Page 22 of Skewed

Chapter Twelve

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I sat still, my ears straining, listening for any signs of a struggle coming from upstairs.

If she died while I was still alive down here, there was a chance no one would even think to look for me—though if they did, they’d most likely shoot me. But the thought of dying a slow and excruciatingly painful death while strapped to this fucking chair wasn’t something I planned on doing. I’d prefer to be shot.

I could hear the thud of footsteps above, the low drone of muffled words spoken, though I couldn’t make out what was being said. A friend stopping by for coffee, perhaps? No, that didn’t sit right. She didn’t give the impression of a woman who would bother with the social niceties needed to make friends. The conversation seemed amiable enough, though, so I didn’t think Vee was in any immediate danger.

I needed to get free from this damn chair.

She’d left the light on this time when she’d exited, though I’d heard her lock the door.

I glanced around, trying to see something that would help me get loose. My ankles were strapped to the chair legs, but the chair wasn’t attached to the floor, and I had some movement in my arms, though my wrists were also taped together, and secured to my thighs with another length of tape. I thought that with a little wriggling, I could at least get my hands free from my thighs. I could have tried to stand and use the rear legs of the chair to attack Vee, but she had a gun and would have shot me before I’d even gotten close. No, I needed to get my hands free and the rest would be easier.

An old dresser was pushed up against the wall on the right hand side, a clutter of various items scattered over the surface. There must be something there I could use.

First of all, I needed to at least partially free my hands. I pulled my joined hands up as much as I could, trying to stretch the circle of tape wrapped around the backs of my thighs and then up over the top of my wrists. I yanked it up and down, back and forth, trying to create some give in the tape. It was frustratingly slow, especially as I knew Vee’s visitor might leave at any moment, but the more I worked on it, the more I could feel the tape start to loosen.

Finally, I created enough space and tugged my hands from the binding. My wrists were still bound together with more tape, but at least I could reach out and grab something. I tried to twist my hands to one side of my body, to see if I could reach the phone in my back pocket, but I wasn’t flexible enough. It didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be any coverage down here anyway, and it wasn’t as though I’d ever call her father’s men for help.

Gritting my teeth against the intense pain, I managed to partially stand from the chair. My ass lifted off the seat, but my ankles were still taped. Without the use of my hands to be able to hold the seat higher and lift the back legs of the chair off the floor, I would have to drag the whole thing along behind me as I shuffled forward. Considering the injury in my thigh, and the pain it was causing me, I knew this wasn’t going to be a fun process. But the dresser was a matter of a few feet away, and I’d been through plenty of more painful and traumatic situations in my life.

Favoring the uninjured leg, I started my awkward shuffled toward the unit. The chair legs scraped, too loudly, against the concrete floor, little scuff, scuff, scuffs, which sounded with each movement I made. Would she hear them and come racing down here, risk whoever she was with finding out about me? I didn’t think she’d take the chance, but who the hell knew with her? My jaw clenched against the pain in my thigh, my eyes watering. My breath came in heavy pants, as though I was at the end of running a marathon rather than attempting to move a matter of feet. The chair I was strapped to was made of old solid wood, and was heavy and awkward.

I managed to shuffle about a foot, and then collapsed back in the seat, trying to catch my breath and rebuild my strength. I was at the peak of physical fitness normally, aware that being fit in my job could literally mean the difference between life and death, but the two stab wounds and loss of blood had sapped my strength.

I composed myself for a moment, aware of time spilling past, and then with a growl of determination and a fresh spurt of pain from my leg, I forced myself to my feet again.

Slow movements, an inch at a time, letting out a grunt of determination with each little bit of progress made until I was finally close enough to the unit to be able to reach out and touch the surface. My forearm throbbed with the movement, but the wound where I’d been stabbed hadn’t started bleeding again. My fingers on that hand didn’t feel as strong as the other hand, but I had movement. She hadn’t severed any ligaments when she’d stabbed me.

Using my joined hands like a brush, I swept aside the debris, searching for something that would help me. I moved old tea-light candles, a stack of receipts, another roll of tape, until I finally found a penknife. A surge of satisfaction rose inside me. I’d cut myself loose before she made it back here, and then we’d see which of us was in control.

I picked up the knife with my good hand and managed to use my thumb to flick up the blade. With the heels of my palms pressed together, it wouldn’t be easy to flip the knife around and cut the tape between my wrists, but that was what I needed to do. I knew there was a good chance I’d cut my skin while I attempted it, but I figured it was a risk I was prepared to take. I fiddled it between my fingers, using the other hand to hold it still while I edged it around to face the other way. Deep concentration while part of me listened out for her return. Would she shoot me if she saw me trying to escape? I thought she probably would.

From somewhere upstairs, a door slammed shut, breaking my concentration. I fumbled the blade, and it hopped from finger to finger, then to my dismay, it slipped from my grasp and tumbled to the floor.

“Fuck!” I hissed.

It was still within reach.

I leaned down for the knife, reaching for it. With my ankles strapped to the chair legs, I couldn’t quite reach from where it had skittered across the floor, so I stretched a little farther.

I felt it go before it did, the chair tilting in the direction I’d been reaching, my body creating an angle. I should have just shuffled it a bit further to one side, instead of overreaching myself, but it was too late now. I tried to straighten, but the legs slipped out from under me and I unbalanced and gravity took hold. My face slammed into the floor, my teeth cracking together, an impossibly loud sound in my head. A split second later, the chair crashed down on top of me, the wooden backrest connecting with my upper spine. I gave a grunt of pain. The back of the chair was wedged up against my back, my hands beneath my body.

Damn it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

I was trapped.

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