Drop Dead Gorgeous(98)

Good job, Zo. Now you know where you are and that it’s a local driving. What else?

With an idea of where I am, I can close my eyes and visualize the road. We turn right on Redbud, go straight for a bit, and then another right on Laverne.

Wait, no. Not Laverne, I think it was Mayfield Lane.

What’s out here?

Before I can remember, we’re bumping along the road, and I bounce around the trunk wildly.

I cover my head with my hands for protection, letting my elbows and knees take the brunt of the impacts as I hit the unforgiving metal again and again.

“Aw . . . ugh . . . ow!”

The car stops suddenly, and I roll forward and then back at the abruptness. Quieting, I listen for any clue. I hear a loud creak and then a clang. I know that sound, any country person does . . . it’s a gate swinging open, the chain and lock jangling against the metal of the pole fence. The car door slams and I’m moving again.

I remember advice I heard once, from where I don’t know, that said ‘don’t let them take you to a secondary location’. It’s way too late for that, so what’s my next option?

Fight like hell, Zoey. Whatever happens, when that trunk opens, you need to be ready to fight and run.

I swallow down the bile that threatens to come up at the idea of what I might be fighting against and running from and take slow, deep breaths to oxygenate my blood for both fight and flight. I take a firm grip on the bag because while it doesn’t have any traditional weapons, it’s all I have, and I wait.

The car stops once more, and I freeze, listening for steps to come around to the trunk.

Ready? Three, two, one . . . nothing happens and I don’t move. Just when I think I’ve been forgotten, the lid opens, swinging up. It’s still dark, but with my eyes adjusted to the inside of the trunk, I can see the moonlit silhouette of my kidnapper. They’re smaller than I expected somehow, my fear making them seem larger than life in my mind.

A veritable Sasquatch of horror, but this shadow is basically my size or even smaller. I throw the bag with a yell of fury, scrambling out of the trunk as quickly as I can.

I push past the shadow and run, screaming as loud as I can, “Help! Help! Help!”

I know I only have moments before the kidnapper is hot on my heels. What I’m not expecting is the voice that yells, “Get her!”

That’s got to be the kidnapper, but who is she talking to? She? Yes, definitely a woman. Heavy footsteps come up behind me, faster than I could hope to escape, but I try to dodge and zig zag. Loud breath steams on my neck, and I know my chance at flight is gone.

I spin suddenly, planting one foot and bringing up the other knee toward my pursuer. I’m hoping to hit gut, or maybe a good ball shot that would drop him to his knees. What I find is a wall of iron-hardened muscle that hurts my knee more than the other way around.

I am rewarded with a deep, guttural grunt, though. “Fuck. Be still so I don’t have to hurt you.”

I must be really losing it because I snort, a derisive laugh coming out of my nose instead of my mouth.

He doesn’t want to hurt me after kidnapping me and bouncing my unconscious body around in the trunk?

“Fuck you, fucker!” Not an original or creative statement, but at least I’m loud, though I’m not sure there’s anyone to hear me. But hopefully, my voice will carry over the fields far enough away that someone will hear. I take a big inhale to scream again, but it’s forced out of me when I’m tackled to the ground. “Oof.”

A heavy mass sits firmly on my back, and I squirm and wiggle, kicking and clawing to get away. “Damn it! Quit moving, bro!”

Bro? I’m obviously not a bro.

My arms are wrenched behind my back, my wrists clasped tight in one large, strong hand, and I’m yanked unceremoniously to my feet. “Come on.”

I’m jerkily marched back toward the car, losing any ground I made with my attempt at running. When we get back, I see who I threw the bag at, because the car headlights are beaming right on her like spotlights. “Yvette.”

She seems put off by my lack of surprise, or maybe I’m just too shocked to sound that way. “Well, who’d you expect? The Queen of England?”

Definitely not. Yvette Horne is no queen.

Since this morning, she’s changed clothes and apparently lost her ever-loving mind. Her hair is no longer subdued into an updo but rather down and frizzy. Her demure dress has been replaced with sweats and a tank top, and her earlier fury has given way to utter madness.

I shrug against my captor. “I wasn’t expecting you because I wasn’t expecting to get kidnapped.”

“Good one,” I hear from behind me, and I jerk my head, trying to look over my shoulder at the man holding me hostage.

“Sebastian?”

He looks at me and then Yvette, then back to me, his brows getting lower and lower in confusion. “Hey! How’s Chunky doing with the exercises?”

“Uhm . . .” How in the hell am I supposed to answer that when he’s got both my wrists gripped in one of his big, paw-sized hands?

Luckily, or maybe unluckily—I’m not sure which yet—Yvette answers for me with a shout. “Enough!”

Sebastian’s hands tighten uncomfortably, and I wince, hissing in pain. “Oh, sorry.”

His apology is unexpected and even more confusing than his questions about Chunky. And I’m not in the mood to be confused anymore. It’s wearing on my last nerve, especially after the day I’ve had.