A long time passes.
So long, the pressure starts to build in my bladder until I can’t hold it anymore. Tears trickle down my face as wetness seeps into my favorite little black dress, now dirty and wrinkled. My nostrils sting as the scent of humiliation reaches them.
If I ever get out of this godforsaken dungeon, I’m going to burn this dress to ashes.
I try to imagine I’m somewhere else. Somewhere safe and warm.
Like Tahiti. Or curled up with Boo on my couch.
But for some unknown reason, when I crave safe and warm, all my mind conjures up is Nate. He’s neither of those things, but I can’t stop thinking of the look in his eyes when they crinkle up against his better judgment. The electric feeling of his hand on my arm. And mostly, the way his voice cracked when he finally used my first name.
My name on his lips — I feel it everywhere, like the first strike of my violin bow across the strings. It vibrates through my every atom until I’m charged with it.
Phoebe.
Phoebe.
Phoebe.
One word. I hang onto it like a lifeline.
He’ll find me. He’ll come.
I have to believe that.
I must have nodded off at some point, sagging against my bonds like a marionette on weak strings, because I jolt awake when the lights flip on.
It takes a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness — I squint in pain until the room comes into focus. My eyes widen as my gaze sweeps the space around me.
Definitely a basement.
Mold on the rough-hewn stone walls. Dirt floor. Bare bulb hanging from a cord overhead. There’s a dusty graveyard of bar stools in one corner, broken legs and torn cushions rendering them useless. A few boxes are stacked along the far wall, by a set of rickety stairs leading god only knows where. And there are two men standing in front of me — legs planted firmly, arms crossed over their chests, eyes locked on my face.
Cormack and Padraic.
My eyes narrow. If looks could kill, they’d both be dismembered and dying on the dirt floor at my feet.
“Good.” Cormack’s voice is as cold as his smile. “You’re awake.”
My eyes must widen fractionally when his voice — thick with an unmistakable South Boston accent — reaches my ears, because he laughs.
“Oh, the accent?” His lips twist into a smirk and he shakes his head in amusement. “Yeah. Born and raised in Southie. But snotty bitches like you wouldn’t give me the time of fucking day if I talked like this. Slap on a shitty Irish accent, though, and you’re practically begging for it.”
Me? Begging for it?
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
He steps closer, gaze dropping to scan my body. “Too bad your little boyfriend started digging. I thought we’d have more time to…” He licks his lips and I try not to squirm in my seat. “…get to know each other.”
Gone are his silver cufflinks, his two thousand dollar suit, his designer tie. He’s in a tight fitting green t-shirt, dark jeans, a Carhartt jacket, and work boots. His clothes aren’t the only things he’s changed — his entire demeanor has shifted from charming to caustic in a matter of hours. It’s like staring at a stranger.
“Enough,” Padraic says, speaking for the first time. “Get on with it. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Cormack shoots his friend a dark look. “This was my idea, jackass. Don’t forget it. If I hadn’t brought you in, you’d be a bottom feeder for the rest of your life.”
Padraic bristles. “You’d never have gotten close to her without me. The only reason any of your shitty fucking plan worked is ‘cause I scored with her friend and got you an intro. Without me, you’d be nowhere.”
“Just give me the fucking paper.”
Padraic shoves a newspaper against Cormack’s chest with so much force, he rocks back a few inches.