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“They don’t cook it to order. They cook it and it sits under heat lamps.”
“Well, that’s fucking disgusting,” I say.
“I agree,” he says. “Indicates a fundamental lack of understanding of what food should be, either hot, fresh, or both. But I digress.” He pops the trunk. “Get in.”
“What?” I stare at him, shocked.
“You can’t be trusted to ride like a normal person, so you can ride in the trunk”
“I’m not getting in…”
Next thing I know he’s just sort of tossing me in there. The trunk is more spacious than I expected it to be. It’s also cleaner, which is nice. He pulls out a black canvas bag as he puts me in. I wonder what’s in it. Seems sort of heavy, like a bowling ball. Does he like bowling? And is he really going to force me to travel in the trunk?
“Remember how you said you’d never put me in danger? This is very dangerous. If you get rear-ended, I am going to be paste in this all-weather fabric lining.”
“I’ll be careful about other cars and their following distances,” he says, cold as ice. From inside the trunk, looking up at him looking down at me, there’s a certain mercilessness about his features and expression that sends a terrifying but borderline erotic sensation spearing through to the very core of me.
“Don’t close the trunk,” I beg him. “Don’t…”
CLANG!
It is louder than I thought it would be. For a good minute or two I am shrouded in a complete darkness that makes me want to scream. I don’t like the dark. I’ve never trusted it, and I trust it even less now.
I hear him get into the driver’s seat. He is not going to drive me like this, is he? It’s so unsafe. There’s no seatbelt, there’s not even a seat, and if we get hit, this is all crumple zone.
There’s a flash of light as he reaches into the back and pulls down the little arm rest that nobody ever uses between the back seats. That lets me see into the vehicle, and he adjusts his rear-view mirror so he can’t see the road behind him at all anymore. He can only see me.
“You’re a bad girl,” he says conversationally as we set off yet again. “Don’t worry. It’s not far to Direview now. I’ll deal with you then.”
“You’re a maniac,” I tell him. “And I’m never going to be your wife. Not ever.”
I have been compliant long enough. I have tried to placate him long enough. Fuck that. This ends now. No more kidnapping. No more fucking Ms Nice Captive.
I start to kick at the tail light. I heard once that you can do that if you’re ever abducted and put in a trunk, and then you can stick a hand or a foot out and alert people to the extreme fuckery that’s going on.
The only problem with that plan is the fact that my kidnapper has that little portal down, and he hears what I’m doing right away. I expect him to tell me to cut it out, but he swings the car over and pulls to a halt.
“You’re trying my patience,” he tells me as he opens the trunk. As he does, I discover that we’re in a picturesque layby. There are willow trees overhead. That means there’s probably water too, a river or something. Funny how these useless and irrelevant factoids keep popping into my head even as my captor pulls out lengths of hemp rope, from what I have to assume is an abduction kit, to tie me hand and foot.
He works quickly and deftly. He’s done this before. He knows just how tight to make the rope so it stays on and constricts but doesn’t actually hurt me.
“If you fight those knots, they’ll tighten,” he says.
“Safety first,” I remind him with enough snark to sink a ship.
And then he gags me. As he wraps him-smelling fabric around the back of my neck through my mouth, I consider that I might have made a mistake. It’s too late now, though. The trunk closes, and my fate is sealed.
4
Crichton
There is a certain kind of calm at Direview that only ever settles over the place when all the men in residence are happily coupled. We are enjoying that period of time now. It is a pleasant sort of easiness, in which domestic affairs take precedence. For the moment, the roof still leaks, but a bucket or thirty have been deputized to deal with those issues.
A meeting of the Brotherhood has become more of a family gathering over a hearty meal. I used to do all the cooking, but Crocombe puts so much stock into her offerings, poor dear, I let her do all the kitchen labor now.
It is a sunny Sunday afternoon, around about three o’clock, which as every civilized person knows, is time for a little something. Bryn and Nina, Thor and Anita are all taking tea in the conservatory that opens up onto the garden. I have spent some time among the roses and am pleased with both the scent and sight of them, not to mention the bespoke rosewater I make from them.
