“It’s no use,” I say quietly, my head propped up against the metal post that binds me to this nightmare. This prison. “We’re trapped.”
“I’m not giving up.”
I watch him through blurry eyes as he continues his unproductive efforts, groaning and cursing the entire time. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Tug. Twist. Shout. Swear.
“I’m sure the thought alone devastates you,” he grumbles.
I close my eyes as more tears leak out, and I suck in a shaky sigh. “Do you think anybody’s looking for us yet?” I wonder out loud, not really expecting an answer—there’s no way to know.
Dean eventually stalls his escape attempts, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his face from the morning light. He looks at me, and our eyes stay locked for a few beats, the raw truth of our predicament spearing us right in the gut.
Looking for us.
We’re going to be the product of search parties and canine trackers and news reports and gruesome documentaries on Investigation Discovery.
Me and Dean Asher.
Dean inhales with a shudder, leaning his shoulder against the pole. “You know, I used to joke that we’d probably end up killing each other one day,” he murmurs, kicking at a small rock near his sneaker. “I guess I always had a feeling we’d go together.”
I know he’s trying to make light of our ordeal, but his words sucker-punch me. They knock the wind from my lungs until I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I sit there on the cold, hard floor, quietly crying until my tear ducts dry up and I’m too exhausted, too weak, to even move.
Dean starts to sing.
I’ve always known he could sing pretty well from family karaoke nights at my parent’s house over the last decade. I’d sit on the couch with crossed arms and stony eyes, annoyed by the sound of his rich, gravelly voice. Mandy would swoon. My parents would stare at him with their proud, beaming faces. Even the goddamn dog would watch in adoration, her tail wagging with each perfectly-pitched note. Then everyone would clap, except for me, and Dean would take a bow, occasionally shooting a smarmy wink in my direction.
I’d stick my tongue out or flip him off, brimming with contempt. Mandy would jab me in the ribs with her elbow, and sometimes my mother would scold me for being rude.
Ha! Rude.
Wrapping my entire car in plastic before a life-changing job interview is fucking rude.
I try to ignore the sound of his voice and close my eyes, but I find the raspy melodies to be oddly calming. He’s singing one of my favorite songs—Hey Jude by The Beatles.
And somehow, despite the fear and uncertainty, despite the gravel digging into my thighs and the terror digging into my heart, I manage to fall asleep.
Chapter Three
“Wakey, wakey.”
I jolt awake, thinking that for one exquisite moment, it was all a dream.
A sick, horrible dream.
But the man is looming over me with breath that now reeks of tobacco and dirty socks, and his lips are curled up into a grotesque smirk.
I’m definitely in a nightmare, but it’s not one I’ll be waking up from any time soon—and it’s only just begun.
I slither back on the cool cement, the soles of my heels scuffing against the floor. I try to twist my way around the pole, as if he won’t be able to reach me somehow, but he yanks me by the hair and pulls me up to my feet. I shriek in protest, my scalp burning.
“Get the fuck away from her,” Dean shouts from the opposite corner.
I use the temporary distraction to knee the motherfucker in the balls. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging. The man howls in pain and releases my hair, then slaps me hard across the jaw with the back of his hand. The pain radiates through my entire head, and it feels like my brain might start oozing out of my ears.
“Silly little cunt,” the man barks, then spits at my face.
His saliva dribbles down my cheek and I almost puke.
“You’re a feisty little kitten, aren’t you?” he continues, plucking my chin between his fingers and forcing me to look at him.
I return the gesture and spit right back at him, watching it hit him in the eye. Then I brace myself for the inevitable punishment to follow.
The man freezes for a solid five seconds, completely blindsided by my actions. He wipes the spit from his eye, gawking at me, his expression unreadable.
And then he laughs.
He doubles over laughing, his voice squeaking and breaking, his butterball hands clasped around his knees. I glance over at Dean, who’s watching the scene with cautious interest, a frown etched between his eyes and his arms still tugging at his restraints.
“Kitten likes to play.”
The man lunges at me, tearing my dress straight down the middle.
God, no.
“You’ve been waiting to play with Earl, haven’t you?” he goads, his slimy hands palming my newly exposed breasts sheathed in a turquoise lace bra.
Earl. The bastard’s name is Earl.
My head falls to the side, my gaze catching Dean’s. He’s watching in horror, helpless, as Earl fondles me like I’m a fucking science project.
Earl is going to rape me. I’m about to get raped, right here, right now, with Dean Asher as my audience. Nausea swells and swirls inside me, and I force it back, tears trickling from my eyes. “Please don’t do this,” I whimper, trying to flail my legs to kick him away.
Earl forces his huge, obese body against me, pinning me to the pole so I don’t move, his hands tweaking my nipples through the lace.
“Such a pretty kitten…” he murmurs, practically drooling all over my cleavage.
Dean starts growling again, slamming his chains against the pipe with immense force. “I swear to God I will kill you if you fucking touch her. I will find a way out of this, and I will put your fat ass in the ground.”
Earl chuckles, but doesn’t look up. He’s too focused on my breasts, as he leans down and jabs his thick tongue between them.
I cry out, squirming back and forth, stomping my stiletto heels against his boots. They hardly make a dent. Nothing is going to stop this from happening.
I’ve never felt so helpless.
Earl’s hands reach beneath the hem of my torn cocktail dress, sliding up my thighs. I squeeze them together, trying to resist him, trying so hard to fight back.
“I bet my pretty kitten has a pretty pussy,” he whispers against my ear, his breath curdling my stomach.
I whack my chains around, stomp my feet, twist and writhe and scream until my lungs physically ache. “Please,” I beg. “Let us go. We won’t tell anyone, I swear. Just let us go…” My God, I sound like a terribly scripted crime TV show. I always thought I’d be more creative if I found myself in harm’s way. More convincing.
But there is no reasoning with this man. There’s no bond I can form with him, no carefully established connection I can fake. My instincts tell me he is too far gone. He has no conscience—no soul. No trace of sympathy I can try to manipulate.
Earl tugs the panties from my hips until they fall at my ankles. My entire body tenses up, doing everything it can to resist the vile act that’s about to occur.
Dean is still protesting beside me, screaming and yelling colorful obscenities and idle threats. They fall on deaf ears. Earl pays him no mind.