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CHAPTER TWO
MY EYES FLUTTER OPENbut they don’t stay that way for long. My head throbs and my first thought ishow much did I drink last night? Only, I don’t remember. Honestly, I don’t remember much.
I force my eyes back open and stare at the unfamiliar ceiling. I say unfamiliar because it’s not like any ceiling I’ve ever seen before. It’s inverted with dim recessed lighting that’s just bright enough to light the room.
My mind moves slower than normal as I turn my head to the right, taking in the beige wall with a large wood door in the center. The room is sparse but nicely decorated. Dark wood floors, designer furniture. I try to process it all as my mind works out of the fog that I woke in.
It’s like I know I’m not where I’m supposed to be, yet I’m too confused to really be troubled by it.
That is, until my head turns in the other direction and my gaze locks with a pair of dark eyes. I shoot up, scooting along the bed so quickly that I’m hunkered against the large iron headboard before I’ve processed I’ve moved.
What the hell is this?
“It’s about time you woke up.” That voice... I can’t pinpoint it, but I know that voice. Smooth and raspy with a very distinct accent.
My eyes swing back toward the man who is sitting in an arm chair a couple of feet from the side of the bed, his legs outstretched in front of him, a small glass of amber liquid held loosely in his hand.
The moment I register his face, it’s like being doused with cold water when you’re fast asleep. I wake with a start and suddenly everything becomes so clear.
The bar. I met him at the bar. He bought me a drink. I was quite smitten by him, yet oddly afraid of him at the same time.
I remember I started to feel funny. I remember him walking me outside.
“It’ll be over soon.”
I can hear his voice as if he’d just repeated the words he said moments before I passed out.
“You,” I croak, looking desperately around the room for some kind of weapon to defend myself with. Unfortunately, other than a small lamp on the bedside table, which I can’t see doing me much good, there isn’t anything. “What did you do?” My gaze darts back to him. “Did you put something in my drink? Why am I here? Where am I?” I hit him with question after question, not giving him a chance to answer a single one.
“I think you know why you’re here, Marianna.”
Marianna?
“I think you have me confused. What did you put in my drink? What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t put anything in your drink. The bartender on the other hand...” He gives a half shrug.
“What? Why? Why would he do that?”
“You’d be surprised what people are willing to do if you offer them enough money, Marianna.”
There’s that name again.
“Marianna?” I question. “My name is Mila.”
“No, your name is Marianna Herrera. And I am Mateo Rivera.” He gives me an expectant look as if that name is supposed to mean something to me.
“Am I supposed to know who you are?” I ask, confusion no doubt marring my face.
“There’s really no point in playing games. I know who you are and you know who I am, so let’s just skip this part, shall we?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I honestly have no clue what you’re talking about.” His nostrils flare at my response. “I swear,” I add, a slight shake to my voice.
I briefly wonder who this Marianna girl is and if he unknowingly drugged the wrong person and brought me to—I look around—wherever this is.
My gaze bounces back and forth between his dark glare and the door, trying to weigh the odds if I could make it there before he’d catch me.
“Marianna Herrera. Age twenty-one. Born December thirteenth in Columbia to Esteban and Grace Herrera. Ring any bells?”
