by his enormous shadow. The warmth in his presence is just hot enough to snuff out the chill that wants to skate down my spine. I’m stuck in a tense limbo as my captor silently glares into my soul.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he finally grumbles, before turning his back to me. “You can take the couch,” he mentions, flippantly, gliding away and lazily gesturing towards the big leather sofa in the center of the living room. “Don’t bother trying to escape. I own this whole building and it has more security than half the army bases in this fucking country.”
“Probably still won’t stop your brother!” I shout after him, desperate to piss him off even half as much as he’s pissed me off. It doesn’t seem to work. Angel looks unphased as he disappears around a corner, leaving me alone in his living room on top of the world.
I wake up to the sound of a slamming door.
The harsh noise jolts me from my slumber and I wildly scan my surroundings, unsure of where I am for a long enough time that I’m physically disappointed when I finally remember everything.
So, it wasn’t a nightmare...
I sit up on my couch and the mess I made last night crunches beneath my shifting weight. After I was sure Angel had gone to bed, I’d raided the fridge and ate myself to sleep. Now, I’m surrounded by open cheese wrappers and dark chocolate crumbs and feeling just as bad about myself as I did last night, when Angel made it clear he had spotted my arousal in the dungeon.
I sadly tug on the ruined bottom of my winter dress. It might not have been good fleeing attire, but at least it made a nice blanket.
The clutter I’ve covered myself in falls away as I gingerly stand up from the couch. My muscles are sore and my heart is heavy. A leaded weight fills the pit of my stomach... it crushes a kaleidoscope of butterflies that had dared tried to rise up from the acid at any point last night.
Angel Montoya. That bastard. Who is he to make me feel anything but anger?
Where is he anyway?
The living room is empty; so is the kitchen, but that’s about as far as I dare explore right now. The last thing I want to do is wake up a sleeping beast.
The sun is high in the sky outside, and beams of bright light work their way across the carpeted floor in the living room. For some reason, I imagine Angel is long gone. He doesn’t seem like the type to sleep in. That slamming door must have been him heading out for the day.
Hesitantly, I search the penthouse for a note, anything to tell me what to do. It’s not like I’d follow any instructions or orders he left me, but it might at least be nice to know what options I have.
In my search, I spot a movie theater-sized television screen hanging from the ceiling; it’s so high up that I figure there must be a remote somewhere that brings it down, but I can’t find anything of the sort. The grand piano is all locked up, too, as is the fireplace and the door out onto the sprawling white patio.
There are no landlines anywhere, either, and I definitely don’t find a note. I’m completely locked down and entirely in the dark. What the hell am I supposed to do until my brutish captor returns? It’s like he wants me to snoop through his stuff.
It takes a few hours of sitting on my dirty couch, staring out at the magnificent view below, before I get restless enough to decide that snooping is worth the risk.
In fact, by the time I shake the soreness from my bones, I’m all for the little act of rebellion. What the hell else was Angel expecting?
I don’t know what his plans are for me, but I can tell you my plans for right now: find some dirt. Maybe if I can eventually blackmail Angel, this whole ordeal will have been worth the suffering...
Even though I’m pretty sure he’s gone, I still tip-toe around the corner Angel disappeared down last night. Who knows what kind of security a man like him might have? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was watching me over some security camera right now. I quickly spin in place with both my middle fingers raised, just in case.
The further I creep down the long hall, the less cautious I become. Angel isn’t here, I can just feel it. He’s probably out busting knee caps and collecting protection money or some shit...
A massive abstract painting greets me around the next bend, and it’s so impressive that I’m compelled to stop and appreciate it for a moment. I don’t know who the artist is, but the piece looks expensive. A sigh escapes my lips. Angel may be a brute, but he’s clearly a man who knows how to make money...
And what kind of man is that? I’m still not entirely sure. He must be some kind of cartel kingpin, right?
Maybe... but maybe not. I’ve heard of so many different capos in my lifetime, and never has the last name Montoya come up. Does that mean Angel built this entire fortune by himself? I’d almost be impressed, if I wasn’t so disgusted. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the violence or the illegal activity that turns me off—hell, I know that’s how my family originally made their fortune, before they were decimated by outside forces—but caged-tigers and loathsome brothers aren’t any kind of legacy I want to be a part of.
