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Grace
Alow,growlingdrone fills my pounding head, along with the stench of cigarettes and gasoline. It’s so hot, I can feel the sweat on my skin and my wet tee shirt clinging to my front and back. I attempt to rub my aching brow, and discover my wrists have been handcuffed behind me. I suck in air through my nose because gasping through my mouth is impossible. There’s duct tape over my lips.
My head spins as I begin to panic. It’s pitch black in here, wherever I am, scrunched into the fetal position on my side.
Somewhere small and dark and...moving?
No, please, no... I whimper as fear creeps into my muscles. This can’t be happening. It’s just a nightmare. A vivid subconscious metaphor. Then I remember the parking garage and Jasmine’s phone.
An arm tightening around my throat. Liam’s voice telling me to go to sleep.
My chest clenches as I discern that I must be locked in the trunk of his car.
Where the hell is he taking me? And, more importantly, what are his plans for me when we get there?
My thoughts dash and scurry. I need to stay calm. If I give in to panic, it’s all over; I’ll never escape.
I start counting down from a hundred. Holding my breath for a count of two, then exhaling for four beats.
Eighty-six, eighty-five, eighty-four, eighty-three. Pause... Exhale, eighty...
Slowly, my chest relaxes enough that I can take deeper breaths. My thoughts stop chasing their tails. I take stock of the trunk, tight and smelling of mildew.
I recall one of my gym teachers from boarding school telling us that we should try and kick out the tail lights if we’re ever trapped in the trunk of a car. I have no idea where the tail lights are in relation to my feet, and there’s not enough room to put any real force behind my blows. It’s so hot and stuffy that I exhaust myself quickly. I have to restart my downward count to reassure my frantic lungs that I’m not actually suffocating.
Liam makes a sharp turn. This new road we’re on is bumpy. I don’t know of any unpaved roads in the city, and I’m not sure how long I’ve been unconscious. We could be miles away from Jost by now. I try to pull up details from earlier in the day. Things Aidan said about Liam, things Liam said about himself.
He wanted to break us up, tear us apart, get us alone. He likes to play mind games.
My train of thought is broken as we come to a stop. The engine cuts out.
A chorus of insects and frogs chirping replaces the low drone of the engine. A door whines open and slams shut, then another door opens and shuts, closer this time. My heart slams against my ribs as I recognize the next sound. Liquid swishing around a container.
The trunk yawns open, and my body tenses.
“Good, you’re awake,” Liam says. “I really didn’t want to have to carry you.”
The red tail lights cast terrifying shadows across his smirking face in the dark. I groan as he muscles me out of the trunk, my legs throbbing from having been scrunched up for who knows how long. I collapse under my weight when he puts me on my feet.
“Jesus, I thought ballerinas were supposed to be graceful,” he says, hauling me up.
We’re in the woods. Twigs and dried brush snap beneath my slippers.
Nausea rises up my throat, bilious and acidic. He’s brought me to the forest where no one can see or hear whatever he’s going to do. When he bends to pick up what I now confirm is a cannister of gasoline, I take my chance to flee.
I run toward a gap in the trees.
My slippers catch on the underbrush. I stumble. Branches claw at my face. I lose my right slipper and immediately step on something sharp.
A light shines from behind me. Footsteps crunch in the brush. I force my aching legs to run faster, squinting into the darkness to avoid slamming into trees. My foot catches on a bramble and I go down, hitting the ground hard with my shoulder.
“That was fucking stupid,” Liam says, shining a bright light at my face.
I kick with all of my strength as he wrestles me onto my stomach. He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back, presses something cold and hard to my cheek.
My thoughts grind to a halt at the echoing clink of a pistol cocking.
“Do you really think you can outrun a bullet?”
