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4
ANGELA
I’m half awake and already I can sense that something… something’s not right.
My head is woozy, with a ton of pressure. It feels full, like someone grabbed a wad of cotton balls and shoved it between my ears. My mouth, too. It’s so dry that I’m super thirsty, and it feels as though someone is stabbing me in the back of my throat with a pointed stick, it’s that pinchy and painful.
My eyes still closed, clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, I lift my hand to rub my throat. Only… my arm is heavy. Not only that, but when I move one hand, the other moves, like they’re connected.
Connected…
Cuffs.
My eyes spring open at the same time as I bolt up. It would’ve been easier if I had the use of both of my hands but I don’t. Just like I thought, my hands are cuffed together with a pair of heavy-duty, metallic handcuffs. I fall back, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling as I struggle to figure out what the hell is going on.
Okay. Calm down, Ang. Think… it’s rough, with my head spinning, my heart racing, but I try.
Last night… okay. The last thing I remember is that cop coming after me. I was on a date with Dean. I was just heading home after dinner, hoping I could get away without having to give him a kiss goodnight, and then… I was arrested?
I was there, and it still doesn’t make sense. The cop clapped a pair of handcuffs on me after announcing I was under arrest. My hands were jerked behind my back, the metal of the cuffs biting into my wrists, as he forced my head to duck so that he could shove me into the back of his cop car.
He said something, too. I don’t remember what, just that he said something and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an answer to what I had done to deserve being put in cuffs.
They were behind me last night. I remember that part vividly. Now? They’re in front of me, and when I pull myself up into a seated position and hear another jingle jangle, I realize that my hands aren’t the only part of me contained.
I have a shackle on my ankle, and a length of chain disappearing off the edge of the small bed I’m lying on.
What the—
At first glimpse, it almost seems like a prison cell. Not that I have any firsthand experience beyond what I’ve seen on television, but the room I’m in is dark, musty, and cool. There’s one window, high over my head on the wall at my back; it’s covered in a set of thick metal bars. A low wooden table—like a mockery of a coffee table in some rich guy’s house—is in the middle of the space. It’s holding a thick book with a dark green cover.
But the more I look around, the more I have to admit it isn’t. I still don’t have any idea where I am, though there’s a set of stairs along the wall opposite me that lead somewhere; that, plus the angle of the weak light streaming down from the barred window, makes me think I’m underground. I see a door I can’t get to, thanks to the chain on my leg, and there’s a fridge about half the size of the one in my apartment humming away merrily.
It’s the only sound I hear. Well, that, and the sound of my quickened breath as I begin to panic.
Scooting down to the edge of the narrow bed, I use my cuffed hands to grab the chain. A quick tug reveals that it’s stuck. Probably connected to the bed frame since it makes a creaky, jerking sound when I tug again and again.
I’m trapped. Terror wells up inside of me. I quickly shove it down. It won’t help me figure out how I got into this mess. I need a level head.
I need tothink.
Dropping the chain, I go for my pockets. I’m still wearing the same jeans and sweater I had on last night when I went out with Dean. During my look around before, I didn’t notice my purse anywhere, but I have a habit of leaving my phone in my back pocket.
It’s not easy. I only have so much reach with my hands in the cuffs, and the chain makes it so that I can’t even get off the bed. My only hope is to flop on my side and move a bit like a fish out of water, trying to slap one pocket, then the next, searching for my phone.
It would’ve been worth it if I had it on me—but I don’t. Whoever trapped me down here wasn’t considerate enough to leave me with some way to call for help.
“Damn it!”
Crap. That was really loud. And since I could be in a lot of trouble, I probably don’t want to alert anyone to the fact that I’m awake. Not until I can get a better handle on what exactly is going on.
I’m too late. Within seconds of my outburst, I hear a door squeak open. I swallow my gasp, my heart pounding even louder as someone starts walking down the stairs right as I force myself to sit up again.
I see shiny shoes first, followed by legs enclosed in pressed black pants. The swagger screamsmale; the uniform shoutscop. Makes sense, since the last thing I remember is getting arrested, but when he appears at the bottom of the stairs, I get the feeling that nothing is what it seems at all.
It’s only cemented when a wicked grin crosses his devilishly handsome face.
“You wanted my attention, angel. Well, now you have it.”
