Captive in the Dark(55)

This time his smile was broad, even smug. “Kitten, if that’s what you wanted, you need only have asked?” Really? Would he have let me cuff him to the bed? Livvie! Focus.

“Just shut up and do what I said.” I was caustic. He furrowed his brow and for a moment I had forgotten who had the upper hand. Heavy metal sliding in my sweaty palm reminded me.

“Now!” He walked to the post nearest me, still a few feet away and cuffed his wrists together.

“Tighter,” I was impatient, nervous. He complied and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I lowered the gun, taking a moment to let the anxiety settle, to allow my vision to clear and Captive in the Dark CJ Roberts the adrenaline to dissipate. “Feel better Pet?” he whispered, still playful. Possessed, I took two steps closer to him and slapped him so hard my hand stung. Instantly he leapt forward, his hands clutching for my hip and his feet sweeping my ankles. I fell flat on my back, the gun flung behind me. He could no longer reach me with his bound hands, but he was trying to grasp me between his legs. I scrambled backward with all my strength, refusing to be caught. I got free and collided with the chair behind me. “You’re going to pay for that Pet,” he panted. The right side of his face sported an angry red handprint.

I shook out my hand, “I already have. That was my change.” A few minutes later, I finally had the chair close enough to the window. I stepped up and felt around the edge. Please let me be right about this. My heart made a roaring sound in my ears, and I shut my eyes against doubt. Finally, I felt a little switch and my heart stopped all together. I glanced back to see Caleb. The angry expression had left his face though my handprint remained.

I said a silent prayer, stepped down, and slid the door open. Caleb’s voice came from behind,

“Kitten,” he sounded worried or sad, “Don’t let me find you.” Was that a threat? I wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

I didn’t look back. I ran with all the force my legs could muster. My lungs burned as my bare feet thudded heavily against the dust of the ground. It was still early, the ground not warm yet. I wanted to scream for help, but wasn’t sure if I was far enough away to keep Caleb from hearing me, so I just ran. Up ahead I saw a man in an apron, pushing a dolly of crates into a building.

“Help me!” The man looked in my direction, his expression one of confusion and distress. As I reached him, I all but flew into his arms trying to push the both of us inside.

“Que pasa? Que te paso? ” he asked in Spanish.

I shoved him harder until we both nearly fell over the dolly on our way inside the building.

My breath came in gasps while I tried to slow down and explain in Spanish that I was an American citizen who had been kidnapped and held against my will. I told him I escaped but that my captor was not far and I needed the police right away.

“Who is this man?” he asked “Who is the man who took you?” he seemed just as frantic as I was and he opened the door to look in the direction I had come from.

“Get away from the door!” I yelled. “Caleb! His name is Caleb, please, just call the police.

Where the f*ck am I?” Finally, the man quickly shut the door and bolted the lock.

“Mexico.”

“Mexico!”

“Sí, Mexico,” the man was exasperated. Fucking Mexico. I knew it!

“Shit yeah you are,” came a man’s gravelly voice from the corner. The man, who I assumed was the bartender, and I looked in his direction. He appeared dirty; not the kind of dirty that came from poverty or sloth, but the kind of dirty that came from an obnoxious lifestyle. It was early in the morning and here he was already in a bar, an American biker. He stared at me intently, took a drink of his beer and licked the foam from his mustache. Suddenly, I became aware of my clothing. I was nearly naked under Caleb’s coat. I crossed my arms and took a step behind the edge of the bar.

“Can you help me please? I need to get to the police.” He took another drink as he shook his head.

“You don’t want to go to the police darlin’, trust me on that. Those dirty Mexicans are crooked as hell. They’d just sell you back to whoever you’re running from. Best thing you can do is try to get back over the border and let our guys help you out.” I looked at the bartender.

“Es la verdad, ” he said. It’s the truth.



Exasperated, I yelled, “Well can you help me get to the f*cking border then!” The bartender jumped and anxiously hustled to the back room. The biker stood, grabbed his beer and drank it down before slamming the glass on the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.