Page 5 of CurVy 13

I step backwards quickly, my back crashing into the front door. The door I should open, should run through. A door, a front door—oh God. But my hands, my stupid locked hands shake, and my mind idles on controlling them.

Open the door! Run!

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warns, reading my thoughts or anticipating my next move, I don’t know which.

He’s done this before?

Will he kill me?

“What do you want?” Finally, my mouth catches up, but my hands are still stalling in that place of shock.

“I want to help you with your TikToks.”

What?

My head spins, and suddenly, I’m in a vacuum, the room rotating around me, faster and faster and faster. I grip the wall. Stare at the ground. Try to remain upright. “What?”

He takes another step, and the world that was reeling around, circling me, halts as he emerges.

I take him in. A black boot comes into view, the mud and dirt a film beneath it.

Up.

A long denim-covered leg, thick thigh, and black belt with a chrome buckle.

I should remember these things.

Up.

Protruding muscles rise and shift beneath a dark shirt.

Then, a full view of the mask.

This has to be a joke.

He works out.

He’s a stripper or an actor…

What would he want with me?

Not a time for your sensitivities, Vallie.

“Is this a joke?” My voice trembles along the length of each word. “Did Oliver send you? As a way to humiliate me? Or…” I know it’s crazy.

Oliver wouldn’t do this.

He slowly lifts his hand, achingly slow, and his tattooed thumb swipes across a phone, activating the screen where the image of me sinks harrowing dread into the pit of my stomach. That was the day I begged a masked man to kidnap me—when I joked about it.

My body catches up.

Shocked into action, I turn to get the door open, tugging on it hard.

This is happening.

This is real.

It swings, opens, and then crashes to a thundering close. It bangs so hard that the decorative glass pieces rattle, and, God, I hope someone outside hears.

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