Up in Smoke (King #8)

I tell her about my father and how he was negligent toward me after my mother died. About taking a false name and re-enrolling in high school to avoid the fallout from my father’s bullshit. The abduction. Smoke. Smoke. SMOKE.

I toss one truth after another at her like clothes on a laundry heap until there’s a huge pile between us to be sorted.

“Well, that was…educational,” Rage says, twisting the end of her ponytail in her hand. She pulls up her legs and sits cross-legged on the rocking chair. “But I guessed it.”

“Guessed what?” I ask.

“He named the bacon,” she whispers.

I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or to me.

“Huh?”

“Think of Smoke like a pig farmer,” Rage starts to explain. I have no idea where she’s going with this.

“Let me guess. Am I the pig in this scenario?” I ask, pointing at my chest.

She nods. “Yes, for this metaphor anyway. Smoke, or anyone who does what we do, are pig farmers and pig farmers don’t name their pigs, they don’t treat them like pets because they’re not. They might be walking around breathing, but they’re food. You don’t cuddle and play with food. You don’t tie pretty bows around your food’s neck.” She holds out her hands, palms up, and shrugs. “You don’t name the bacon.”

“And you think Smoke did?”

Rage nods. “Oh, Smoke’s a pig namer alright. Never thought I would say that about him. But if he isn’t careful, then soon he’ll be a pig…” Rage pauses and presses her lips together. A burst of laughter escapes, and she covers her mouth with her hands.

“A pig fucker?” I barely get the word out.

Rage and I look at each other, and we’re lost to laughter until our stomachs ache and our eyes tear. It feels so good to laugh that once I start I can’t seem to stop.

I’ve got a death sentence looming over my head. I’ve been abducted by a killer, and I’m sitting across from another who just compared me to a pig being lead to slaughter.

And I’m laughing.

“I will say this though,” Rage says, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her back straightens as she looks me in the eye. Her expression grows serious. Her smile falls. “There’s a lot more to us monsters than we let on.”

I look out over the prison. “I think I’m beginning to understand that.”

“So, what’s your next plan of action?” She asks, clapping her hands together.

“What makes you think I have one?” I pull my knees up to my chest.

Rage stares at me for a long moment, then flashes me a knowing smile. “Nothing makes me think you don’t. But, whatever it is, you better get moving on it. And soon.”

“Why is that?” I ask, curiously.

Rage sighs. “Because, if I know Smoke, you have a lot less time than you think.”





Chapter Twenty-Seven





You have a lot less time than you think.

I’m on my knees, fishing under the mattress for the garments I’ve hidden while Rage’s words play over and over again in my mind. She wouldn’t tell me why she thought I had less time, but whatever the reason, it’s time to try out Dr. Ida’s last tip for surviving captivity.

Seduction.

Smoke wants me. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it against my back.

It’s all I have to work with. A hope. A feeling.

Smoke was only gone for a few hours. Rage left shortly after Smoke came back. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since. He’s colder than before. If Rage was right and Smoke named the bacon, then maybe, he’s trying to place distance between us. Or maybe, it’s simpler than that and he doesn’t want to be around me.

I’m nervous, shaking all over as I take a shower and scrub my skin with a washcloth until it’s smooth. I towel dry and brush my hair, then shave and groom using the electric razor I find under the sink. I dress quickly and look in the mirror, adjusting where necessary.

My pulse is pounding in my ears as I give myself a once over. It’s only been three days since I jumped from the car, but I’ve always been a fast healer. My bruises have mostly faded except for the scrapes on my right arm, which are scabbed over.

It’s the best I can do with what I’ve got.

But will it be enough?

I take a deep breath and push open the bedroom door. I find Smoke sitting on the couch with his arms stretched over the top, a cigar in his mouth. A bottle of whiskey at his feet. He looks deep in thought. His legs spread. His arms resting across the back of the couch.

There’s a radio in the corner playing “Take it Out on Me” by Florida Georgia Line.

“I like this song,” I say to get Smoke’s attention.

Smoke turns his head toward me and freezes, cigar halfway to his full lips. His eyes widen as he takes me in, looking me up and down.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asks between gritted teeth. He’s angry. His vein pulses under his neck tattoo. His nostrils flare.

I let his anger fuel my determination, and I walk with as much confidence as I can muster into the center of the room wearing only a sheer black bra that pushes my breasts up and amplifies my cleavage, along with a matching pair of sheer panties, leaving nothing to the imagination.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence. I look down at my body. “You don’t like the way I look?” I’m teasing him, or at least I’m trying to. The fire blazing in his eyes tells me that I’m either doing it very right or very wrong. It doesn’t matter. I can’t give up now.

I sway my hips from side to side, hooking my thumbs in the sides of my panties.

“What are you trying to prove, hellion?” Smoke rasps. His pupils dilate.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” I say, leaning over I pluck the cigar from his hand and take a puff before placing it in the ashtray on the end table.

Smoke clears his throat and shakes his head. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” he grates. His eyes linger on the scrap of fabric between my legs then travel up to my breasts where my nipples pebble under his gaze.

“I think I do,” I say in the seductive tone I’d practiced in the bathroom earlier.

“Such big words for such a little girl,” Smoke drawls.

“I’m not a little girl!” I shout, taking a step forward, before reminding myself of what I was trying to do and freezing.

Smoke smiles, knowing he’s gotten to me. “What exactly are you playing at here, little girl? ‘Cause no matter what happens,” he grabs the whiskey off the floor and tips it to his mouth. He swallows and sets it back down, licking his lips. “You’re gonna lose.”

That’s what you think.

I don’t answer. Because I’m focused on his full lips. The way his tongue darts out to catch a falling drop of whiskey.

Shit, get it together, Frankie.

“You might be twenty-two, but all I see is innocence. You ever been fucked before, hellion? ‘Cause, I’m betting on no.”

“Does it matter?” I ask, running my fingers across my breasts.