Page 35 of Captivated with Them

Chapter Fifteen

Dillon

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I’D MADE THE DECISIONto make a break for freedom.

I spent another night lying on the cold, hard floor, this time with my hands still bound behind my back. Meathead hadn’t un-taped them when he’d thrown me back in here, so even though I was no longer sitting up against the pipe, I was in a worse position than I had been when I’d first woken up in here.

I ached all over from my uncomfortable sleeping position. My bladder was making itself known to me, too, and the last thing I wanted to do was suffer the indignity of having to piss myself. I needed my hands undone to free my cock.

Pushing myself to sitting, I let out a groan.

“This isn’t fucking funny anymore,” I called, though I knew no one could hear me. The sound of my voice was just a way to break the silence.

I gritted my teeth and bunched my shoulders, putting all my strength into my arms. I moved my wrists back and forth, like they were two sticks I was trying to start a fire with. My plan was to loosen the tape as much as possible, and then try to stretch it. There had to be some give in it, but whether it was enough to get my hands free, I didn’t know. I might as well try, though. It wasn’t as though I had anything else to do with my time.

My arms quickly tired, but I kept going. I yanked my wrists apart straining against the tape, doing my best to create space.

“Come on, you fucking piece of shit.”

I wasn’t up to my full strength. These last few days, since I’d been given the head injury with the butt of the gun, having barely eaten, and being forced to sleep on a cold, hard floor, had taken its toll on me. I was frustrated at my lack of progress, but I kept going. In my head, I pictured Rue and Ryan, and Kodee, too. The time had come for me to get out of here, but I had no intention of going to any of them. I’d held myself back from any thoughts of escape, believing Frankie Capello would punish the others for any of my bad behavior. But they’d made the mistake of showing me that it was me who was being used against them. By removing myself from the equation, I would be taking away one of the things they were using to control the others.

Assuming Meathead was the one I’d have to deal with, I’d need to be fast. It was the only advantage I had over the other man. I couldn’t give him time to register what was happening. I knew my escape route now—had been marched through it with Meathead right behind me. I had to hope the door at the top of the stairs wasn’t locked. If it was, I’d be in trouble.

It felt as though I’d been working at freeing my hands forever. I growled and sighed and wanted to give up, but I kept going.

More than an hour had passed.

Did the tape feel a tiny bit looser?

Or was it just wishful thinking?

No, I was sure it was looser. Determination sent a fresh spurt of adrenaline through me, and I worked harder, pulling and yanking and twisting. The space between my wrists was definitely roomier.

Finally, I was able to wriggle one hand out of the circle of tape. I exhaled a long breath of air, my shoulders sagging with relief. I rolled my shoulders out, relieved to be able to move them in a different direction, and then did the same to my wrists and hands. I yanked off the remainder of the tape and went to throw it to the floor but stopped myself. I didn’t want Meathead to notice as he entered and prepare himself. It was better for him to assume everything was normal.

The wait was excruciating. I paced the small floor of my prison, my mind racing. What if Meathead showed up with backup? He never had before, but there was always a first time. I would lose my opportunity, for sure. I already doubted my ability to take on a man of his size, when he was armed and I wasn’t, not to mention that I definitely wasn’t at my physical best.

But I’d spent my latter teenage years fighting for money, wherever and whenever I could. Bars, back alleys, occasionally boxing rings had all been scenes for the kind of fighting where the only rule was that there weren’t any rules. I’d learned to be fast and violent and not hold back, and I hoped those skills were going to help me now. No matter how good I was with my fists, however, I wasn’t going to win against a bullet. I’d need to disarm Meathead, but if he had anyone else with him who was also armed, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

Hours passed, but finally the familiar scape of the crates stacked up on the other side of the door caught my attention. I froze, my muscles bunched and breath held, trying to tell if there was more than one person on the other side. No voices filtered through the heavy door, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an additional person there.

Scrape, shuffle, scrape...

Then the metallic click of bolts being drawn and locks opening.

I braced myself. I was going to need to make a split-second decision—attack if he was alone and hold back if he wasn’t. Trouble was, I might not know the answer to this question right away.

The door opened, flooding the small room with light, blinding me for a split second.

“Stinks like fucking shit—” Meathead started as he stepped inside.

He was alone.

Meathead held his gun loosely at his side. That was his first mistake. He hadn’t been expecting me to attack at all. He clearly still thought I’d have my hands taped behind my back.

Though I was good with my fists, it was my feet I put into use first. I’d positioned myself behind the door as it opened, so he’d have his back to me. He stepped in, realized I wasn’t right where he could see me, and turned to check the other end of the room. As he turned, I lifted my leg and kicked hard at the hand holding the gun. He let out a shout of surprise but didn’t go for the gun. Instead, he took a swing for me, but I ducked, and his fist brushed the top of my head. From my crouched position, I threw an uppercut, and my knuckles connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. As I’d predicted, he was big and slow, and even as he was still recovering, I’d darted around him, my sights fixed on the weapon.

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