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I set the phone on the end table beside the couch without ending the call. I glance at the screen quickly to make sure Payton is still on the line. She is, which means she can hear everything happening in my apartment.
Drive fast, Payton. Please.
When I turn around and face Randy for the first time since the day he ambushed me in my office, I'm shocked at how much he's changed. Gone is the carefully polished veneer of a Hollywood agent. His normally slicked-back, greying hair is mussed like he's been pulling it at the roots. His ice-blue eyes are wild, rimmed with red and bloodshot. His skin has a waxy pallor, and his hand shakes as he points his gun directly at me.
Randy's clothes are dirty. His suit is ripped and covered in black-grey smudges, making me wonder if perhaps he was close to the fire last night. He's sweating, and added to the twitchiness of his limbs, I can only assume he's suffering from a combination of mental illness and withdrawal.
"Ryan's getting coffee," I say loudly, praying Payton can hear me, hoping she can warn him, so he doesn't come back to the apartment. "He'll be back any minute. You don't want him to walk in on this."
Silently, I hope Ryan was stopped by fans.Please don't be the one day no one recognizes you and you come back right away. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Ryan is spotted by fans and is forced to take at least a few selfies and sign autographs.
"Shut up," Randy barks. "If your boyfriend wants to barge in here, I'll either shoot him or make him watch me kill you."
Unsure of what to do, I just stand there, hands at my sides, staring at Randy's gun. What are you supposed to do when faced with a crazed man pointing a gun at your heart? My eyes survey the room. There's nothing I can use as a weapon and nowhere to run.
"Come here and turn around," he orders, and I do as he asks. With one hand on me and the other on his gun, he juggles my arms behind my back, duck-taping them together. When he's finished, he turns me around and pushes me forward to admire his handiwork.
I may not have use my hands, but I do my legs. I'll kick and scream if I have to.
"We can help you, Randy," I try to reason with him. "Just put down the gun, and I promise we will get you help."
"No one can help me! I'm fucked! Sanchez is trying to kill me. He'll know I squealed. I'm not safe anywhere. He's never going to believe I died in that fire." He waves the gun, momentarily removing me from the line of fire. "You just had to butt your nose in, didn't you? I would have had enough money to pay off Sanchez and disappear if you hadn't come along and fucked with my plans."
Randy takes the gun, banging it against his head, before turning it back on me. He's crazed and confused. I know he won't listen to anything I say. My only hope is to keep him talking long enough for Colton or Payton to get here.
"We can get you money. We can pay off Sanchez for you and put you in witness protection. You just need to put the gun down. You need to let us help you." I have no idea if any of what I just said is true. I'm basing everything I know on movies, and I'm pretty sure there's no way he's not going to jail.
"Shut up!" Randy screams, his movements becoming more fitful. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"
He starts waving the gun wildly again, continuously circling the barrel back to me. Not wanting to aggravate him further, I try to remain silent, but I know he is losing control. And, if he loses it completely before Colton or Payton get here, I'm as good as dead.
It's a weird feeling facing your own mortality. All Randy has to do is pull the trigger and my life will end. Have I done anything truly worthwhile with my life? There's so much more I want to accomplish and time I want with Ryan. Those seven years of lost time together seem like such a waste looking back. I should have told Ryan the truth. I should have said yes when he asked me to marry him. I should have believed that he would love me no matter what.
Should have. Could have. Would have.
I guess everyone gathers up all the missed opportunities, regrets, and dreams they still have when the end is staring them in the face.
An eery calm falls over Randy as he saunters closer to me. He grabs my chin in his free hand and squeezes my jaw, bringing his face to within an inch of mine.
"It's easy to see what he sees in you," he says, voice cold. His breath is hot on my face and wreaks of cigarettes and strong mouthwash. I wonder if he's been drinking the stuff so the alcohol content will absorb into his bloodstream. I turn away, but Randy forces me to look at him. "Even I have to admit Ryan has excellent taste in women. I wonder. Does he share you with Tyra? Does he watch while Tyra goes down on you and then join in?"
"Fuck you," I grind out through clenched teeth. Pleading with him is getting me nowhere. I'm tired of trying to play nice. "What Ryan and I do is none of your fucking business, and what Tyra does is her own."
Randy laughs mirthlessly, looking me right in the eyes before dragging his gaze down my body. He licks his lips and smiles. The gesture makes me nauseous. I know what he's thinking. He's getting off on this. He's turned on. The thought of Randy touching me makes me sick. I'll let him kill me before I let him rape me, but I won't do either without a fight.
Struggling to keep my composure, I try to guess how long it's been. It feels like hours, but I know Randy's probably only been here for about five minutes.
He takes the gun and presses it to the side of my neck, backing me onto the living room wall. He lightly trails it down to my collarbone and across my breasts in a sickeningly twisted caress. His other hand continues to painfully grip my jaw, fingers digging into my skin to the point I'm sure they'll leave bruises.
"Maybe I should have a taste," he murmurs leaning into me, pushing the gun's cylinder firmly into my ribs. He leans close, pressing his nose just below my ear and inhaling. I shiver with revulsion and resist the urge to try and head-butt him. The gun jabbing into my side tells me that wouldn't be a smart idea.
Instead, I struggle to push Randy away with my midsection. There is only so much I can do with my hands secured behind my back. He only laughs, pushing me with the gun in his hand. He roughly juts his body into mine, forcing me to feel his erection pressed against my stomach. When I struggle against him again, the gun-less hand squeezes my throat to hold me still, threatening to cut off my air supply.
You need to stay conscious. If you're not awake, you can't fight back.
Randy slams his lips down on mine as I fight to press my mouth closed. When he tries to pry my mouth with his tongue, instinct takes over and I bite down hard.
"You bitch!" he screams before slapping me across the face with the hand holding the gun. The blow is unexpected and knocks me to the ground. Pain vibrates through my head. My vision blurs, and the tinny taste of blood fills my mouth, but I'm not sure if it's my own or Randy's. I struggle to get back up, knowing I'll likely never stand again if I stay down.
