Trouble in paradise?
Cormack’s eyes narrow as his hands come up to clench the paper. “Just go call Smithy. Tell him we’ve got West’s balls in a vise so tight, he’ll pay double Mac’s normal commission if we ask. Hell, he’ll pay a king’s fortune.”
Padraic’s arms cord with tension — he likes being bossed around about as much as a steroid-abusing body builder enjoys testicular shrinkage. He holds his tongue, though, giving a curt nod and turning for the stairs without protest.
Leaving me alone with my caring, compassionate almost-boyfriend, who drugged me and tied me to a chair in a basement that makes the Silence of the Lambs set look downright inviting.
Christ. The first time in my life I try dating, and this is what happens. First Brett, now Cormack.
What are the odds of that? Approximately a gazillion to one, I’d guess.
Am I some kind of psychopath magnet? Am I putting out some kind of beacon to attract the crazies? Emitting signals on a frequency only heard by those who score high on the Levenson Psychopathy Scale?
Oh my god.
My vagina is a dog whistle for sociopaths.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Spinsterhood never sounded so good.
Cormack is eyeing me with a flat, measuring look. Before I can wonder what he’s planning or even flinch away, he takes two strides in my direction, reaches out, and rips the duct tape off my mouth in one sharp tug.
“Fuck!”
The curse bursts out before I can stop it — an involuntary reaction to the tape tearing at my skin. Pain stings my chapped, bleeding lips. My head falls forward, hair cascading in a tangled, dark brown curtain around my face as I gasp for much-needed air. Breathing through my nose for the past few hours has left me lightheaded. Without the tight loops of rope around my midsection I’d slide to the floor like a wet piece of linguine, boneless and weak.
God, my mouth is drier than California in a drought, now that whatever sedative he slipped me is wearing off. I’d give my virginity for a single glass of water. My tongue darts out to catch the trickle of blood oozing from one of the cracks in my split lips. Sticky tape residue coats my skin like superglue.
“Take this and shut the fuck up.” He shoves a copy of today’s Boston Globe into my tethered hands. “And don’t cover the fucking date.”
My fingertips curl awkwardly around the top edge, arms gawking at an odd angle against their bonds as I try to maintain my grip without blocking the bold typeface at the corner. My eyes scan the headlines briefly — nothing exceptional jumps out.
Sox Sweep: Red Sox take Orioles 4-0 in Fenway Victory
Mayor Walsh Approves Anti-Tobacco Bill
Spring Storms Cause Citywide Power Outages
There it is — the rest of the world, carrying on as though nothing happened. As though I’m not tied to a chair in a dark basement somewhere, breathing in toxic black mold spores — they need to get an exterminator down here pronto, this stuff can’t be healthy — all while praying to god they don’t kill me.
Because, well…. I can’t die. Not when I’ve barely lived.
I’m only twenty-three. I haven’t gotten to go skydiving or ever been kissed passionately in the rain. I haven’t had the chance to try out a surely-disastrous pixie cut or tan topless on a beach in the French Riviera. I’ve haven’t gone cage-swimming with sharks or told the man I’m crazy about that I love him. Hate him. Want him. Want to kill him?
Oh, who the hell knows.
I’ve never been in a committed relationship. Hell, I’ve never even had an orgasm.
Seriously, I can’t go to my grave without at least one Big O on my record. That’s a crime against humanity.
“Your daddy will want proof of life,” Cormack sneers, snapping me back to reality. “Hold it up so I can see it. You cooperate, you go home. You don’t…”